"I didn't choose Russia but Russia chose me. I had been fascinated from an early age by the culture, the language, the literature and the history to the place."
-- Helen Dunmore
Showing posts with label Vadim. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vadim. Show all posts
18 August, 2009
12 August, 2009
The Russia Diaries: 12 August - The Young
"You're sixty years old. Medicine won't help."
- Anton Chekhov
- Anton Chekhov
* * *
We sigh, concede to return next week and walk around the beautiful river bank, taking in the setting sun, the extremely, demonstratively affectionate couples snuggling on benches, the dogs, the ducks and babushkas all sitting still as anything, lost in thought.
We buy cold drinks and head back to the car, ready to pack up and head for the train station, The Red Arrow, and for our sojourn to St. Petersburg.
On the way home, Vadim tells us his children and Emanuelle will be in Petersburg at the same time. "Perhaps you could met?" he suggests, "though it is a very large city and they will all be at the disco..." he grimaces. "I worry for them," he admits, "and... how I envy them."
The lost time. Lost opportunities. That is a theme with Vadim. In Irina one can clearly see the Russian characteristic of acceptance, of spiritual endurance.
But in Vadim it is another matter. Vadim knows of and cares little for the details of economic ideologies, but on a human level, thus far, he appears to be an individualist, and almost, one might say, somewhat ashamed of it.
"Nastia..." he sighs, "Nastia signed up for fashion school in Milan and got on a plane by herself at 19. She doesn't even know what that kind of freedom really feels like to the likes of me. Communism is a distant shadow of her past, something she barely remembers. And why should she? Why?" And he is quiet for a long time.
We drive along. I wonder if he is thinking about the juicer. I wonder if he is thinking about Nastia's current Italian visa troubles. The day we arrived she had gone to the Italian consulate and been denied her student visa. It was a paperwork issue, and after Kit assisted Vadim draft an English letter clearing the whole mess up, everything was off with her student acceptance letter and all was well. But she returned home understandably distressed. And it was precisely this distress, this notion that world is her oyster for in many ways, it is; that was the thing that both amused and hurt Vadim. That, and of course, Emanuelle. And the juicer. And perhaps the notion that she is leaving not only his house but his world. The only familiar world he knows.
This isn't about the juicer or the boyfriend or the fashion school. It isn't all about her growing up. It is more about an uncertain and unfamiliar world. For her, for him, for everyone. It isn't simple. And yet, in truth, it is.
"And Arkady?" he continues, laughing loudly, "Arkady is a born businessman! An entrepreneur! He owns a flower shop with his mother on Tverskya! He renovates old cars, races them, and sells them! He is studying for his doctorate in science! Everything he touches turns to solid gold!" He shakes his head, smiling. Confused perhaps, but proud. "And did you know he knows everything? And, by the way, he is always right. He won't stop talking until you agree with him! Where would Arkady's place be in Communism? They are so lucky and so... ignorant..." he sighs. The Young.
They all nod.
And it is in this moment when I truly feel that I am Arkady's age. No. More than that. Not only his children's age, but I feel a part of the generation that shares the auspiciousness of his visions.
I nod too. But my nod is a vow: to not to waste the opportunity that is my life, nor the gift that is my freedom.
The young and The Old.
I wonder.
I wonder if it is always the same.
The Russia Diaries: 12 August - "You feel how others feel..."
12 August 2009
Moscow
Tired. We walked nearly 12 kilometers yesterday and I slept like the dead. Vadim is an angel of hospitality, and we set off for a slightly slower-paced day filled with official business.
On the drive in to town I coerce Vadim to speak of his personal history. He is such a deep and curious man-- thoughts penetrative, mind broad and insatiable. Before we left this morning he gave us both a copy of his published novel! A story of an aging man in the Soviet Moscow who falls in love with a younger woman he cannot have...Hm.
It is evident soon that the story of his father is the starting point--a general in the Red Army who believed fervently in the Socialist ideal, "a great patriot," he added thoughtfully after a moments pause.
His father traveled to the U.S. during the Cold War, an absolutely shocking act of open-mindedness for the time, and found America to be "shockingly normal," returning with stories of human interest from Oregon to St. Louis, to Charlotte. Apparently motivated by the death of his own father (murdered by Germans only 500 meters or so from Vadim's house!), he joined the army young and never looked back.
"He adored his Motherland," says Vadim, interestingly referring to Russia as "his" Motherland and not "the" or "our." When I tentatively bring this up Vadim simply closes his eyes and shrugs, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening for a moment...
"And you?" I ask, changing the tone in typical British style, "How did you become the lifelong medical Muscovite?" He slaps the steering wheel and laughs, small teeth bared, head back in sudden joyous amusement-- so thrilled to be relieved of his dark thoughts for a moment.
"My mother's family has a medical background, and I think it was understood that my brother and I would follow this tradition. My father never pressured us to serve in the Army, and anyway as a medical doctor one is required to serve in the Army reserves as a Captain with training and everything. HA!" he explodes, slapping the wheel again, "Imagine me! Old man running about with teenagers in Georgia!" At this Irina laughs. She shifts cat-like in her seat, smirking at Vadim before glancing out the window again. He asks her is she understands him in English. She nods, and replies in Russian that she understands more than he knows. He looks at her and they both smile.
