‘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.
41
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.’