Back to Moscow (4 page)

Noticing my hesitation, Nadezhda Nikolaevna explained that it was fine to bring your own food to cafés in Moscow. ‘The food in these places is expensive and not very good,’
she said.

I could see from the menu that it was possible to order an entire meal for two for the price of a cocktail in Propaganda.

I took one of the blinis and had a bite. Buttery, sweet, delicious.

‘They are lovely,’ I said.

Over tea and blinis, Nadezhda Nikolaevna continued with Gorky’s story, telling me how, in the end, the great soviet writer had fallen out of favour with Stalin and had probably been killed
by the secret services.

‘They painted the walls of his bedroom with poisonous paint,’ she said. ‘So Gorky fell ill and died.’

‘Interesno,’ I said, nodding. I wondered why Stalin’s people, who had kidnapped, tortured and killed with pleasure, would resort to such creative methods to murder an ageing
and not particularly dangerous writer. But I was getting accustomed to the myths and parables Russians used to explain their recent history. When the official version of historical events seemed
artificial, the emergence of alternative narratives was only natural. These stories, some of which might have held a grain of truth, spread by word of mouth through Moscow’s many shared
kitchens.

The hot tea was bringing me back to life. I was really enjoying our excursion. The Gorky Museum, the stories, the chilly air outside. I was particularly touched by the home-made blinis.

As Nadezhda Nikolaevna was finishing the story of Gorky’s death, the young waiter who had brought the teapot came over and planted himself next to our table.

‘Woman,’ he said, addressing Nadezhda Nikolaevna.

I had learned that, ever since the perestroika, Russians had had a problem addressing each other. The word tovarisch – comrade – previously used to address any fellow soviet citizen,
had become politically obsolete. But pre-revolutionary language was not really an option: during the seven decades of communism, the old words for sir and madam were deemed too bourgeois and had
fallen into disuse. Now, when addressing a stranger, Russians were left with little choice but to say man, woman, boy, girl, or – to people around my age – young person.

Nadezhda Nikolaevna, wrapped up in telling Gorky’s story, didn’t seem to notice the waiter.

‘Woman,’ the waiter repeated, now louder, without the slightest trace of a smile. ‘You can’t bring outside food into this café.’

‘Oh,’ Nadezhda Nikolaevna said, looking up and smiling, ‘but these are blinis that I made at home.’

‘I don’t care what they are,’ he said. ‘You need to order food from our menu.’

Nadezhda Nikolaevna blushed, embarrassed at having been talked down to – or perhaps, I thought, at having provided me with the wrong information about Moscow’s customs. The
cheerfulness she had shown all morning dissolved at once. She looked down, started to wrap the rest of the blinis.

‘Woman,’ the waiter said, not moving an inch from the table, ‘if you can’t afford the food in here, just stay home.’

‘Go fuck yourself!’ I found myself saying, in plain English, as I jumped up to face him, knocking over my chair.

The waiter, confused, stepped back and disappeared into the kitchen.

A few minutes later Nadezhda Nikolaevna and I were walking in silence along the Old Arbat. ‘I’m sorry I snapped in the café,’ I said. ‘It
wasn’t my intention to make a scene.’

‘Moscow is changing,’ she murmured, gaze fixed on the pavement, a sad tone in her voice.

She seemed even older, more fragile – walking now with difficulty. As we moved along the pedestrian street, I offered Nadezhda Nikolaevna my arm. We made our way towards Smolenskaya,
flanked by families and tourists. With one hand she clutched my elbow, with the other she carried the plastic bag with the unfinished blinis.

L
EAVING
N
ADEZHDA
N
IKOLAEVNA
at Smolenskaya, where she unexpectedly kissed me goodbye, I decided to avoid
the metro and take a walk. I had some time to kill before meeting Lena.

The sky was brighter now, almost blue, but the sun didn’t seem powerful enough to dissipate the late autumn chill. As I marched among the towering constructions of the New Arbat, I
remembered how, on a previous stroll, I had been told that the large buildings on the southern side were meant to represent open books. Each structure was formed by two flat wings joined at a wide
angle, but, as far as I could see, nothing else in their design suggested the shape of a book. Glancing at their plain façades, I now wondered if the architect’s intention had really
been to emulate books or if, more likely, the alleged resemblance had been an afterthought.

