Blinis and coffee for breakfast then we all went off in the car, a rattly Lada, squashed and pressed against the windows except for baby Vasily who had an entire seat to himself. We went to see ‘Pinocchio’ at the famous Obraztsov puppet theatre, a modern looking place full of children dressed in their best. Of course I couldn’t understand any of the performance, but that didn’t diminish the pleasure. Afterwards there was an appearance by ‘Papa Frost’, the Russian equivalent to ‘Santa Claus’ or ‘Father Christmas’. I quite like the name ‘Papa Frost’. Vasily, who has been saying nothing but “Papa Frost” all day suddenly turned red and started howling, clinging to Svetlana’s skirts and screaming. Auntie Galina gave him a smack about the head which of course made him howl even louder. I picked him up and carried him off to look at pictures of puppets on the walls, whispering endearments until his sobbing stopped. Nothing dries quicker than a tear at his age.Squashed trip back home for a big bowl of soup and then the others rested while I went out to explore the Novodevichy cemetery. Austere and crowded with bodies cheek by jowl, large tree roots have raised the slabs under which decades of Moscow’s citizens lay. Black and white marble indicated final destinations for Khrushchev, Chekhov, Gogol and Prokofiev. And Stalin’s wife, her husband now suspected of her supposed suicide. Chaliapin, whose citizenship was stripped whilst touring in France, his remains only returned to ‘mother Russia’ a dozen years ago. Rubinstein, Shostakovich, Stanislavsky, Tupolev, Ulanova – Russia’s artists and scientists row on row. Crows flew and rustled overhead. Somber birds, crows. They flapped in the bare trees and rasped down at me through black branches. I love trees in winter. Anything can look lovely decorated with leaves and blossoms, but nature’s true beauty is in her bones. I thrill to the sight of a naked tree against a grey sky – graceful, fluid, proud, real. A raw breeze slithered around me and I shivered. Still no snow.
I managed to get tickets for ‘La Boehme’ at the Bolshoi, thinking it would be a treat. Arkady said nothing, but then he rarely does. When Auntie Galina had left the room to make tea Svetlana said to me “Opera. How dull. You can return my ticket at the box office. I’d rather stay home.” Auntie Galina caught the end of her comments as she returned to the room, and said of course Svetlana was going to go, her relative had bought the things without anyone having a say in it and so the only polite thing would be to go and make the best of it. Then she told me I had nothing appropriate to wear and ordered Svetlana to give me one of her dresses. It was a hideous green colour, but I didn’t have any say in the matter. Svetlana didn’t look entirely happy about it either. But I was determined to enjoy myself this evening.
At the theatre I took everyone’s coat and then had a terrible time trying to find the cloakroom in the labyrinthine halls. How many times as a girl did I dream of being at the Bolshoi? Of course back then it was to be on the stage but it’s much better to watch and listen with joy. It’s nice not to feel the need to perform anymore. In the intermission I got Babby a bar of chocolate, a selfish act as I quite like Russian chocolate myself.
Babby was unusually quiet and I asked her if she was having a good time. “Oh yes dear, the singing is quite lovely.”
“And the theatre? Isn’t it wonderful to be someplace so historic and famous?”
“Yes, it’s somewhat like the Municipal Theatre at home isn’t it? Although I think I prefer the Municipal Theatre.”
“Well…” I foundered. How could she compare the two, this veritable palace and a square modernist block built in the 1960s? “The Municipal isn’t all that old you know.”
“Oh yes, but it’s so much bigger. And it has carpet.”
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