Excerpt from Strawberry Fields (Two Caravans) by Marina Lewycka, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I didn’t take in the scenery that flashed past through the black-tinted glass -I was too tired - but my body registered every twist in the lane, and the sudden jerks and jolts when he braked and turned. This gangster-type needs some driving lessons.

He had some potato chips wrapped in a paper bundle on the passenger seat beside him, and every now and then he would plunge his left fist in, grab a handful of chips, and cram them into his mouth. Grab. Cram. Chomp. Grab. Cram. Chomp. Not very refined. The chips smelled fantastic, though. The smell of the cigar, the lurching motion as he steered with one hand and stuned his mouth with the other, the low, dragging pain from my period - it was all making me feel queasy and hungry at the same time. In the end, hunger won out. I wondered what language this gangster-type would talk. Belarusian? He looked too dark for a Belarus. Ukrainian? He didn’t look Ukrainian. Maybe from somewhere out east? Chechnya? Georgia? What do Georgians look like? The Balkans? Taking a guess, I asked in Russian, "Please, Mr. Vulk, may I have something to eat?"

He looked up. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror. He had real gangster-type eyes - poisonous black berries in eyebrows as straggly as an overgrown hedge. He studied me in that onensive way, sliding his eyes all over me.

"Little flovver vants eating?" He spoke in English, though he must have understood my Russian. Probably he came from one of those newly independent nations of the former Soviet Union where everyone can speak Russian but nobody does. Okay, so he wanted to talk English? I’d show him.

"Yes indeed, Mr. Vulk. If you could oblige me, if it does not inconve-nience you, I would appreciate something to eat."

"No problema, little flovver!"

He helped himself to one more mouthful of chips - grab, cram, chomp - then scrunched up the remnants in the oily paper and passed them over the back of the seat. As I reached forward to take them, I saw something else nestled down on the seat beneath where the chips had been. Something small, black, and scary. Shcho to! Was that a real gun?

My heart started hammering. What did he need a gun for? Mama, Papa, help me! Okay, just pretend not to notice. Maybe it’s not loaded. Maybe it’s just one of those cigar lighters. So I unfolded the crumpled paper - it was like a snug, greasy nest. The chips inside were fat, soft, and still warm. There were only about six left, and some scraps. I savored them one at a time. They were lightly salty, with a touch of vinegar, and they were just - mmm! - indescribably delicious. The fat clung to the edges of my lips and hardened on my fingers, so I had no choice but to lick it on, but I tried to do it discreetly.

"Thank you," I said politely, for rudeness is a sign of minimum culture.

"No problema. No problema." He waved his fist about as if to show how generous he was. "Food for eat in transit. All vill be add to your living expense."

Living expense? I didn’t need any more nasty surprises. I studied his back, the creaky stretched-at-the-seams jacket, the ragged ponytail, the thick, yellowish neck, the flecks of dandrun on the fake-leather collar. I was starting to feel queasy again.

"What is this, expense?"

"Expense. Expense. Foods. Transports. Accommodations." He took both hands on the steering wheel and waved them in the air. "Life in vest is too much expensive, little flovver. Who you think vill be pay for all such luxury?"

Although his English was appalling, those words came rolling out like a prepared speech. "You think this vill be providing all for free?"

So Mother had been right. "Anybody can see this agency is run by crooks. Anybody but you, Irina." (See how Mother has this annoying habit of putting me down?) "And if you tell them lies, Irina, if you pretend to be student of agriculture when you are nothing of the sort, who will help you if something goes wrong?"

Excerpted from Strawberry Fields by Marina Lewycka Copyright © 2007 by Marina Lewycka. Excerpted by permission of Penguin Group USA, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.