Authors: Guillermo Erades
I was absorbed by these thoughts, taking some notes, when Colin walked in, holding a copy of
The Exile
that he had picked up at the entrance. He shook the snow off his coat.
‘Beautiful morning,’ he said as he placed the newspaper on my table and his coat on the nearby rack. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater. ‘Saw you through the window.
Another cup of coffee?’
‘Sure.’
When he came back with two mugs of fresh coffee, I shared my thoughts about Natalya Rostova.
Colin listened attentively, stirred his coffee and took a sip. His face was as red as a beetroot. ‘If you had to choose between Natalya Rostova and Anna Karenina,’ he said,
‘who would you rather fuck?’
‘Do you mean who’s my favourite among Tolstoy’s female characters?’
‘I mean, who would you take to bed.’
I thought about Colin’s question, trying to picture both Anna and Natalya as sexual partners.
‘Natalya,’ I said, ‘towards the end of the book.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s more lovable than Karenina.’
‘I think Anna Karenina would be a better fuck,’ Colin said.
‘How could you possibly know?’ I said, for some reason annoyed by Colin’s disdain for Natalya. ‘You’ve never read
War and Peace
. What do you know about
Natalya?’
‘Who’s read the entire book? True, I don’t really know Natalya Rostova, but I feel Karenina is more my type of woman.’
‘Unfaithful? Suicidal?’
Colin thought about it for a few seconds. ‘Strong, determined.’
‘Natalya is more unpredictable,’ I said. ‘More fun.’
Colin took a sip of coffee. ‘Is Natalya honest? Faithful?’
‘Not entirely,’ I admitted. ‘When it comes to men, she’s rather fickle.’
‘All Russian women are,’ Colin said. He was sweating, pulling on the neck of his black sweater to let some air onto his chest. ‘In the end, if you look at it, they are all
unfaithful. Anna Karenina, Natalya Rostova—’ Colin took another sip of coffee and looked out of the window, giving himself more time to think of the names of other unfaithful Russian
characters. ‘You know,’ he said after a while, ‘all of them.’
‘Russian women are unfaithful. Is that your insight of the day?’
Colin turned his head both ways, as if checking that nobody could hear us. ‘That’s what makes them more interesting and challenging. It’s their culture. They’re always
looking for the next thing.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘Look at Pushkin’s Tatyana. She was a faithful and devoted wife.’
‘Pushkin is Pushkin,’ Colin said.
A tall dyev with red boots walked into the café and glanced around, as if looking for a friend. Colin waved at her with a smile. He did that often with female strangers – as far as
I could tell, with no results. She returned the smile politely, turned and walked back out to the street.
Colin opened
The Exile
and started to flip the pages. He always went straight to the club reviews to check if there were any new ratings to disagree with.
‘Karenina’s infidelity is not her main feature,’ I said, recalling an article I’d read on Tolstoy’s work from a feminist point of view. ‘Her decision to
abandon her husband is about escaping conventions, about breaking free from the choices society had made for her.’
‘Whatever,’ Colin said. ‘In the end, look at Moscow today. You meet a dyev and you know she’s already looking for someone else, better-looking, wealthier. They
can’t stay put.’
‘Neither can we.’
‘That’s different. We’re males. Ours is a biological need. Theirs is a materialistic pursuit. That’s the thing, if you scratch the surface, Russian dyevs are incredibly
materialistic. All they want is someone to provide for them, buy them expensive clothes, holidays abroad and all that shit. They expect men to open their doors, help them with their coats. They
don’t believe in equality. Not there yet.’
‘That’s crap,’ I said. ‘They’re just a bit more traditional.’
‘You know why Russian wives are so popular back in the States? Because they’re the embodiment of the American dream of the 1960s, taking care of themselves and their husbands, always
perfect make-up and hair. Both servile and sensual.’
The snowflakes outside seemed to become smaller.
‘Look,’ Colin continued, ‘even when you take a dyev to a restaurant, she doesn’t give a fuck if the food is fine or cow dung, as long as it’s expensive.’
‘Maybe you meet the wrong dyevs,’ I said. ‘I know girls who search for romance.’
‘It’s not romance,’ Colin said, finishing his cup of coffee. ‘For Russian women, relationships are nothing but a transaction. They always expect something in return.
