Raskolnikov glares right back at the housewife, not making any effort to hide his distaste. If she doesn’t conceal her dislike, why should he? It isn’t as though there’s anything he could do to make her like him, save perhaps change his name and pretend not to be Russian at all.

“Good day,” he says to the woman, folding his arms belligerently. She replies equally curtly, a sharp, dishonest greeting, and opens the freezer to grab one of the sausage packs he’d been eying.

Unable to resist antagonizing her, he pointedly turns away and says to Chell, “they don’t like Russians much here.” The woman makes a sound somewhere between a cough and an offended gasp, but he ignores it. “The war with Russia has all of the Americans in a foul mood, you see.”