Autobiographical

Funny how the mind work sometimes. Now I recall that my new pal Paul had told a story or two about his sorties with Vadim in London and Moscow and had recommended that I buy a small bottle of whiskey for him, preferably Johnnie Walker.  And that was the first thing I handed over to him after the cursory bear hug on our meeting at Sheremetyevo. His eyes had lit up immediately, and as a consequence I felt that I was no longer such burden on that freezing Saturday night.

Once Vadim had departed, I inspected the manifold delights of my new dwelling: a teapot, one cup, one saucepan, a broken plate and two forks, some threadbare cupboards and a rickety bed with torn sheets. Other than that the place was empty. I wasn’t looking to washing clothes by hand, but I wouldn’t be able to find a laundromat in Moscow and didn’t have the funds to blow on a machine at that moment, even a cheap Russian imitation.

Just as the building itself was nondescript and indistinguishable from countless other multi-unit blocks in the area, so too the flat was utilitarian at most, and hardly a place you would be keen to rent. However, I wasn’t paying for the place and nothing else was on offer. It consisted of a large kitchen, a tiny toilet and bath, and adjacent to the two a combined bedroom and living room.

I was soon to learn that whenever an editor-translator moved on, all their pots and pans, knives and other belongings that they had left behind would be “confiscated” due to health or other alleged risks by some fortunate individual. So there I was, all alone. Actually, I was never fully solitary in that dive. Former friends I had first encountered in Voronezh were back, with their unforgettable jet-black beady eyes on their firm bodies supported by six legs, scuttling around all day and night. Yep, I was in cockroach city again. 

Luckily I was expecting Pavel and Suzanne to turn up the next day, as well as Tim Williams whom I had met in Voronezh in 1984 and who had moved to Moscow with his lovely wife Moira Dalgetty. They had got in touch with me before my relocation and offered to come over on my arrival. They were working as copy editors at TASS. I had bought some whiskey for them as well. Moira had a successful career at CBS News for 18 years, but then decided to return to Scotland. Today she is happily married to Spiros and lives mostly in Greece. Moira remained a good friend to me throughout the coming years and was an unbelievable help to my late mother in subsequent years. I don’t think I can ever thank Moira enough for the care and concern she displayed to her and the love and understanding she showed to me and other people.  

Anyway now I had a couple of plates, a knife and some food that they had brought along. Ditto Pavel and Suzanne. This was what the first time I had met Suzanne. I could see why Pavel had fallen for her. Erudite and a blonde bombshell from Florida, she was also enthusiastic and ironic. I was pleased for them both. So Sunday was replete with drink and chat, with some reserves for the first few days. There was no way I was ready to leave the flat that day and face the cold. 

Looking back, it probably would have been more advisable in all senses to have relocated in the late spring, summer or autumn, as the short days, dark and bitter cold inevitably had an impact. It would definitely have been better for me personally and psychologically if I had been able to delay the trip for a month for reasons that will come to light soon. However, I had promised to deliver the art materials for the February exhibition and the ad for the job specified the need to move as soon as possible. I had always wanted to know how Muscovites lived and now I would. 

I still remember that first day, Monday, 7 January 1991, shivering as I walked down the street and asked people in my rudimentary degree-level Russian and strong accent back then on how to get to the nearest metro station Alexeyevskaya on the orange Kaluzhsko-Rizhskaya line, originally built as separate radial lines, only to be combined in 1971. 

It was a good 15-minute trek to the station in new boots, unprepared for the sleet and snow and wearing a ridiculous-looking and English-made Ushanka that I had acquired in London, with flaps to protect the ears, and a scarf wrapped round the neck. I stood out a mile and attracted many a curious gaze. 

Apparently there was some bus I could have taken, but I never bothered to learn the route and ended up walking every day. I was also wearing a suit with tie underneath a warm coat. However,  I was still freezing to death outside. Then I finally made it into the metro, paid for a ticket, went through the barrier and headed underground down on the elevator. It was warm be comparison inside the metro and now I was boiling hot. So I took off my coat and scarf. This engendered even more attention and some barely concealed muttering and criticism at this weirdo stripping off. And this was even before I tried to get on the train.

In the past I had taken the Soviet metro in Moscow in the afternoon or evening. I had marvelled at the efficiency of the service, with an electronic board indicating that the next train would arrive punctually in two minutes which it duly did. And the trains still came like clockwork every two minutes. However, rush hour was a totally different experience. I couldn’t fight my way onto the first two trains, as they appeared packed to brimming. I waited for the third one where there was a little more space and stood on that one instead. Then I had to make a switch at Chistye Prudy (English translation – clean ponds), which was in the centre of Moscow. After walking up some stairs and then down another elevator, I took the red line (Sokolnicheskaya) to Park Kultury (Culture Park). Every morning seemed like an ordeal, although eventually I got used to it. The trains were less crowded in the evening, especially if you were ready to wait for a couple to pass. 

As I say, I looked totally out of place with my longer hair, face profuse with sweat and look of wonder on my face. And with my Western suit. I recall back then in 1991 how the general bleak and dark colours worn by the masses on the metro and their harsh and unsmiling faces reminded me of a Rembrandt painting. I wouldn’t stay I stood out in a good way either. 

And then it was time to prepare for the outside once more, restoring the protective clothing and headgear as I headed for the unknown. I didn’t need to ask the way to Novosti Press Agency (APN) as it was a massive building located virtually opposite Park Kultury metro station on Gogolevsky Boulevard, named after the illustrious Ukrainian writer Nikolai Gogol . Now I had to try and get inside the brick fortress….