* * *
After arriving in town we change over some money and retire to Petrovka street at my request (it is going to feature...). Vadim takes u to a Turkmen restaurant and we embark on a glorious meal of "Asiatic" food served in a colourful tents illuminated by the blazing summer sun. There are men with pipes, students lounging on decadent jewel-toned sofas, and women in hats smoking skinny "European" cigarettes.. It was at this stage that I realize I am capable of reading Cyrillic letters and actually getting by in the Russian language! How did that happen?! Suddenly, the "code" cracked, I was at last able to read things and ask Vadim what things were, point, ask, etc. It was a real thrill.
I order a traditional stir-fry, Kit a sturgeon shish kebab and Irina noodles and pavlova. Vadim takes only coffee. I think of the photo albums from last night, of his relatively radical transformation from obese young man to fit and trim older man in what appeared in the photos to be just a few months. He not only lost weight, his hair turned gray, he grew a beard, he got glasses.... what prompted this shift? Dare I even ask? As if reading my mind he comments on it himself.
"When I was fat I would've eaten all day, but now just coffee," he apologizes/
"What brought about the change?" I ask, trying not to sound anything other than matter-of-fact.
"I was sick," he looks down into his coffee, "very sick. Yes." He glances away onto the green of the park where a few moments ago he had told us he has spent his childhood and youth behind the old hospital. "I am a medical doctor, I should have known something was not right," he explains this with a hint of what seems to be shame in his voice. "I was tired all the time, for 15 years. I thought I was just sick from Communism!" he laughs, but his face falls quickly, as does Irina's, the memory of that time devastating. "Anyway..." he continues quietly, "finally my colleague made me take a test, and I was able to identify the problem and move on from there..." he sips his coffee and thinks about this for another moment before speaking again, this time with more solemnity. "But the medication, the treatment, was the hardest thing in my life."
Ah Vadim. Such a complex man. A child of the Soviet Union, but an individual spirit aching to grow.
"The entire process, it takes ten years. I am in the middle of year eight," he says with humility. "Many, many people do not survive the process..." I cannot believe this. I press him gently to explain. "Well..." he searches, "all of the symptoms you had before are the same only in reverse and at 1000 percent. You are so irritable you are like a monster, lashing out at those you love for reasons you do not understand, it is as if the voice was not my own..." and then he grew very quiet in deed, moving the white cup between his surgeon's hands.
"But worst of all what is inside your mind. The opposite of exhaustion is not alertness... it is mania... and it is this that drives men to take their lives. It is the never-ending noise of the brain, releasing one thousand thoughts a second, every one of them menacing. And there is nothing to stop it. Nothing turns it off. No Sleep. No pill. Nothing but death itself..."
He finishes the final sip of his coffee with finality, exhaling as he replaces the cup upon the saucer.
"It took time, and a lot of tolerance from my family, but now I am more even and quite well. I do not know how they all managed. But it has made me a better Doctor," he said brightly, attempting to lighten things. "More sympathetic."
I look at him and try to penetrate him. I feel so limited by our too brief acquaintance, by the language barrier and by Kit and Irina, who are in this, removed and far away. I try.
"I can understand how hard that must have been," I fumble slightly, "I cannot feel the pain myself of course, but I can see it with my mind, I sympathize. And how challenging it must have been for those around you, who loved you and did not wish to see you in pain, not to be punished themselves when they had done nothing wrong. And as far as your practicing of medicine-- yes, I see. You see people at the most desperate moments of their lives. Some of them will never walk again, some of them die and you must tend to loved ones. Now, you have felt the despair, felt the frustration of being 'just another face' to a doctor, watched as your own wife and children suffered as you suffered. Of course you are a better doctor. You have been a patient..."
He looked at me a moment, trying to piece together exactly who I was. I could see I had puzzled him-- a young woman, the same age as his older son, who understood the greatest challenge of his life.
"You are a very sensitive girl, Alexandra. You understand. You feel how others feel."
Moscow
Tired. We walked nearly 12 kilometers yesterday and I slept like the dead. Vadim is an angel of hospitality, and we set off for a slightly slower-paced day filled with official business.
On the drive in to town I coerce Vadim to speak of his personal history. He is such a deep and curious man-- thoughts penetrative, mind broad and insatiable. Before we left this morning he gave us both a copy of his published novel! A story of an aging man in the Soviet Moscow who falls in love with a younger woman he cannot have...Hm.
It is evident soon that the story of his father is the starting point--a general in the Red Army who believed fervently in the Socialist ideal, "a great patriot," he added thoughtfully after a moments pause.
His father traveled to the U.S. during the Cold War, an absolutely shocking act of open-mindedness for the time, and found America to be "shockingly normal," returning with stories of human interest from Oregon to St. Louis, to Charlotte. Apparently motivated by the death of his own father (murdered by Germans only 500 meters or so from Vadim's house!), he joined the army young and never looked back.
"He adored his Motherland," says Vadim, interestingly referring to Russia as "his" Motherland and not "the" or "our." When I tentatively bring this up Vadim simply closes his eyes and shrugs, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening for a moment...
"And you?" I ask, changing the tone in typical British style, "How did you become the lifelong medical Muscovite?" He slaps the steering wheel and laughs, small teeth bared, head back in sudden joyous amusement-- so thrilled to be relieved of his dark thoughts for a moment.
