EREVAN-KEMEROVO-KHARKOV-RIGA

The Beautiful Spy

My journey continues, always full of surprises but never dull. In Baku, Azerbaijanis take me to visit the Temple of Fire, which Alexandre Dumas described in his "Travel Impressions. The Caspian tribes’ fascination with fire, long before Timor, is well documented. It was due to the presence of mineral oil, which has since been the cause of other monuments, other religious faiths and, most notably, other wars.

In Armenia, although the people are exceptionally warm and hospitable, I’m unable to get any work done in their presence. The quality of the local "cognac" makes it difficult to decline an invitation however. The brandy here is very different from its French counterparts. It resembles other Soviet spirits from Moldavia, Azerbaijan, and, most notably, Georgia (Churchill drank only cognac from Georgia, which was supplied by his friend Stalin as a token of their cordial understanding). From 40 to 45 proof, these brandies are very smooth, which can lead to overindulgence.

It's only after crossing the Ural that one begins to appreciate the size of the country.

A night at Novosibirsk airport is a surreal experience. Depending on the degree of jet lag suffered by the passengers (there is an 11-hour time difference between Minsk and Vladivostock), some sleep, while others stay awake. There are Uzbeks and Tajiks, who play the domra and sing around a campfire burning on the pavement. There are Mongols, Eskimos, and Tartars, who keep the Lithuanians awake with their commotion and laughter. Then there are the Russians, cursing the Moldavians who are opening wine bottles and cutting a gigantic cheese into pieces. Rosy-cheeked Turkmen babies are suckled by their mothers.

In Kemerovo, located in central Siberia, the temperature is -45°. When I arrive at the hotel, I open my suitcase to put on my winter clothing. My eyes must be playing tricks on me. I close the suitcase and open it up again. No, unfortunately, I was right the first time: my suitcase is indeed filled with African boubous. During a stopover in Moscow, I accidentally picked up the suitcase of a Ghanaian police officer, also on vacation, who was transporting a load of boubous to Accra. In this small, remote Siberian town, where goods are very hard to come by, the philharmonic orchestra nonetheless manages to pull enough strings to get me some sweaters and a custom-tailored black suit for the concert. A minor miracle under the circumstances.

Going back up the Don on a hydroplane, I am adopted by a family of Kolkhozians. A few sips of their vodka helps me overcome the language barrier and understand their Ukrainian.

No toothaches were to put a damper on my stay in Kharkov. I meet the parents of a young guitarist. They work at the Lenin factory (you know, the one that makes Lenin tractors). They show me their factory and welcome me into their home. A visit such as this would go unnoticed in Moscow. But here in the provinces things are considerably different, especially since I am traveling without my interpreter. However, she somehow knows all about it as soon as I get back. Suddenly I’m the subject of an investigation, whose methods of interrogation are, I swear, as effective as any other.

In a restaurant, a dreamy Ukrainian redhead sits down with a friend at a table next to mine. She has eyes the color of Brazilian rosewood, hips as curvy as a violin, a body as slender as an eighteenth century Vinaccia guitar, and long, delicate fingers ending in long, thin nails. She’s wearing a string of pearls around a neck as graceful as the mother-of-pearl surrounding the soundhole on a guitar. She's clearly in my field of vision but, unfortunately, I'm with Vera, who never leaves me alone for a minute. As soon as she turns her head, I nevertheless manage to offer the exotic creature an eloquent smile. How shy she is! In the way she avoids my gaze, I experience the Slavic purity that never fails to excite me. I've got to figure out a plan to get rid of my chaperone.

- Vera, I’ve got an awful headache, could we ask for some aspirin?
Theoretically, this should keep her busy for at least fifteen minutes. She attempts to appeal to the sympathy of our waiter, who as luck would have it turns out not to be very sympathetic. She gets up to carry out her mission. Although I’m glad to get rid of her for a while, I hope it won’t take her all night. I walk over to the table where the object of my desire is seated. Unfortunately, I don’t have the time to impress her with the romantic poetry coursing through my veins at this moment.