I sat for a while in the Internet café in Okhotny Ryad, read the news, answered long-overdue emails. Back in the street, the air seemed even cooler.

I reached Lubyanka with some twenty minutes to spare. At dawn, just before saying goodbye, Lena and I had agreed to meet outside Dyetsky Mir, the big toyshop on the northwestern side of the
square. To warm myself a little, I entered the shop. The spacious central atrium was deserted. I wandered among rows of plastic cars, skates, balls, dolls, stuffed animals. A couple of shop
assistants hid behind the stands, avoiding eye contact with customers, as was the practice in Moscow. I passed through the bicycle section and, thinking that my legs could do with a rest, sat on a
child-size stool near the entrance. Next to the stool, a low table was covered in piles of small plastic bricks, identical to those I’d played with in my childhood. I gathered a few colourful
pieces and, without giving it much thought, began interlocking the bricks to form a wall. I then built four corners, joined them into a square which could serve as the base of a tower. I kept
adding bricks, layer by layer, enjoying the simplicity of the task, trying not only to create a solid foundation for my tower, but also to match the colours in symmetrical patterns as the structure
grew taller.

‘Do you need more time to finish?’

I looked up. Lena was wearing a dark green anorak and tight jeans. Her blonde hair was airier than the night before.

I wasn’t sure how much time I’d spent playing with the bricks. I stood up, awkward and embarrassed. ‘I thought we were meeting outside,’ I said. ‘What’s the
time?’

Lena stared at me in silence, her blue gaze so intense that I had to look away, afraid she could read my thoughts.

‘Come with me,’ she said finally. ‘I’m going to show you my favourite place in Moscow.’

She grabbed my arm and walked me out of the shop. As we crossed the street through the underground passage they called perekhod, I told her about my unusual Russian lesson in the morning, and
how Nadezhda Nikolaevna and I had been kicked out of the café.

‘Moscow is changing,’ Lena said. ‘In soviet times, communism gave us values to live by, a sense of community. People helped each other. That’s gone now.’

She spoke deliberately, aware of my language limitations. I was glad to notice that, in broad daylight, without vodka, I still understood most of what she said.

‘Russia is lost,’ she continued. ‘People here need guidance. First we had God. Then we had Lenin. Now we have nothing.’

We emerged on the other side of Lubyanka.

‘See that?’ Lena was now pointing at the square. The enormous roundabout was circled by dozens of vehicles that poured in from all over Moscow. Across the square, opposite the dreamy
world of Dyetsky Mir, stood the infamous headquarters of the secret services, where, I had been told, thousands of people had been tortured and murdered.

‘The Lubyanka building,’ I said, nodding, frowning, trying to convey my understanding of the historical suffering associated with the building.

‘Not that,’ Lena said. ‘I mean in the middle of the roundabout. What do you see?’

All I saw among the fuming vehicles was an empty traffic island.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Exactly. There used to be a statue. Dzerzhinsky, founder of the soviet secret services.’

‘I see.’

‘The statue disappeared with the perestroika,’ Lena said. ‘It was never replaced. That’s what I mean: after the fall of communism, Russia’s soul is empty, like
Lubyanka Square.’

We walked along Nikolskaya, then turned left into a narrow side street crammed with double-parked cars. I had visited these old streets of Kitay-gorod at night with the brothers, searching for
clubs, but in daylight the entire neighbourhood felt like part of a different, sleepier city. Lena stopped in front of a residential building that had no signs.

‘Here we are,’ she said, indicating a brown metal door.

She rang a bell and the door was opened. Descending a flight of stairs, we entered a dimly lit underground room. A young bearded man with a ponytail sat behind a counter, reading in near
darkness. He greeted Lena with a curt nod, seemingly annoyed by our interruption, and reluctantly placed his book on the counter next to a burning incense stick. The counter was covered with cheap
booklets on Buddhism, Taoism, meditation, yoga. All the books bore handwritten price tags.

We removed our shoes and handed over our coats. Lena was wearing a white woollen jumper. At the sight of her curves, I had a sharp feeling of inadequacy – as if Lena were a real woman and
I were just a boy pretending to be a man.