"My mother's family has a medical background, and I think it was understood that my brother and I would follow this tradition. My father never pressured us to serve in the Army, and anyway as a medical doctor one is required to serve in the Army reserves as a Captain with training and everything. HA!" he explodes, slapping the wheel again, "Imagine me! Old man running about with teenagers in Georgia!" At this Irina laughs. She shifts cat-like in her seat, smirking at Vadim before glancing out the window again. He asks her is she understands him in English. She nods, and replies in Russian that she understands more than he knows. He looks at her and they both smile.
* * *
After arriving in town we change over some money and retire to Petrovka street at my request (it is going to feature...). Vadim takes u to a Turkmen restaurant and we embark on a glorious meal of "Asiatic" food served in a colourful tents illuminated by the blazing summer sun. There are men with pipes, students lounging on decadent jewel-toned sofas, and women in hats smoking skinny "European" cigarettes.. It was at this stage that I realize I am capable of reading Cyrillic letters and actually getting by in the Russian language! How did that happen?! Suddenly, the "code" cracked, I was at last able to read things and ask Vadim what things were, point, ask, etc. It was a real thrill.
I order a traditional stir-fry, Kit a sturgeon shish kebab and Irina noodles and pavlova. Vadim takes only coffee. I think of the photo albums from last night, of his relatively radical transformation from obese young man to fit and trim older man in what appeared in the photos to be just a few months. He not only lost weight, his hair turned gray, he grew a beard, he got glasses.... what prompted this shift? Dare I even ask? As if reading my mind he comments on it himself.
"When I was fat I would've eaten all day, but now just coffee," he apologizes/
"What brought about the change?" I ask, trying not to sound anything other than matter-of-fact.
"I was sick," he looks down into his coffee, "very sick. Yes." He glances away onto the green of the park where a few moments ago he had told us he has spent his childhood and youth behind the old hospital. "I am a medical doctor, I should have known something was not right," he explains this with a hint of what seems to be shame in his voice. "I was tired all the time, for 15 years. I thought I was just sick from Communism!" he laughs, but his face falls quickly, as does Irina's, the memory of that time devastating. "Anyway..." he continues quietly, "finally my colleague made me take a test, and I was able to identify the problem and move on from there..." he sips his coffee and thinks about this for another moment before speaking again, this time with more solemnity. "But the medication, the treatment, was the hardest thing in my life."
Ah Vadim. Such a complex man. A child of the Soviet Union, but an individual spirit aching to grow.
"The entire process, it takes ten years. I am in the middle of year eight," he says with humility. "Many, many people do not survive the process..." I cannot believe this. I press him gently to explain. "Well..." he searches, "all of the symptoms you had before are the same only in reverse and at 1000 percent. You are so irritable you are like a monster, lashing out at those you love for reasons you do not understand, it is as if the voice was not my own..." and then he grew very quiet in deed, moving the white cup between his surgeon's hands.
"But worst of all what is inside your mind. The opposite of exhaustion is not alertness... it is mania... and it is this that drives men to take their lives. It is the never-ending noise of the brain, releasing one thousand thoughts a second, every one of them menacing. And there is nothing to stop it. Nothing turns it off. No Sleep. No pill. Nothing but death itself..."
He finishes the final sip of his coffee with finality, exhaling as he replaces the cup upon the saucer.
"It took time, and a lot of tolerance from my family, but now I am more even and quite well. I do not know how they all managed. But it has made me a better Doctor," he said brightly, attempting to lighten things. "More sympathetic."
I look at him and try to penetrate him. I feel so limited by our too brief acquaintance, by the language barrier and by Kit and Irina, who are in this, removed and far away. I try.
"I can understand how hard that must have been," I fumble slightly, "I cannot feel the pain myself of course, but I can see it with my mind, I sympathize. And how challenging it must have been for those around you, who loved you and did not wish to see you in pain, not to be punished themselves when they had done nothing wrong. And as far as your practicing of medicine-- yes, I see. You see people at the most desperate moments of their lives. Some of them will never walk again, some of them die and you must tend to loved ones. Now, you have felt the despair, felt the frustration of being 'just another face' to a doctor, watched as your own wife and children suffered as you suffered. Of course you are a better doctor. You have been a patient..."
He looked at me a moment, trying to piece together exactly who I was. I could see I had puzzled him-- a young woman, the same age as his older son, who understood the greatest challenge of his life.
"You are a very sensitive girl, Alexandra. You understand. You feel how others feel."
11 August, 2009
The Russia Diaries: 12 August - The Post Office
Whoa.
What a torment. An avalanche of paperwork and government bureaucracy required to visit a still archaic country.
"Don't be fooled by our shopping malls," said Vadim as he filled out the forms for us, "We are still barbaric in many ways," and he checked off about 100 boxes. "Every day I spend hours filling our thousands of forms, hours I could be spending with my patients. But I must do it to prevent prosecution of course. I am not a dermatologist, I am operating on people's spines!"
We fill out the forms.
In Cyrillic.
We report to a window.
And eccentric elderly woman with gold teeth makes photocopies of a bazillion documents.
She points us to another window where we are to buy an envelope.
We buy the envelope.
We report to another window where we are to buy stamps
We buy them.
We report to a line where we are to send it off.
We stand in this line.
People cut in it.
We arrive at the window and after more kerfuffle send them off.
The process takes two hours.
The Post Office is damp and lightless and I cannot understand how we could possibly have survived it!