- I’m a super guitarist. Will you meet me at 11:00 p.m. in front of the elevator?

- Da.

To travel is to meet people. The only worthwhile lexicon is the assignation. I rush back to my seat, shortly before Vera returns with the aspirin.:

- Vera, I feel terrible, I think I’ll go to bed now.

- Very well, Jean-Pierre, I’ll come with you.

She fulfills her duties faithfully. We climb up the eleven floors on foot, since the elevator is NIE RABOTAIET. Finally, at the bedroom door:

- Good night, Vera, see you tomorrow.

- I’ll come get you for breakfast.

10:58. There’s no one in the hallway. Miraculously, the person who normally guards this floor is absent. When I arrive at the ground floor, I cautiously open the door. Instead of the redhead, I see Vera with her hands on her hips.

- So, what happened to your headache?

You’ve got to be strong and not take misfortunes to heart. Just the same, I’ll be on the look out tonight.

The next day a miracle occurs. I run into the mysterious redhead in the street, while Vera is busy at the theater. Without missing a beat, I take her by the hand and into a taxi stopped at a red light.

- To the Lenin Hotel!

- Niet !

A 10 ruble note manages to convince him. Eleven flights of stairs. Damn it, the floor guard!

- Niet !

I end up having to pay her off as well. In my room , the Ukrainian girl languidly stretches out on the bed.

- Give me a cigarette, will you?

- I only smoke cigars!

- Then go get some!

- Eleven floors! On foot?

- Yes, please, otherwise I’ll be in a bad mood.

I had already experienced the tyranny of Slavic women. (The adjective is misleading: the word "slave" comes from "Slav.") But in this particular situation I find her demanding attitude to be most inappropriate. Discreetly, I take my key with me as I go out. I wait a few minutes, tiptoe back towards the door, slip the key ever-so-gently into the keyhole, and abruptly open the door: sure enough, she’s going through my things

..

The USSR would later be rocked by the turbulent changes the world has become familiar with. The country’s newfound liberalization enabled the intelligentsia to express itself openly. This freedom would also be used by new political forces, which exploited long-suppressed hostilities and bitterness. At the same time the "brain drain" that resulted from the emigration of the country’s most talented individuals took its toll. The city of Kishinev found itself without a guitar instructor: Since most of them were Jews with Soviet passports, they moved to Israel. These "Jewish and other" intellectuals and scholars fled to other parts of the world, which were to benefit from their cultural contributions.

Dare I say it?

The cruel injustice that had formerly been concealed by an imagined "equality" suddenly came to light. By implementing a free market economy, however, these injustices were aggravated. The poor--the large majority of the population--often now frequently went hungry, which in turn led to the emergence of mob-controlled "shadow economies" with vast networks and almost unlimited power. Many Russians thought they would find prosperity by moving to the West, the world of rationality and equanimity. What they found was that a sense of stifling responsibility now replaced the relatively carefree environment the Communist system had made possible.

Throughout all this the Russians’ love of France never diminished. Like other societies whose intellectual development had been frozen at the turn of the century, their image of the French was heavily influenced by fin de siècle art, which had reached the height of its glory over a century ago.

*******

My tour brought Vera and I to Latvia. My travelling companion doesn’t speak the local language, but she knows perfectly well how Latvians feel about Russians: they despise them. Having lead us astray, Vera, terrorized, asks me to ask for directions, knowing that, if she were recognized as a Russian, she would deliberately be given wrong directions. I call out to a passerby, in German. Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak the language. I try my best in Russian, which he apparently speaks as poorly as I do. Suspicious, he asks:

- You, are you Russian?

- Me? You’ve got to be joking! Me, Franzuski!

Vera avoids making eye contact with the man and turns away.

- Oh, OK then. Because Russians, in these parts: szzzt!

He accompanies the sound with a telltale gesture of his finger around his throat.

My interpreter is obviously more than a little nervous. In a mellifluous voice, using her most guttural French, she asks:

- What deeed he saay, darrrliing?

