The man nods at you, checks his watch and sighs, "Ai-ai-ai..."

The man nods at you, checks his watch and sighs, "Ai-ai-ai..."

It's late. He's working.

"I need a fridge to store a corpse."

The man keeps shaking his head. His eyes seem sad. Then he starts swiping crumbs off the counter top.

"I don't think he understands, officer... We need to find some other way to make ourselves clear."

"I know, Kim... I know." (Make stabbing motions at the meat on the cutting board.)

"What are you doing?!"

The cook looks at you doing the charade and smiles.

Point towards the fridge.

The cook says something. It's quite animated, but you still don't understand.

"Wait, what language is he speaking?"

"He's from Graad -- a Kojko," the lieutenant informs you.

With the mention of the word Kojko the cook starts talking excessively, his hands up in the air again.

He's happy for some reason.

He's from Graad. People from Graad don't mind if they're called by their national derogatives. It's okay to call him a Kojko.

"I need to put a dead body in this fridge." (Point to the fridge.)

"Ooh!" His eyes light up with understanding, then instantly grow dark again. "No, no," he shakes his head, "Body no fit fridge. Fridge small."

"How do you know? Maybe it's a small body."

"No, no." He nods confidently. "I know."

He knows correctly. It is too small.

Listen to him. This is a man who clearly knows about bodies and fridges -- and bodies fitting into fridges.

"Okay, we have our answer. It won't fit. We need a bigger fridge."

"Okay then."

"Mhm." He nods confidently. "I know."

"I need to get the corpse..." (Point to Kim) "... into the fridge!" (Point to the fridge.)

"Why am I the corpse?!" He turns his eyes to the cook, who gives you both a big bright smile.

"Doesn't matter... I don't think he understood us anyway. He wouldn't be smiling if he did."

"What is in that borscht you're making there?" (Point to the large pot.)

The man says a couple of sentences in that strange language of his and then seems to wait for you to speak.

I'm pretty sure he asked you a question.

He doesn't know your language, you can just say something cool in return.

"Sorry, I don't understand you."

Just one word. Sounds quizzical. Then he awaits your answer with his brow arched.

"No." (Shake your head.)

"Barszcz need…" He looks at the soup, then at you. "More wódka?" He picks up a bottle from the shelf.

"Okay, so it's vodka that keeps the men happy and in good spirits." He nods. "Clever move by the Union."

Vodka-borscht! I love it, bratan! Turn it the fuck up and then ask for some yourself.

Turning it up seems like a dangerous idea, honestly. The place is a powder keg.

"Yes." (Nod and turn your fingers clockwise.) "Turn the wódka up."

He smiles, nodding vigorously, then pours half a bottle of vodka into the pot. With a whistle he stirs the brew.

"I'll leave the cooking to you." (Shrug.) "I have business."

The cook gives you a long inspecting look, then shrugs too and seems to wait for you to speak.

"No! No wódka!" (Turn your fingers counter-clockwise.) "Cut it."

The cook gives you a long disappointed look, then turns the stove off and seems to wait for you to speak.

Of course! Vodka! Now that makes it a very very special borscht indeed! Turn it up and then ask for some yourself!

"Yes." (Nod.)

"Mercury rising." (Run your fingers through your hair.)

"Leo said you're friends with Mañana. Is that true?"

The mention of 'Mañana' gets his attention. He smiles and delivers a whole slew of unfamiliar words and lively gestures. Then he falls silent again.

They're friends.

"By the way, we speak Revacholian in Revachol." (Get your Revacholian Nationhood on.)

"Speak Revacholian?" The lieutenant raises his eyebrows.

"Speak Revacholian, yes. Not this funky thing he's spurting out here."

"We speak Suresne. There is no such thing as the Revacholian language," he sighs. "But don't worry, your message remained clear."

The cook is still smoking, ash falling from between his fingers. His hands are large and clean.

"Good thing he didn't understand a word of your stupidity," he concludes.

"This man is a foreigner!"

The cook shakes his head and rattles off a sequence of undecipherable words. He then returns to his smoking, ash falling from between his fingers.

"Gorący, could I have some of that brew?"

He smiles and nods enthusiastically, and, chattering away in his language, ladles some brew into a small thermal cup. Then hands it to you.