"Russians must make everything hard..." Vadim sighs, "else, how would we suffer?" he twinkles.
The Russia Diaries: 11 August - Red Square and Captain Beatle
Krásnaya plóshchad (Кра́сная пло́щадь). It is beautiful. No, literally. The name Red Square derives neither from the colour of the bricks around it (which, in fact, were whitewashed at certain points in history) nor from the link between the color red and communism (an irony which goes not at all unnoticed).
Rather, the name came about because the Russian word красная (krasnaya) can mean either "red" or "beautiful" (the latter being archaic). This word, with the meaning "beautiful", was originally applied to Saint Basil's Cathedral and was subsequently transferred to the nearby square. It is believed that the square acquired its current name (replacing the older and slightly less glamorous Pozhar, or "burnt-out place") in the 17th century.
Rather, the name came about because the Russian word красная (krasnaya) can mean either "red" or "beautiful" (the latter being archaic). This word, with the meaning "beautiful", was originally applied to Saint Basil's Cathedral and was subsequently transferred to the nearby square. It is believed that the square acquired its current name (replacing the older and slightly less glamorous Pozhar, or "burnt-out place") in the 17th century.
Red Square is the most famous city square in Moscow, and arguably one of the most famous places in the world. The square separates the Kremlin (the former royal citadel and currently the official residence of the Russian President) from a historic merchant quarter known as Kitai-gorod.
As major streets of Moscow radiate from here in all directions, being promoted to major highways outside the city, Red Square is often considered the central square of Moscow and, in many ways, of all Russia.
During the Soviet era, Red Square maintained its significance, becoming the symbolic and literal focal point for the new state. Besides being the official address of the Soviet government (the government was moved to Moscow from St. Petersburg after the Revolution for militaristic, as well as symbolic "shifting of paradigm" reasons), it was also renowned as a showcase for military parades. Kazan Cathedral and Iverskaya Chapel with the Resurrection Gates were demolished to make room for heavy military vehicles driving through the square (both were later rebuilt after the fall of the Soviet Union).
There were plans to demolish Moscow's most recognized building, Saint Basil's Cathedral, as well. The legend is that Lazar Kaganovich, Stalin's associate and director of the Moscow reconstruction plan, prepared a special model of Red Square, in which the cathedral could be removed, and brought it to Stalin to show how the cathedral was an obstacle for parades and traffic. But when he jerked the cathedral out of the square, Stalin objected with his famous quote: "Lazar! Put it back!"
The buildings surrounding the Square are all significant in some respect. Lenin's Mausoleum, for example, contains the embalmed body of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Nearby to the south is the elaborate brightly-domed Saint Basil's Cathedral and the palaces and cathedrals of the Kremlin.
The buildings surrounding the Square are all significant in some respect. Lenin's Mausoleum, for example, contains the embalmed body of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Nearby to the south is the elaborate brightly-domed Saint Basil's Cathedral and the palaces and cathedrals of the Kremlin.
St. Basil's rises from Red Square in an irresistible profusion of colors and shapes. Its montage of domes, cupolas, arches, towers, and spires, each bearing a distinctive pattern and hue, have fascinated the eyes of visitors since its construction in the 1550s.
On the eastern side of the square is the GUM department store, and next to it the restored Kazan Cathedral. The northern side is occupied by the State Historical Museum, whose outlines echo those of Kremlin towers. The Iberian Gate and Chapel have been rebuilt to the northwest.
Paul McCartney's performance there was a historic moment for many, including Vadim, as The Beatles were banned in the Soviet Union, preventing any live performances there of any of The Beatles; the Soviet Union also banned the sales of Beatles records, and this was the first time that a Beatle performed in Russia. Vadim was there.
"What is that word?" he asked, curiously.
"Oh," I fumble, "um, a superhero is really a fictional character with special powers. Like Superman or Batman or..." I know who he will like, and punch it with a mischievious grin, "Captain America."
He grins from ear to ear, his arms go up in the air and performs an involuntary little hop and hushed and quickly cries "I would like to be a superhero," before reserving himself once again realizing he is supposed to treat Red Square with reverence and sobriety. "I wish to be a Captain Something. I am after all, a Captain in the Army, it is because I am a medical doctor you see. All medical doctors must serve as Captains, it is the rule."
"Captain Vadim?"
"That is boring."
"Captain... Moscow?"
"Alexandra, please."
"Captain BEATLE."
He pauses and his eyes grow wide like a very young and very excited child.
"I AM CAPTAIN BEATLE..." he whispers... and in a flash, he IS. He places his arms behind his back and requests this photograph to capture the moment. "I AM THE WALRUS!!" he cries.
It is the cry of Captain Beatle.
* * *
"What about you Alexandra?" he asked as we made our way to the American car.
"What about me?"
"Are you a superhero too?"
"I don't know," I replied, "do you think so?"
"Oh yes," he nodded pensively, "I do."
"Well, hm... I am not a Beatle..." I think for a moment.
I recall R's daughter. When I first met her 4 years ago we instantly bonded over The Adventures of Winnie the Pooh. I read a section to her about Owl and from that moment on she thought that my name was not Al but Owl and it stuck. When I call R, OWL SILBER comes up. And somehow everything associated with the owl has also stuck with me. I adore them and identify with them... all because of a little girl's "mistake." (Or was it?) Children are wise. Like owls.
