I believe that an energy aura, one of dirty brown or light gold, hovers over a city much as it does over a person. Moscow is a heavy city. When you come back from vacation, even before you get tired from work, you can feel your good energy dying. The rested look is vanquished: Faces are drawn; there are bags under the eyes. Many of my friends have noticed it, too.
People can’t deal with the constant hassles that wear them out more than big problems. The irritation grows. They take it out on someone else, and it goes on. . . . Some are so used to it that they’ve forgotten about any other mood. Many years ago I was traveling in Greece with a group of Soviet tourists. I got
into the bus one morning and everyone was very gloomy. I said, “Look, it’s a sunny day, we’re about to travel around a marvelous country, why don’t you smile?’’ The answer was: “We paid our money; we can smile or not as we want.’’ A fine answer!
In Moscow you’re regarded as an enemy when you enter any office or place of business. In the stores you’re hated by the clerks and cashiers, in the toilets by the cleaning women, at the hospitals by the doctors and nurses. They forget that once they leave work, they’!! be treated the same way. In the morning in crowded buses and the metro people push you angrily for no reason. I often catch myself wanting to hit someone just to release my tension. A friend once told me, “Just pick someone out on the street, run over, hit him hard, and run away. You’ll feel so good afterward.”
Maybe that’s why we like going to see friends, in search of those islands of goodness. I often hum Okudjava’s “Georgian Song” to myself: “I’ll plant a grape seed in the warm soil, and I’ll kiss the vine and pick the ripe grapes. And I’ll call my friends and tune my heart to love, otherwise what am I living for on this earth?” When will we all tune our hearts to love?
OCTOBER29. This is a very strange “intimate” diary. A normal woman should write about affairs, torments of love, stormy nights of passion. There’s a joke about it. The teachers say, “Today we will be talking about love. No, no, not love for parents, everyone knows that. And don’t look at me with those shiny eyes. No, we’re not going to talk about love between men and women. That’s not the most important thing in life. Today
we are going to talk about love ... for the Communist party, the most beautiful, lofty, and pure love.”
No matter how we resisted, they forced that absurd psychology on us drop by drop like poison. And really, if human life isn’t worth anything, then what can you expect of personal life?
By the way, women of the early revolutionary years weren’t very consistent. Preaching total loyalty to Communist ideas, they also threw themselves into many affairs. They thought it was a step toward the emancipation of women.
So I have nothing to write about love today. All the men are busy with more important things; no one is calling. But I want so much to get dressed up, set the table with candles, put the roses he brings into a vase, and spend a lovely evening together.
OCTOBER 30. I love to cook. It is a form of creativity for me. Luckily, living alone, I can cook when inspiration moves me and not because I must. A lavish and delicious table is one of the mysteries of Soviet life. The stores are empty, but the tables are full. Russian tradition calls for various zakuski, or hors d’oeuvres, then the main course, and then dessert, usually a homemade cake.
I keep the house stocked with delicious canned goods, ham and sausage from Germany, and chocolates. When you expect guests for a birthday or some other big occasion, you start preparing weeks in advance. You go to the store regularly. One time out of five you’ll be in luck; you buy something that is
a usually unavailable item. Then you put your haul together and see what you can make out of it. The process is always creative because you never have all you need and you have to figure out what to substitute. Either you come up with unexpected dishes or you throw everything out (I don’t do that).
Cooking is an adventure. You never know whether the meat will be tender or tough, whether the chicken will taste of chicken or the fish it was fed.
You start cooking two days before the party. The first day you wash everything and get it ready since you bring stuff home from the stores in very unsanitary condition. The meat is on a big bone; the chicken still has a few pinfeathers; the vegetables are covered with dirt. The stores tried selling washed carrots and potatoes recently, but the vegetables rotted from being wet before they were bought. It’s better to wash them at home. You actually cook the next day. Sometimes you get so tired that by the time the guests arrive you’re ready for bed. Some creativity!
I try to streamline the process: I make lists, do things in consecutive order, and get my mother to help. The results are worth it. I sit at the table and wearily watch the guests enjoy the numerous salads, the herring in different sauces, the meat or chicken, and slices of cake. And I’m in a good mood because I’ve had a few drinks and have forgotten the long road to success.
NOVEMBER2. Today I made friends with our valiant Soviet police. Some Moscow friends brought over their Polish friends who work here. They all are older, from a more vivacious generation that has not lost its lust for life. A bottle of the famous
Wyborowa vodka appeared on the table. Every time it was empty, Jan ran down to the car for another one. A joking ritual. I don't remember how many times he went downstairs, but it was a lot.
That reminds me of an American who visited a Georgian writer. The table groaned with food, but there was just one bottle of wine. The guests couldn’t understand why. They sat down. The host poured the wine and knocked on the door near the table. It opened, and a hand reached out. It took the empty bottle and returned it refilled a moment later. The wine pourer did his work well. The bottle vanished and reappeared several dozen times.
So our bottle simply appeared. Of course, we had a good time, with dancing and noise. A neighbor dropped by with her friend. And suddenly there was a horrible banging on the pipes—my downstairs neighbor. She is as invincible as Soviet power. She is always fighting for “justice.” At the co-op meetings she stands up for the rights of the working class and tries to get her few kopecks from the corrupt co-op board. I feel sorry for her. She had a hard life, but she’s too full of communal squabbling. She could have put up with one evening. I have noisy guests once in a hundred years.
It got late. The guests left, except for the neighbor. Suddenly the bell rang, and there were two policemen at the door. I invited them in. “Look, it’s quiet, we had a birthday party, we had a little fun.” (You have to lie a little.) It was cold and dark outside, so I invited them (their names were Petya and Lyosha) to get warm and have a bite to eat. We drank, too, and the police enjoyed their snack. They gave me some advice as they left: If the downstairs neighbor tries to ruin another party, call
an ambulance to come get her. They also offered to help me when I needed to buy vodka. During the day they maintain order at the line in the liquor store, and they’ll let me get to the head of the line.
/ T
Now I believe that my police force takes care of me!
NOVEMBER 5. The educated Russian (and I dare consider myself one) knows the value of the Russian language and does not want to damage it. We all are scribblers in our souls but don’t dare reveal this innocent but dangerous sin.
A diary is a compromise. You seem to be writing only for yourself, but with a secret hope that maybe . . . It’s hard to judge your own work. Today it doesn’t seem bad, not at all, and tomorrow you want to burn the whole thing.
I’ve read what I’ve written to try to see if I’ve got the makings of a writer. I’ll read a few excerpts to friends and see what they have to say.