Low-hanging fruit.

During the summer holiday in Italy, we rented an Airbnb owned by a Russian. Had I known that from the start, I wouldn’t have rented it—yes, that’s how principled I am. The lack of air conditioning was already stated in the listing, but that didn’t stop me from airing all my opinions about Russians. The windows were wide open, fitted with mosquito nets, while we lay wrapped up like mummies in our sweaty sheets. That’s when I heard the sound of footsteps outside.

-What was that? I asked, my eyes wide open. My wife looked back at me, puzzled.

-Is it the Russians? I whispered.

-Oh, stop being ridiculous.

-What? I’ve been badmouthing them for the past 20 minutes, I said, alarmed, as suddenly another pair of brisk footsteps echoed outside.

-Did you hear that? They’re barefoot! I hissed anxiously.

-What would they be doing out there?

-Well, not drinking vodka, that’s for sure, I replied, managing to untangle myself from the sheets.

I crept toward the kitchen area in the house’s single room. A bread knife might not be much of a weapon, but in my capable hands, I could surely saw off an arm or a thigh bone if necessary. I approached the terrace door and opened it slowly. Once again, I heard footsteps and instinctively raised the knife. My wife had sat up in bed, the moonlight illuminating her now terrified face.

-Maybe it’s an animal? Are there bears here? she asked, listening intently.

-I don’t think so.

-There are owls, apparently, she added hesitantly.

-Well, then it’s one hell of a massive owl with human feet, I hissed irritably and took a determined step out onto the moonlit terrace.

-Dedushkiny chasy! I shouted in my most authoritative voice. ”Grandfather’s clock” might not be the ideal phrase for the situation, but after a sinus infection at age 12 with Swedish public service TV as my sole companion, it’s the only Russian one I know.

Suddenly, I heard another heavy footstep right beside me. And that’s when I saw where the sounds were coming from. The ground was covered in ripe figs that had fallen to the ground. I gathered myself quickly and performed an audio-based pantomime of a violent fight. As a finishing touch, I smeared the blood-red remains of figs across the knife and my face before returning to my terrified wife with a heroic expression.

-It was the Russians; they won’t bother us anymore, I concluded.