"I like owls," I tell him
"Hm..." he thinks. He likes this. "The Night Owl?"
I love it.
"I love it," I tell him, "perhaps it should be in Russian?"
"Yes! Oh yes you have so much Russia in you Alexandra and here you are, it must be it must."
"Kak skazat' The Night Owl po-russki*?"
"Nachnaya Sava**."
"Oh my god I love it."
"It is very good."
"Ye lyublyu ta.^"
"Yes. Nachnaya Sava and Captain Beatle. It is good. The world is better off now."
"Hooo!" I cry, for I am Nachnaya Sava.
"And I... I am the walrus..."
"Hooo!" I cry, for I am Nachnaya Sava.
"And I... I am the walrus..."
That was the state of matters that afternoon.
We drove home exhausted, delighted. Hours of quiescent observation passed from the window of the American car; the world beyond the window appeared friendly, conversant, almost commonplace.
And the setting Moscow sun was glowing on this irresistible man.
*How do you say The Night Owl in Russian?
**Ночная Сова = The Night Owl
^я люблю это = I love it
The Russia Diaries: 11 August - Narzan
11 August 2009
Moscow
Moscow
Day one.
доброе утро! Good morning Moscow, and what a glorious, clear day. Having (somewhat) recovered from the vodka of the night before, we embark upon our journey in to the heart of Moscow's city center by piling in to the Chevrolet armed, upon Vadim's passionate insistence, with bottles of Bulgakov's favourite sparkling water Narzan (Вода минерала нарзан). Vadim loves both Bulgakov and his preferred seltzer water. Very much.
In The Master and Margarita, Bulgakov doesn't merely talk of ordinary seltzer water, he mentions the brand by name. In one particularly brilliant scene, a group of writers attempt to purchase cold drinks at a refreshment stand, only to discover that the stand has nothing to offer whatsoever. It is an apt and sardonic sketch of 1930 Moscow manners."Give me some Narzan water," said Berlioz.
"There isn't any," replied the woman at the refreshment stand, taking umbrage for some reason.
"Got any beer?" inquired Bezdomny in a hoarse voice.
"The beer will be delivered later," the woman answered.
"So what have you got?" asked Berlioz.
"Apricot juice, only it's warm," said the woman.
"Wel, give us that then!..."
The apricot juice generated an abundance of yellow foam, and the air started smelling like a barbershop. The writers drank it down and immediately began hiccuping, paid their money, and went over and sat down on a bench facing the pond, with their backs to Bronnaya Street."
Since 1894 this water has been bottled in Kislovodsk, a city in the lush region of Stavropol in Ukraine. In Bulgakov’s time Narzan water was associated with this sunny resort town in the North Caucasus (comparable to Vittel in France).
Narzan water is a real taste of Russia, and comes in delightfully slim green bottles with a whimsical label. When communism collapsed, Narzan had assets that most other domestic enterprises could only dream of - a pre-Revolutionary brand name, an established reputation, and a quality product. But in everything else it was like any other company emerging from the dysfunctional- if secure- command economy. When regular orders from the state dried up, the factory was forced to switch to products targeted at mass consumers: cheap fortified wine and - OH! oh yes! - bedroom slippers. It was quite a step down from the days when the company made special deliveries to ailing Soviet leader Vladimir Lenin in the 1920s.
But happily, today Narzan outperforms its Soviet peak producing 70 million liters per year and is back on the tables of the nation's elite, including the Kremlin. Vadim has cases of it, Kit has been a Narzan convert since his first visit in 1991, and I? It was love at first sip. Crisp. Clean. Delicious.
10 August, 2009
The Russia Diaries: 10 August - That Evening
"His name is Emmanuelle..." he chews on the name like a sour taste. He wets and purses his mouth, scrunches his shoulders,
The family is meeting this Emmanuelle for the first time tonight, and it is endearing to see Vadim squirm, shift and mope about his daughter's Milanese boyfriend who is not-so-secretly living with his 21-ear-old daughter.
"Everyone is keeping it a secret from me," he mopes "but I know they are living together. I know and they know I know and... ugh, I don't know..." He shifts in the driver's seat, face contorted in a kind of scowl. "Also," he says, "his name... ugh. It is the name of a certain film that came to Russia in the 70's... a sort of..." he is uncertain as to how to proceed with me, I am, after all, a completely new female, in the back of his American vehicle. "a sort of," he searches, "soft, erotic film." There. He said it. Emmanuelle, famed French softcore erotic movie. Emmanuelle as in the word metonymic with erotic film. Yes. EMMANUELLE. The name of his daughter's boyfriend. Wonderful.
And in this vain, it is clear that in Vadim's mind, no one has ever had better sex than the sex his 21-year-old-daughter is having with Emmanuelle in his head. In Vadim's imagination, the pair of them are enacting the types of horrific things one only ever sees on the covers of books with titles like A Savage Hunger, or, Lady Jane and the Elusive Tome. Emmanuelle must be a tan, strapping Italian over 6-feet tall, with billowing, greasy hair and an oily chest. His long, elegant, tapered, masculine fingers with the well-trimmed perfectly clean nails continued on their journey down the buttons of his daughter's perfectly-tailored Milanese bodice... ARGH!
He shudders. The car has been very quiet. Feathers ruffled, Vadim's forehead is crumpled into terrible creases. He is a father suitably skeptical.