That’s why it’s easy for them to become prostitutes, because they always feel you owe them something anyway. So they cross the line and ask for money.’
‘Four years in Moscow,’ I said, ‘and you still have such a stereotyped view of Russian women.’
‘I’m not doing a PhD on the subject,’ Colin said, tapping my red notebook, ‘but I’ve met my share. Believe me, sooner or later dyevs want something from you.
That’s how they value how much you care, by figuring out how much you spend. Clothes, flowers, restaurant bills, they add up everything in their heads.’
‘I’ve met girls who just wanted to have fun,’ I said. ‘They didn’t expect anything in return.’
‘You don’t know what’s in their heads.’
‘I certainly don’t.’
‘Anyway,’ Colin said as he stood up. ‘I’ll leave you with your books, I need to go to a meeting. McCoy tonight?’
‘Sure.’
Colin put on his coat, shook my hand and stepped out into the street. Through the glass I watched him walk away under the snow.
T
HEN
,
AT THE END OF
winter, I met Tatyana.
As temperatures rose, the roofs of Moscow began to drop enormous blocks of ice that crashed with force onto the pavement, shattering into a million ice cubes and killing – I was told
– about a dozen unfortunate Muscovites every year. To stop this urban massacre, city workers were sent up the buildings to poke at the ice, provoking controlled avalanches over the streets
below, after they’d cut off pedestrian traffic with yellow plastic tape. When you saw the yellow tape, you knew spring was around the corner.
‘We’re meeting the real estate agent by the Chekhov statue,’ Colin said, as we walked down Tverskaya. ‘Outside the MKhAT theatre.’
It was a bright morning. I was trying to focus on the pavement, avoiding the sludge and the slippery puddles that had frozen during the night. We turned left into Kamergersky. Anticipating the
change of season, some restaurants had claimed chunks of the walkway and set up outdoor terraces – with mushroom gas-heaters and blankets draped over the chairs. All the tables were
empty.
‘I hope it’s a nice flat,’ Colin said. ‘Would be great if I could move in around here.’
We stood beneath Chekhov’s statue – Anton Pavlovich, up on a pedestal, looking sad and lonely. I noticed how, as the city defrosted, the remains of sweaty ice sparkled with more
intensity, as if trying to resist the sun before melting, emitting thousands of tiny reflections and covering Moscow in glitter.
‘It’s been a long winter,’ I said.
The corner between Tverskaya and Kamergersky was one of my favourite spots in Moscow. Maybe it was the way the small-village feel of Kamergersky – a pedestrian street which you might
easily see in Western Europe – met the metropolitan grandeur of Tverskaya. Or perhaps it was the historical imprint of the place, with the central post office covered in Communist symbols on
one side, and the Moscow Art Theatre on the other. It was in this very theatre, before and after it moved to its current location, that Chekhov had premiered his main plays:
The Seagull, Uncle
Vanya, Three Sisters
and, just before he died,
The Cherry Orchard
.
The red kiosk on the corner was selling fresh blinis and the smell of fried butter wafted into the street. I suggested we have a couple of blinis while we waited. As we were about to head over,
a young woman walked towards us holding a folder in her arms.
‘Hello,’ she said, in English. ‘Tatyana, from Evans.’
Tatyana’s pretty face was flushed, from the cold or perhaps because she’d been running late and walking fast. Her eyes were apple green.
We followed Tatyana into a side alley. She stopped in front of a metal door, peeked at some papers in her folder, then tapped in the door code. She climbed the stairs to the first floor, with us
behind her. She was wearing a yellow woollen hat, a black coat, tight jeans.
‘Cute ass,’ Colin said into my ear.
On the landing, Tatyana rang the bell of the apartment and turned to us. ‘It’s a very nice place,’ she said. ‘You’ll see.’
Tatyana took her hat off and a mass of blonde curly hair unfurled over her shoulders. Our eyes met and she smiled for a brief moment, nervous, naive – clearly unaware of her own beauty.
Her smile, which was marked by a small gap between her front teeth, cut through my many layers of skin and bone and muscle, ripping its way into my chest, making my heart pump with violence.
Fucking 1917.
The doors opened and we were greeted by an old Russian couple, well-dressed, smiley – obviously expecting us. The old man was even wearing a tie.