*******

The audience is waiting for me in a church that has been transformed into the Museum of the Revolution (or was it the Museum of Fascist Crimes, I can't remember). The place is dark and sinister, filled with an icy silence. Since the wings of the stage are now located in what used to be the porch, I climb up to the nave. Nobody moves, nobody speaks. My steps echo ominously. At least the acoustics are promising...

This funerary atmosphere accompanies me to the sanctuary, which is dominated by a poster of Lenin. I climb the steps leading up to the choir. They creak under my weight. Forced to make light of the situation, I turn around slowly to face the audience, clasp my hands, bend my head, and, with my eyes shut, solemnly pronounce the word "Amen."

Although applause interferes with the sounds produced by a guitar (because of the great the discrepancy between the notes and the sound of clapping), a completely unreceptive audience does tend to put a damper on an artist’s inspiration.

Fortunately the ice melts fairly quickly. During the intermission, a man who looks to be in his early fifties approaches me laughing, and begins to speak with a typically Parisian accent. After a moment of savoring my puzzled disbelief, he proceeds to explain the situation to me:

- I’ll bet that you never thought you’d actually meet a Frenchman in this part of the world, huh? Well, I’ll have you know that I’ve been living here for about thirty years. I’m originally from Ménilmuche. But when our Russian friends came to liberate the region, I happened to be on vacation here. They’ve never let me leave since! And since France doesn’t recognize the annexation as valid, the consulate couldn’t do a thing for me. Say, do you happen to have any newspapers with you? I haven’t read once since the war.

Maurice also asked me to forward a letter to his fiancée, who has been waiting for him in Paris for 30 years, and whose attempts to obtain a visa to go to the USSR have been denied. As a result I wound up serving as Maurice’s courier for several years. Eventually his fiancée passed away. Maurice then married a Latvian woman. When he himself passed away in 1989, his widow invited me to their home. In the bedroom, next to the bed, stood a single solitary photograph: his Parisian fiancée.

*******

The next day I attend a performance of Carmen, sung by a Czechoslovakian mezzo-soprano. Moved by the diva’s impressive singing, I congratulate her and invite her to dinner.

By the time she finishes taking her makeup off, it’s about 11:30 p.m. We head straight for the hotel’s restaurant--which, as it turns out, closed a half hour ago. The concierge tells us that there’s a bar for foreigners, where, if you pay with dollars, will serve food. We go upstairs. But all they have is a choice of caviar or salmon sandwiches. Not much of a meal for a prima donna. We go back down to see the concierge again.

- The Moscow Restaurant, the only one in town, is open until 3.00. Unfortunately, it’s ten kilometers away. A few rubles speeds up the arrival of a taxi cab. On the way we’re hit with more bad luck: a military convoy. No cars allowed. We arrive at the restaurant a half hour later than we expected. In front we encounter a surreal sight: hundreds of people waiting in line to get in--and it’s ten below zero Although we try to explain our situation, try to make them understand that we’re not Russian, there’s nothing doing: they’re not letting us in.

Our driver, going out of his way to be helpful, suggests that we contact the restaurant manager by phone. He couldn’t say no to an artist, even if it meant allowing them to enter an open restaurant. But how will we find the phone number? I decide to use the radio to contact the switchboard. -
The radio, as you may have guessed, nie rabotaiet. We look for a payphone. Nie rabotaiet. We have to go back to the hotel.
Ten kilometers. Back at the hotel the manager grants us permission by telephone.

Ten kilometers .Back at the restaurant the man is waiting for us behind a locked door. The crowd immediately understands what’s going on and blocks the way to prevent us from entering. The manager then goes up to the second floor and signals for us to walk around the building. Looking and feeling dejected, we make our way toward the kitchen door--the artist’s entrance. The horde of potential clients puts two and two together, and rushes toward the entrance, not out of hostility but simply in the hope of getting in.

- Maybe caviar isn’t so bad after all, I tell Carmen, discouraged by all the adversity..

- I’m with you, she says.

Yet Another ten kilometers back to the hotel. We return to the bar for foreigners: closing time: 2.00. It’s now 2.15.