Misha’s room was small but the bed seemed comfortable enough. He threw his bag on the floor and walked into the bathroom… shower, basin, bidet… he slid open the shower’s door and turned the thermostat to hot. Steaming hot water gushed from an adjustable-height showerhead. Impressed, Misha tried to imagine how a four star might compare, and thought of the understated opulence of the Hotel Grand in Leningrad.
They had the afternoon to explore; their meeting was not until the next morning. The receptionist recommended they start with the cathedral. They took the metro to Piazza del Duomo and walked to the vast gothic cathedral. Stained-glass windows cast brilliant blues and reds into its gloomy interior as people prayed openly at altars. They took the stairs to the roof and walked around the terrazzo, taking in the city below and the Alps to the north. Misha unfolded his map and took his bearings from various landmarks.
‘This is where we want to head next.’ He pointed at an area about a quarter of a mile from where they stood. ‘The Quadrilatero, Via Monte Napoleone. It’s the fashion district,’ he added in response to Ivan’s questioning frown.
The fabulous boutiques of the Via Monte Napoleone were a kaleidoscope of plenty and excess, dresses of every style: micro, mini, empire, shirt… in silk, chiffon, linen, tweed, suede and leather; shoes: pumps, flats, sandals and high heels; boots: ankle, over the knee, patent leather and alligator; the catalogue went on. Misha remembered a few names from the magazines he had thumbed at the Italian consulate, but most he didn’t recognise: Alberta Ferretti, Pucci, Fratelli Rosetti, Salvatore Ferragamo, Cartier and Bulgari.
Shoppers explored narrow alleyways holding distinctive carrier bags, stopping occasionally to look into beautifully dressed windows.
They stopped at a small elegant café just off the main street and took a table on the pavement out of the sun. A waiter brought them a menu. Misha counted ten types of coffee: espresso, macchiato, cappuccino, caffe mocha… and a dozen combinations of ciabatta, focaccia, and panini. His eyes lighted on the desserts: panna cotta, lemon polenta cake, tiramisu, and cheesecake. He ordered an espresso doppio and Ivan a cappuccino. They both decided on the strawberry cheesecake.
‘Makes a change from Stefan’s,’ said Ivan, scraping the last of the froth from his cup with a spoon.
‘No queues either, except outside that store.’ Misha pointed to a line of Japanese girls waiting patiently outside Salvatore Ferragamo.
That night, Misha slept fitfully with his canvas bag tucked under his feet. In the corridor, people came and went. A couple made love noisily in the adjacent room.
In the morning, a shower and breakfast quickly restored him. From the buffet, Misha selected cereal, fruit, ham, cheese and crusty panini rolls. Not bad, Misha thought, for somewhere Luigi described as basic.
Not risking the underground system this time, they took a taxi to San Babila. Venti was easy to find. A young receptionist in a sleeveless, patterned silk top and pencil skirt brought them coffees.
A shout of ‘Benvenuti’ echoing down the marble corridor announced the arrival of their host.
Luigi shook them warmly by the hand and asked them in broken English how they were finding Milan so far. Misha could have spent the next hour telling him but simply said ‘Good’. Luigi flashed him a sympathetic smile.
‘Bene, Bene,’ was all he said and guided them down the corridor to the lift and first-floor showroom.
A tall olive-skinned model wearing a T-shirt, jeans and pumps greeted Misha in perfect Russian and introduced herself as Ilaria Agneli. This would make life a lot easier, he thought
Misha took out his camera – an old Zenith – and a notebook.
‘Do you mind?’ he asked Luigi.
‘No, no, please,’ said Luigi. ‘Ilaria…?’ He looked in her direction and she nodded.
She was a perfect fit for the collection. Disappearing and reappearing from the changing room, Misha simply voiced a no or yes. A no and she would quickly try on something else. A yes and she would stand there while he took pictures and chose fabrics. The more he saw, the more he thought the collection perfect for the Russian market. Venti expressed the latest catwalk styles at a price even the average Russian woman could afford. He tried his best to contain his excitement. And this was only one label. With more research he was sure he could find others. Ivan sat next to him sipping coffee, taking it all in silently.
At one point he caught Ilaria studying him as he made a note. Self-consciously Misha remembered how his fellow passengers had struck him at Malpensa, how poorly dressed they seemed in every sense of the word. He looked down at his ill-fitting jeans and clumpy matt leather shoes and felt embarrassed, humiliated. The Soviet system had at best failed its citizens and at worst deceived them, him included. He had had some inkling; after all, he was a street trader dealing in shortages. It was the scale of the lie that hit him now. The past two days had been a revelation. He no longer wanted to be a member of the great deceived. He wanted to experience the everyday, like these Italians. More than that even, wasn’t he only scratching the surface? There was so much more to learn.
He was suddenly aware that the room had fallen silent and they were waiting for him.
‘May I comment?’ said Ilaria in Russian.
‘Please,’ he said. Luigi looked from one to the other, no doubt wondering what his visitors were saying.
‘The colours you are choosing are very bright. I know we have Roberto Cavali, but Italian style is mostly about neutrals.’
‘Yes, I can see that, but my guess is Russia has had enough of neutrals for a lifetime. Grey is the Soviet’s favourite colour – almost everything is painted one shade or another: apartments, offices, factories… tanks. Russians love vibrant colours, ornate churches, and gold cupolas, pink and blue houses. They just haven’t experienced them for a while. No, I think it’s time for a change. Russian women are going to express themselves, like they haven’t for generations, show off… we Russians are not a subtle people.’
And saying it out loud, he knew it was true. The new general secretary had opened the door… just a fraction… and if one had the courage to venture out, you would see the world as it is, not as you had been told.
Sitting there in his shabby clothes, he suddenly felt a lot better about himself. Ivan placed a hand on his shoulder. He was the modern-day explorer on the threshold of great discovery.
‘D’accordo,’ she said.
He could see that his conviction had hit home. She blushed faintly.
‘Please, feel free to input. What you said was helpful.’
Ilaria quickly began to get the drift of what he was looking for. Subtle it wasn’t – figure hugging, often short and overtly sexy it was.
Mid-morning, they took a break. Leaving Ivan struggling to converse with a young female showroom assistant, Misha grabbed a coffee and made his way over to Ilaria, who had just appeared from the changing room wearing the jeans and top she had arrived in.
‘What part of Russia are you from?’ he asked.
‘I’m not. I’ve never been to Russia. My mother’s Russian and has always spoken to me in her home language, but she left before I was born. To be honest there hasn’t been much use for it until now.’
‘You know a lot about fashion?’
‘This isn’t my full-time job. I’m a student, or I should say was a student at the Milan College of Fashion. I’ve just graduated. My mother and father are both buyers at Rinascente, one of the big retail groups.’