* * *
Emmanuelle, it turns out, is not in fact the greasy swaggering sex offender he has been feared to be, but was, in fact, a child. A cherubic puppy-eyed, golden curly haired child of about 20 with an eager face keen to please, and an irritatingly high level of innate personal Milanese style that draped on him awkwardly-- knight's armor too large upon the apprentice.
Nastia was clearly in charge, telling him (in what I would quickly learn was the extraordinarily direct Russian manner) where to stand, sit, what to eat, drink, when to speak and at what volume, and managing somehow to avoid any of these directions to come across as truly domineering. In this particular instance, it was evident that her high-handedness was actually considered helpful to what was clearly, (we could see it now!) a rather overwhelmed and frightened Emmanuelle! Yes, upon closer inspection it was actually very sweet. Nastia was being the classic Russian wife. And everyone was fine with that.
Everyone, that is, except Vadim.
Vadim was loathe to see his daughter so grown up and domesticated. His baby,his girl, his teenager who once "drank coca-cola and coca-cola only by the bucket" had now requested a juicer. She drank fresh juice. Everyday. "In Italy they drink juice..." Vadim explains with a glower. Something about the juice was specifically hurtful. Not the fashion school or fluent Italian or native boyfriend; no.
The juice had done Vadim in.
When exactly did she grow up?
The family is meeting this Emmanuelle for the first time tonight, and it is endearing to see Vadim squirm, shift and mope about his daughter's Milanese boyfriend who is not-so-secretly living with his 21-ear-old daughter.
"Everyone is keeping it a secret from me," he mopes "but I know they are living together. I know and they know I know and... ugh, I don't know..." He shifts in the driver's seat, face contorted in a kind of scowl. "Also," he says, "his name... ugh. It is the name of a certain film that came to Russia in the 70's... a sort of..." he is uncertain as to how to proceed with me, I am, after all, a completely new female, in the back of his American vehicle. "a sort of," he searches, "soft, erotic film." There. He said it. Emmanuelle, famed French softcore erotic movie. Emmanuelle as in the word metonymic with erotic film. Yes. EMMANUELLE. The name of his daughter's boyfriend. Wonderful.
And in this vain, it is clear that in Vadim's mind, no one has ever had better sex than the sex his 21-year-old-daughter is having with Emmanuelle in his head. In Vadim's imagination, the pair of them are enacting the types of horrific things one only ever sees on the covers of books with titles like A Savage Hunger, or, Lady Jane and the Elusive Tome. Emmanuelle must be a tan, strapping Italian over 6-feet tall, with billowing, greasy hair and an oily chest. His long, elegant, tapered, masculine fingers with the well-trimmed perfectly clean nails continued on their journey down the buttons of his daughter's perfectly-tailored Milanese bodice... ARGH!
He shudders. The car has been very quiet. Feathers ruffled, Vadim's forehead is crumpled into terrible creases. He is a father suitably skeptical.
* * *
Emmanuelle, it turns out, is not in fact the greasy swaggering sex offender he has been feared to be, but was, in fact, a child. A cherubic puppy-eyed, golden curly haired child of about 20 with an eager face keen to please, and an irritatingly high level of innate personal Milanese style that draped on him awkwardly-- knight's armor too large upon the apprentice.
Nastia was clearly in charge, telling him (in what I would quickly learn was the extraordinarily direct Russian manner) where to stand, sit, what to eat, drink, when to speak and at what volume, and managing somehow to avoid any of these directions to come across as truly domineering. In this particular instance, it was evident that her high-handedness was actually considered helpful to what was clearly, (we could see it now!) a rather overwhelmed and frightened Emmanuelle! Yes, upon closer inspection it was actually very sweet. Nastia was being the classic Russian wife. And everyone was fine with that.
Everyone, that is, except Vadim.
Vadim was loathe to see his daughter so grown up and domesticated. His baby,his girl, his teenager who once "drank coca-cola and coca-cola only by the bucket" had now requested a juicer. She drank fresh juice. Everyday. "In Italy they drink juice..." Vadim explains with a glower. Something about the juice was specifically hurtful. Not the fashion school or fluent Italian or native boyfriend; no.
The juice had done Vadim in.
When exactly did she grow up?
The Russia Diaries: 10 August - The Beatles
Mankind is looking for something, and will certainly find it. Oh, if it only happened more quickly.
- Anton Chekhov
There is a moment or two in the car when we all get used to one another. I am unprepared and not quite certain how to proceed. Vadim switches his brain to English, and settles in to it carefully, consciously, while speaking of consciousness, I am mindful of communicating well in my feeble English-only-but-excellent-at-hand-gestures-in-fact-I-always-win-charades-and-can-provide-several-alternative-word-choices way. (Note: I really am quite excellent at charades and do not recommend being on an opposing team at a party... don't challenge me to a duel... you will lose and curse my name). The radio hums un-imposingly in the background. There is a pause that fills the car when the small talk and general inquiries die down. "Do you like the Beatles, Alexandra?" he finally asks. "Yes," I reply, "Who doesn't?"
"Paul McCartney played Moscow in 2003..." he trails off. "I was there..." It was three tiny words, but it rang out, sending energetic ripples throughout the atmosphere of the American car. I was there was pregnant with meaning. I begin to suspect there is more to it than your average Western Beatle-mania.
