Soon after her fourteenth birthday, a second-string ensemble of the Kiev Ballet visited Omsk, and the orphanage
children were taken to a matinee as a May Day treat. The
dancers were glorious; Oktyabrina was thunderstruck. The next day she applied for Omsk’s primary school of ballet. She spent the rest of her adolescence working terribly hard in preparation for a magnificent career in the dance.
‘You see, I always longed to be a ballerina. And I am going to be one, I’m going to . . . why are you smiling like that, you rat?’
Tm not smiling, I’m listening. It’s nice to hear someone like you talk.’
‘Don’t be a nasty old man, Zhoe darling. They always warned us in school about your type!’
‘Flattery again. And when did you come to Moscow?’
‘Let’s see - almost eight entire months ago. Can you imagine being stuck in Omsk all your life? I mean, don’t you think it’s everybody’s highest duty to expand to his absolute limit?’
I said I used to think exactly that. I might have said more, but the cafe was now too clangorous and hot for the simplest introspection.
‘Inside, I felt a drive for expansion. My dancing required the influence of the capital. So I decided to come here to study.’
‘You mean you were sent here to study.’
‘Not exactly. What’s the difference? Take the reins yourself and you’ll arrive faster - it’s an old Russian saying.’
‘But what about the current rules?’
‘Really, you’d think it was some sort of staggering achievement. This is a free country. You get on a train and in three days you’re here.’
The thought that she might be serious stifled my laugh. ‘But I always thought you can’t stay in Moscow without documents. What about your propiska? y
She reached for my cafe glace , appropriated the ice cream and slowly melted a large spoonful in her mouth. I was beginning to recognize her expression. She produced it when caught in something drolly mischievous, like a child confident its prank will provoke amusement rather than SO
anger.
‘What about the propiska ?’ I repeated.
‘The truth is Tm frightfully busy these days, darling. I’ve been meaning to attend to it.’
‘Oktyabrina!’
‘Oktyabrina da, propiska nyet. The situation on the document’s front is ah .. . fluid.’
‘Perhaps you’d better crystallize it soon,’ I said as gravely as I could. ‘You can be sent out of Moscow tomorrow, you know. You can even get two years in a labor camp - it’s a crime.’
At this moment our table companion snapped out of his stupor. Suddenly the boy was lynx-eyed sober.
‘Crime?’ he hissed. ‘That’s a lie. There’s nothing criminal here, try and prove it.’ Oktyabrina required several minutes to quell his agitation.
‘For God’s sake, Comrade,’ he pleaded to me under his breath. ‘Pipe down and speak cleaner Russian. This place has ears. It’s crawling with informers.’
‘Where are they?’ I asked, now whispering too.
‘Everywhere, goddammit. They’re assigned to strategic tables and sit around all evening in civvies, listening for hot conversations. They swarm to the National like flies to garbage.’
It was not the time to appreciate the humor of the boy’s implied reflection on his cafe society. I cautiously examined the occupants of the neighboring tables, trying to remember whether we’d said anything incriminating.
‘Relax,’ murmured the boy, now reassuringly. ‘You can always spot them anyway - it’s a certain kind of face.’ He nodded towards a dour man in a heavily padded suit. ‘Besides, they give themselves away. Sit around all evening reading Pravda and splurging with two dishes of ice cream.’
Oktyabrina was much amused by our exchange. ‘You two should swap lessons on the facts of life,’ she laughed.
She insisted on lighting another cigarette to re-test her
skill. This somehow led to another series of toasts. Had the waitress not disappeared for almost an hour, the lad would have spent his last kopek on more brandy.
As it was, the evening had slipped by so quickly that my watch now seemed to be racing. I had to admit that Oktyabrina was absorbing company. And to admire her determination in face of her childhood hardships. It explained a good deal about her, I realized. Behind costumes and makeup - now tacky in the heat - lay dedication and courage.
We left for the exit, where five or six stalwarts were still hoping against hope to 'climax’ their ‘evening’ with at least a coffee, and stepped into the shock of the night air.
‘A glorious, enchanting, truly memorable evening,’ said Oktyabrina. ‘Zhoe darling, you know how to make a woman positively bloom.’
I tried to think of how to thank her too. ‘Let me take you home,’ I offered. ‘If you promise not to meet any weight-lifters on the way.’
‘Next time, Zhoe dearest. You’re really a sweetheart. I just wish you wouldn’t look so worried.’
Its common sense. You know what can happen without a pwpiska.
Nothing happens, silly. You just train yourself not to have anything to do with them. Keep out of offices and things and never sign anything. No one official knows you exist. . . . Anyway, documents are so tiresome. After my debut, they’ll beg me to accept residence in Moscow.’
‘I’m sure they will. But meantime, there’s your school -you can’t avoid signing things there.’
‘Oh the school doesn’t mind. That’s its secret, actually: one hundred per cent dedication to art, with no bureaucratic insanity.’
‘You’re extremely lucky. What’s this paradise called?’
She drew herself up. ‘The Institute of Academic Dance.
We approached Sverdlov Square, which at that hour appeared to be under blackout. ‘Look, Zhoe, I’ve got a super idea. Why don’t you come to a rehearsal on Friday?’ 32
'I’d love to. But a foreign journalist couldn’t get permission to visit a barber shop by Friday.’
'No, no, you just come along with my permission. We’re a nice, informal specialized institution - it’s not the Bolshoi, after all.’
She aimed a kiss at my cheek. A minute later she was skipping ahead towards the bottom of Petrovka, her breath making dense clouds in the frigid night air.
4
It was even colder on the day of the rehearsal - one of those days when an entire nation postpones everything possible to stay in bed. But the memory of Oktyabrina’s enthusiasm overcame my own inertia. I took the metro to the nearest station and plodded on by foot. Moscow street maps are virtually useless for details of these areas, and the sprinkling of passing workers I questioned shrugged their shoulders without allowing the cold to seep between their scarves; and without stopping. In that weather, everyone had to keep moving, even if he - abnormally - wanted to be polite.
Finally I found the street and number. It was indeed not the Bolshoi. It was an ancient, one story structure of crumbling red brick - a warehouse. And it was set on a cul-de-sac in Avtozavodakaya, a grimy, industrial section of town. I was certain I had the wrong address.
A woman as hoary and ravaged as the building was guarding the gate. She was enthroned on an old crate, her felt boots propped on a mound of dirty snow.
'Is there a ballet rehearsal inside, grandma?’
‘Nye znaiyu. Don’t know.’
'I’m looking for a dancing school.’
‘Shto?’
‘A dancing school. Young people. Music.’
Suddenly, inexplicably, she was venomous. ‘Listen grand-
pa, don t grandma me. Til be drinking my tea — with sugar — long after the like of you is stiff in his grave. Limp home for your hot-water-bottle while there’s still time/
I was just wondering whether there’s dancing instruction somewhere around here.’
‘Nichevo nye znaiyu. Ni-che-vo .’ She spat the shell of a sunflower seed past my face.