We were led into a larger underground room – the only light provided by candles flickering in the dark. The candles stood on eight or nine low tables, each of which was surrounded by piles
of cushions. The floor was covered with rugs from wall to wall, giving the entire setting a gloomy oriental feel. All the tables were unoccupied, except one at the far end, where another couple
cuddled and spoke in murmurs.

Lena placed our order with the bearded man. We sat among the cushions, our backs leaning on the wall. Gentle sitar music filled the air. The atmosphere was sepulchral, holy.

I put my arm around Lena. She leaned her head on my shoulder. Absorbing the sweetness of her perfume, my mind flashed back to Propaganda. An hour or so after we’d met by the bar, I had
followed Lena outside the club, through a side alley, into an old building. After climbing a few flights of unlit stairs impregnated with the stench of cat piss, I had found myself perched on a
rooftop – Lena was showing me the night-time view over Moscow. Look how beautiful and special this city is, she’d said. It was dark and cold, and I was wasted, but I understood what she
meant.

A waitress in a kimono slid into the room carrying our tray and kneeled at our table. The tea ceremony Lena had ordered involved hot water being poured from a large jar into the teapot, from the
teapot into thimble-sized cups, then all back to the jar. The circulation of steaming water had a hypnotic effect on me. At some point, tea leaves were ceremoniously added to the teapot and, after
a minute or so, we were presented with two tiny cups of green tea. Lena grabbed her cup with two hands, bowing slightly, and expertly placed it under her nose. ‘Beautiful,’ she
said.

I lifted my cup with the tips of my fingers. The tea had a damp-earth aroma and, once in my mouth, a faint taste of mud.

‘I love this place,’ Lena said after the kimono lady was gone. ‘So quiet and peaceful, you wouldn’t believe we are in the centre of Moscow.’

Lena spoke in whispers, which made the sound of her Russian serene, soothing.

‘Moscow is full of surprises,’ I said.

‘Moscow is the best place in the world. The city has its own cosmic energy, you can feel it through your entire body.’

Lena took care of refilling our teacups. As I took a sip, I felt the strength draining away from my limbs. I placed my cup on the table and lay down among the oriental cushions, my head on
Lena’s thigh. Lena stroked my hair, her nails making sweet ripples through my skin. There was a reassuring tranquillity about Lena’s presence, her mellow voice and graceful gestures. It
was as if her body had a different density and she were forced to move in slow motion.

With my eyes closed, I drifted towards unconsciousness, floating in that graceful state before sleep. Images of colourful plastic bricks began to pop into my head in time with the notes of the
sitar.

The spell of the moment was broken by a beep from my phone. Message from Colin.
Hey, lost you last night. banged the blonde dyev? Tonight: drinks at stepanov’s at 9.

I switched off the phone without answering.

When I returned from the toilets, I found Lena staring at the empty teacups, her face illuminated by the faint glow of the candles. The other couple had left – the dark cave was entirely
ours. I sat between Lena and the wall, my legs around her waist, my arms beneath her breasts.

Lena didn’t move when my hands found their way under her sweater, or when my fingers slipped under her bra. She sat in silence, her eyes on the candle.

I kissed her neck. My heart was beating fast now. ‘It’s getting late,’ I said, ‘why don’t you show me where you live?’

For a long minute Lena kept gazing at the candle. ‘I can’t,’ she said at last. ‘Not today.’

We remained silent, listening to the sitar, my entire body focused and expectant.

All of a sudden, Lena turned round and grabbed my face with two hands. ‘Promise me something,’ she whispered, staring straight into my eyes. ‘I want you to always remember this
moment.’

Next thing I knew, she was unbuttoning my jeans.

T
RUTH IS
,
IT WASN
’
T
Pushkin who introduced me to Russia. It was Katya. She was not even Russian
Russian. Katya was from Minsk. I’d met her at a university party in Amsterdam and within two weeks she’d moved into my apartment, an arrangement that was partly down to the city’s
housing scarcity. Though only two years older than me, Katya was, in my eyes, a real woman. She wore feminine, grown-up clothes and plenty of make-up. In the street, Katya didn’t walk –
she paraded, her long black hair falling in waves over her shoulders, and I took pride in the way other men turned their heads to look at her, my Slavic goddess.