"You see," he explains "being a Beatles fan in the West was easy. Not so in Soviet Union. In those days," he explains, "it was illegal to bring a Beatles record into Soviet Union and if you were found with one, it was usually taken away. The Beatles were considered the sound of the capitalist threat during the Cold War," he adds.
It is true. Apparently in Soviet times, if one did try to smuggle a Beatles record in to the country they authorities would put the record on a special device, scratch it, and return it to the smuggler as a souvenir. Owning one was considered to be a form of treason. Recordings that did manage to pass through the tight screen were like gold. Most of the Beatles music that Vadim managed to listen to was, at best, third- or fourth-generation copies.
In his 1930s novel, The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov says that love fell upon the heroes like a mugger with a knife from a side street. Something similar apparently happened to the souls of Soviet "teenagers" (incidentally, a word Russia learned thanks to the Beatles).
"Beatlyi was the Russian word to describe things by the Beatles," Vadim adds. "I remember hearing the word for the first time. I knew exactly what it meant." He smiles wryly, the sensation of it ever present even now. "But it was impossible not to listen when all anyone was talking about was the Beatles. The music came to us from an unknown, incomprehensible world, and it bewitched us, it took hold of our spirits and imaginations."
In the early days, infatuation with the Beatles implied an unconscious oppositional stance, more curious than serious, and not at all threatening to the foundations of a socialist society.
"The youth of the Soviet Union do not need this cacophonous rubbish," stated Soviet leader Nikita Krushchev of the Beatles in the early 1960s. "It's just a small step from saxophones to switchblades."
Yet the Soviet youth, claims Vadim, did need the Beatles, and went to enormous lengths to be more like them. Vadim contends that the Beatles, more so than any other band of the time, was the single-most important factor in shaping pop culture behind the Iron Curtain.
"Later on, you could bring Rolling Stones albums into the country," he states, "but not the Beatles. The Beatles were an event. The Rolling Stones were just a rock band, but the Beatles were the cultural event of our century. 100 out of 100 youths, if asked who invented the electrical guitar," he continues, "would answer 'The Beatles.' Who invented rock-and-roll? The Beatles. Every event has a master, and the master of modern music was the Beatles."
He adjusts his black glasses in a swift, efficient movement. We are still for a moment, lost in thought. After a few minutes, he speaks again. His voice is quiet. His tone definite, what he is about to say is specific.
"The Beatles brought this message about love and peace. They allowed us a little bit of escape when there was no escape..."
We drive on. Flying through the traffic-less city streets with abandon.
Freedom.
The Russia Diaries: 10 August
10 August, 2009
Moscow
* * *
To Moscow! Ah the cry of Chekhov's three sisters! To Moscow indeed!
Truth be told: I am depleted.
Drained.
Burnt out.
These are the most accurate words to describe my current condition, but naturally it only grazes the edges. At this moment in my life I am empty in every significant way. Confidence. Creativity. Basic energy required to function. Jobless, homeless, heartbroken and exhausted, I am uncertain as to whether or not I will be able to be present for this journey. Yet, great moments of human endeavor can stimulate a sort of poetry.
This moment calls for the poise and ponderous delivery of never-to-be-forgotten strengths, a compromise between spiritual slaughter and the potential for a kind of ascension... Oh the competition.
But one must persevere. I must not allow the depletion to impale my brain, or let others crush my currently unbeating heart.
I will make a point of healing, topping myself up again, and, perhaps most dauntingly, opening myself to woundedness. The rains shall rinse out every fear.
And after all, to quote Anton's sisters once again:
And so I am here, in Moscow, further than Irina, Olga and Masha ever got, and here, again referring to the words of the sisters, I am not a stranger. In Moscow, there shall be light.
* * *
After our three-hour Aeroflot flight from London we passed through the formidable gates of Russian security, collected our bags, and made our way through the glass airport doors.
And there, hands cradled behind his back, standing just beyond the threshold, he stood.
He wore a burgundy cotton t-shirt, perfectly pressed linen trousers and light-weight sandals to combat (or perhaps to appreciate) the glorious heat of a late Russian summer day. His gray head was angled ever-so-slightly downward, his eyes hopeful and expectant through his dark-rimmed glasses.
As we approached he opened both of his arms wide and smiled. The gesture was subtle but his face spoke volumes as he approached, embracing Kit with both of his already open arms. "Hello, old friend," he greeted, his accent rich and voice full of feeling. "Hello!" greeted Kit, equally thrilled. They look at one another and grin broadly. There is a look of appraisal, of flooding memory, of understanding at grayer hair and nearly matching black-rimmed glasses.
In the vestiges of my memory, even from the periphery I can recall Kit's last visit to Russia, for when he was last there he was with Lilly who was with me celebrating the New Year my house in 2002. He emailed her. He spoke of amber. I didn't know him then, but I remember it well.
It has been seven years since they visited last. They are very old friends, and it would not take hearing the story of their meeting in 1991 to know it in this moment.
"Oh! This is Alexandra," introduces Kit, and Vadim takes my hand with both of his, greeting me with such an intensity of welcoming that my breath is nearly taken away. "Come!" he says his voice suddenly full of fun, and we make our way across the busy parking lot.
I already like him.
"I love American cars," he informs us as he packs Kit's giant blue and my petite red suitcases in the truck of his Chevrolet. He shuts the lid of the trunk, opens the doors, and soon the bespectacled Vadim (sporting a new goatee so I am told) is buckled up and we are on our way.