We took our shoes off and walked in. The flat was furnished in dark soviet style, not unlike Stepanov’s flat. In fact, it was remarkably similar to Stepanov’s. The walls were lined
with bookshelves. Tapestries hung above the couch. The centre of the living room was occupied by an enormous piano.
The babushka went around the apartment showing us what she thought were its best features. Her husband followed behind without saying a word.
‘The piano is well tuned,’ she said, tapping three or four random keys. ‘The apartment is very quiet because all windows face a backyard and not the pereulok.’
That was a pity, I thought, because it would have been nice to have at least one window overlooking the cafés in Kamergersky.
Colin asked a few questions, out of politeness, I imagined, as I could see he was disappointed. He knocked on the tables, pulled open a few drawers. I noticed a bunch of framed pictures crammed
on top of the piano and a family portrait hanging by the entrance. After a few minutes we thanked the old couple, Tatyana told them she would be in contact, and we left the building.
‘What the fuck,’ Colin said once we were in the street. ‘This is their own flat. These people live here.’
Tatyana seemed confused. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘but they would move out if you rented it.’
‘But I’m looking for an empty flat.’
The three of us stopped beneath Chekhov’s statue.
‘It would be an empty flat if you took it,’ Tatyana said, blushing. ‘The owners would move out.’
‘Out where?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tatyana said, ‘maybe to live with their family in the suburbs, or in a dacha, if they have one. It’s a common situation, these people are the old
intelligentsia who had good connections in the Communist party and occupied the best flats in the centre. With the perestroika they were allowed to privatise their flats but they now live on very
small pensions. Life is very expensive in Moscow. They have to move out and live off the rent.’
Colin seemed distressed. ‘I would be kicking them out of their own place.’
‘They like foreigners as tenants,’ Tatyana said. ‘They know you pay well and won’t stay for ever. If you rent their flat you’ll be doing them a favour.’
‘I was thinking about something more modern,’ Colin said. ‘I don’t want to move into someone else’s apartment.’
Tatyana forced a smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘we’ll find something. There are good apartments in this area, renovated to Western standards.’
I felt sorry for Tatyana, who’d come all the way to show us the apartment and, I guessed, worked on commission. Her eyes looked teary from the cold.
‘This is a very nice area,’ I said.
‘It is,’ Tatyana said. Then, pointing at the MKhAT, ‘This is a very famous theatre in Russia. Stanislavsky, Chekhov, you know. See the emblem above the entrance?’
‘The bird?’ I asked.
‘It’s a seagull, after Chekhov’s play.’
I could hear in the humble way she spoke that Tatyana was not from Moscow.
‘I’m also looking for a flat,’ I heard myself saying.
Colin looked at me, at first surprised, then grinning.
‘You are?’ Tatyana asked.
‘Yes, my flat is small. I could move somewhere bigger.’
Tatyana smiled. ‘Maybe I can also try to find something for you.’
She handed me her card, and we agreed to keep in touch. We said goodbye and shook hands. She then walked away, turned left at Tverskaya, and disappeared in the direction of Okhotny Ryad.
I
WAITED IN THE MIDDLE
of Pushkinskaya, observing how the snow that had covered the streets for months was now melting away, revealing the tarnished
skin of the city. Without its white layer, Moscow looked exposed, somewhat uncomfortable, like a dyev the morning after – too much light and no make-up.
I saw Tatyana crossing the street, marching towards the centre of the square. She was wearing the same black coat and yellow hat. A couple of hours after she’d given me her card, I’d
sent her a message asking if she wanted to meet for a drink.
I took her to Maki, a new café five minutes away from Pushkinskaya. Decent music, polite waitresses, dim lights – Maki was the closest thing to a modern European café. By now
I preferred it to Pyramida. The young clientele was better dressed than the students in Project OGI but not as pretentious as the elitni tusovka of Vogue.
We sat at one of the small tables, checking out the menu. I asked for a bottle of red wine. When the waitress came back with the wine, Tatyana remained undecided, her eyes fixed on the menu as
if she were reading a book. She looked at me and blushed.
‘The mushroom soup is very good,’ I said.
‘Great,’ she replied with relief, ‘I’ll have that.’
‘What else?’
‘I’m not that hungry.’
‘Salad, maybe?’
‘Davay,’ Tatyana said. ‘That would be nice.’