dragged into an alleyway, knocked out, and given a cast with diamonds in the plaster. This comedy exposed the internal Mafia. After all, even Soviet society has its dregs.
Anyway, once you’ve gone through this whole rigmarole, you begin to doubt your own reliability. Before the trip you practice in front of a mirror, trying to look incredibly open and loyal to your Communist homeland. As you sit down before your voyage, you think, Why do I have to go through all this torture? Why didn’t I just go to the Black Sea in the Caucasus ?
JANUARY 29. But going to the Caucasus wasn’t easy either. I have to tell the story of my trip to Tbilisi and Yerevan with my father. Papa’s punctuality assured that the tickets were bought ahead of time, our route carefully planned, our supplies of maps and guidebooks well stocked. At the appointed hour we arrived respectably by taxi at the city air terminal for a bus to the airport. The scene before us cast us into despair. The huge terminal was stuffed with people. Almost all flights over the last few days had been canceled. The only information counter was under siege. At last we got an evasive answer: Wait. How long? An hour, two, a week?
“We don’t know. Watch the announcement board.” A few hours later the sign appeared announcing that the Tbilisi flight was delayed until tomorrow. My reasonable mother suggested turning in our tickets and getting rid of the headache. Papa and I decided not to give up. It had been so hard for me to get these ten days off. In Tbilisi were warm weather, a suite in the city’s best hotel, and beloved friends.
We went home and called the terminal in the morning. We spent two fruitless hours on the phone and went back with our luggage to the announcement board. The situation had become even more heated. Unshaven, angry men wandered around the terminal. You can never get a hotel room in Moscow. Some threatened to send telegrams to the Central Committee; others simply cursed the Soviet regime. One intellectual-looking Georgian said furiously, “When I get home, Ill use one-hundred- ruble notes for wallpaper. That’s all they’re good for.” Total freedom of expression reigned. It was like Hyde Park Corner without the comfort of Britain. Things were still unclear about our flight. There were no explanations. Various rumors circulated: bad weather (the skies were clear outside), no planes, no fuel. Papa and I had become as stubborn as madmen and held on to our tickets. We spent another night at home, and at last the next evening we heard what we had hoped for on the telephone. Registration had started for our flight. We grabbed our luggage, stole a taxi from under someone’s nose, and rushed to the terminal. The news had been exaggerated: Registration was to start in another hour. Three hours later we were in the plane. It was dark outside, Papa was grim and taciturn, and we snapped at each other from time to time. Our voyage had begun.
Luckily the hotel had kept a room for us, but it wasn’t a suite. We spent the first day regaining our senses. And a few days later the incredible happened: My teetotaling father got drunk. I think he just needed to get rid of his frustration. We went up into the mountains with some of my artist friends. It was still warm autumn below, but up there was snow, and it was cold. We went into a small, glassed-in cafe that didn’t look like anything special. The stove glowed cozily inside, and the
large wooden tables were quickly heaped with delicious Georgian foods and bottles of the famous wine. Our feast began. Compared with the hell of our last few days, we were in a magical kingdom. My friends made beautiful toasts to friendship, to our loved ones, to our departed. A noisy Georgian party celebrating the birth of a son started at the next table. Hearing that Papa and I were from Russia, they sent over a few more bottles of wine and raised toasts to us. We made speeches in return. This short-lived nonbinding warmth was so pleasant after the irritation and anger at the terminal.
Eventually everyone but our driver was drunk. We barely made it back to the car. A young man who would have been an heir (or almost an heir) to the Georgian throne if not for the Revolution was in charge of Papa. Prince Bagration was slightly more sober. In the car we sang, and Papa clapped hands and even tried to dance. I had never seen him like that. When we got to town, we stopped for a minute. The doors of the car opened, and my escorts and Papa fell in the bushes. The prince managed to get everyone back inside, and we headed for the hotel.
The next day Papa laughed and didn’t believe my stories. Apparently I was the least drunk of the group and had the best recollection of the evening.
Then we went to Yerevan, a trip to ancient churches and monasteries. Father grew a bit sad and taciturn once more. His frustrations were still with him. At last we went home. Our friends took us to the airport in the morning, and once again there was unpleasant news: all flights to Moscow postponed indefinitely. The building was overcrowded, and there wasn’t any place to sit. With difficulty we found a seat for Papa. He
sat down in stony silence, and I realized that our life was in my hands. I ran around trying to find out what was going on and to get seats for the next flight. I knew some people at the airport from the days when I worked in the tourist business. It was hopeless. There were no flights. Another mystery, for the weather was good. By evening we saw that we wouldn’t be leaving that day. Papa silently followed me to the bus back to town. We spent the night with friends since we couldn’t get a hotel room. In the morning Papa sat grimly on a bench at the airport, refusing to eat. There was one plane, but it was a special flight—that is, for various bureaucrats. But by evening there was an avalanche of planes one after another. Where did they come from?
At midnight we were in a plane, and a shadow of a smile crossed Papa’s pale face. Our torment was coming to an end.
We arrived very late at night and spent an hour waiting for our luggage. Father was melting. Dropping his usual caution and self-control, he along with a pleasant-looking Armenian cursed Soviet power. When Papa walked away, his new “friend” tried to make a date with me for the next day. All I was interested in was getting home. I had to keep Papa in a good mood to the end. We went out onto the square. It was empty, and the rare bus or taxi was immediately assailed by the furious crowd. We found a private car to take us for an enormous sum. We drove home along the empty, broad Moscow streets. Papa looked out the window and said pacifically, “It’s so beautiful in Moscow. There’s no better city as far as I’m concerned.” He was calm and happy.
FEBRUARY 1. Trips abroad were even more dramatic. There was always uncertainty until the last moment. You could feel confident only when you had the passport and visa, foreign money, and the plane ticket in your pocket. But once even that wasn’t enough.
Father was going with a delegation to an international congress in Tokyo. At the last moment the delegates learned that the trip’s organizers had not ordered the tickets in time, so that they all had open tickets on the day of departure, without guaranteed seats. “If you can find yourself a seat, you go. If not, you have to turn in your passport and money within two days,” said the “helpful” girls in the foreign travel department. You can imagine the state of a Soviet citizen who may be losing his only chance to see exotic Japan through the lapses of the Soviet bureaucratic system.