"Shall we drive through the city center?" he asks with a degree of excitement in his voice. "I love to drive through the city when there is no traffic. Traffic is terrible problem in Moscow, but today is a Monday. I feel like we should take the opportunity. Today it is a very good day."
Yes it is.
Moscow
In Moscow you can sit in an enormous restaurant where you don't know anybody and where nobody knows you, and you don't feel that you're a stranger.
-- Anton Chekhov, The Three Sisters
* * *
To Moscow! Ah the cry of Chekhov's three sisters! To Moscow indeed!
Truth be told: I am depleted.
Drained.
Burnt out.
These are the most accurate words to describe my current condition, but naturally it only grazes the edges. At this moment in my life I am empty in every significant way. Confidence. Creativity. Basic energy required to function. Jobless, homeless, heartbroken and exhausted, I am uncertain as to whether or not I will be able to be present for this journey. Yet, great moments of human endeavor can stimulate a sort of poetry.
This moment calls for the poise and ponderous delivery of never-to-be-forgotten strengths, a compromise between spiritual slaughter and the potential for a kind of ascension... Oh the competition.
But one must persevere. I must not allow the depletion to impale my brain, or let others crush my currently unbeating heart.
I will make a point of healing, topping myself up again, and, perhaps most dauntingly, opening myself to woundedness. The rains shall rinse out every fear.
And after all, to quote Anton's sisters once again:
What seems to us serious, significant and important will, in future times, be forgotten or won’t seem important at all.
And so I am here, in Moscow, further than Irina, Olga and Masha ever got, and here, again referring to the words of the sisters, I am not a stranger. In Moscow, there shall be light.
* * *
After our three-hour Aeroflot flight from London we passed through the formidable gates of Russian security, collected our bags, and made our way through the glass airport doors.
And there, hands cradled behind his back, standing just beyond the threshold, he stood.
He wore a burgundy cotton t-shirt, perfectly pressed linen trousers and light-weight sandals to combat (or perhaps to appreciate) the glorious heat of a late Russian summer day. His gray head was angled ever-so-slightly downward, his eyes hopeful and expectant through his dark-rimmed glasses.
As we approached he opened both of his arms wide and smiled. The gesture was subtle but his face spoke volumes as he approached, embracing Kit with both of his already open arms. "Hello, old friend," he greeted, his accent rich and voice full of feeling. "Hello!" greeted Kit, equally thrilled. They look at one another and grin broadly. There is a look of appraisal, of flooding memory, of understanding at grayer hair and nearly matching black-rimmed glasses.
In the vestiges of my memory, even from the periphery I can recall Kit's last visit to Russia, for when he was last there he was with Lilly who was with me celebrating the New Year my house in 2002. He emailed her. He spoke of amber. I didn't know him then, but I remember it well.
It has been seven years since they visited last. They are very old friends, and it would not take hearing the story of their meeting in 1991 to know it in this moment.
"Oh! This is Alexandra," introduces Kit, and Vadim takes my hand with both of his, greeting me with such an intensity of welcoming that my breath is nearly taken away. "Come!" he says his voice suddenly full of fun, and we make our way across the busy parking lot.
I already like him.
"I love American cars," he informs us as he packs Kit's giant blue and my petite red suitcases in the truck of his Chevrolet. He shuts the lid of the trunk, opens the doors, and soon the bespectacled Vadim (sporting a new goatee so I am told) is buckled up and we are on our way.
"Shall we drive through the city center?" he asks with a degree of excitement in his voice. "I love to drive through the city when there is no traffic. Traffic is terrible problem in Moscow, but today is a Monday. I feel like we should take the opportunity. Today it is a very good day."
Yes it is.
09 August, 2009
The Russia Diaries: Vadim
10 August, 2009Moscow
This story cannot be told without first telling you of Vadim.
The facts are these: He is a family man of perhaps 55. Married to the excessively beautiful Irina with two children; the 25-year-old golden son Arkady-- an entrepreneur with bags of understated charisma, a natural head for business and a Midas touch, and the stylish-and-as-beautiful-as-her-mother-incredibly-intelligent-and-artistically gifted-but-charmingly-self-effacing-22-year-old fashion student Anastasia.
A large house on a developed estate sitting amongst the wild outskirts of Moscow with a yard and a barbecue. A dog. A cat. An American car.
He is tall. Slavic looking. Grey with a goatee and imposing black spectacles that are simultaneously hip and serious. He is a thinker. A dreamer. Author of a slim novel. He is a spinal surgeon. And crucially, Vadim might say most importantly to the formation of his identity, he has experienced and perhaps at times endured the transition of the Soviet Union to the Russian Federation.
He plays guitar. He is a Captain in the Army reserves. He loves coffee. And Bulgakov. And Gogol. And the occasional cigarette. And The Beatles... more than anything in the world.
Whether he is a hero of lionhearted vigor, or a simple man with complex experiences I may never be able to know, for he is simultaneously reserved and formal whilst also being the friendliest, most sincerely hospitable and openhearted man I have ever met.
Powerful and quiet. Private and candid. Joyous and sorrowful. An enigma of immensely pleasurable proportion. Yes, I have to admit that I very quickly came to see, understand, sympathize and delight in the riddle of Vadim. If not, in fact, quite frankly, to adore him.
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