chapter 8 - revelation

My last day in St. Petersburg. Weak sunshine and a cold, blue sky. I can’t bear my own company so joined a tour in the morning. Two earnest students led seven of us, myself, three Swedes, two Germans and a Dutch man. We saw Dostoyevsky’s familiar haunts among city sights; the apartments he lived in and places he wrote about. We passed Lion Bridge and so many canals I lost track, oddly satisfied to keep my map in my pocket and just let someone else lead.

At the end of the tour we piled into a café near St. Isaac’s Cathedral and shared a meal of mushrooms in cream sauce, pelmeni with dill, basil and cucumbers, all washed down with pepper flavoured vodka, which was so hot it made me feel I had steam coming out of my ears, like some cartoon character. Walking back along Nevsky Prospect I passed fur clad matrons, beautiful men that looked like ballet dancers or figure skaters, and disheveled indigents drinking home brewed vodka out of yogurt cups.

A rather in depth discussion with my student guides confirmed the feeling I have that Russia has lost its way a bit. The Cold War had given it a sort of cache, strength and power cloaked in mystery, but now it’s more like the Wizard of Oz, still the same underneath but decloaked. Surface disposition at odds with its inner character. It needs to reinvent itself – no – rediscover itself perhaps. Inflation, haywire budgets, war in Chechnya – new troubles and old still unresolved. For many, the old troubles at least offered some security, enforced servility guaranteed life’s essentials; everyone was impoverished but at least it was everyone. There’s a visible gap now, and it’s widening. ‘Russia is always defeated but never beaten’, an old Russian saying Babby told me. I wonder how often Russia has been defeated from within. The gap between rich and poor is perhaps inevitable in a country going through great change.

At the hostel I packed up my things and took advantage of one more glorious shower before heading out to catch the train back to Moscow. Arkady met me at the station. It’s lovely to be met. I am always returning from my trips to a cold and silent flat. I asked him questions during the ride home, barely getting more than one word answers but satisfied just the same. Back at the flat, all three ladies were just as I’d left them, sitting, playing cards and talking over tea, talking over each other, Svetlana now as lively as Galina, making all the usual family small talk about who has died, who was dying, and who should be killed. Babby was drinking her tea in the Russian way and I wondered if that would last once she got home. I briefly recounted my trip to Auntie Galina’s peppered questions then heard about their upcoming party plans. Auntie Galina has decided that all the decorations will be red because if her sainted husband had still been alive it would have been their 40th wedding anniversary.

That reminded me of last summer, for Mom and Dad’s 40th anniversary, when I hunted out photos of their courting days to enlarge for decorations and found one of the first party they attended together. Acting out their roles even then, Dad in a corner with another serious looking geek and Mom in a crowd whooping it up, glass in hand and arms flung up, overshadowing all the gray ladies, her familiar smile radiant and aggressive even then. A woman who got what she wanted only to find it wasn’t enough. She’s always needed to be noticed, more and more as she has grown older and there are less parties. Maybe that’s why she is consistently late, it’s the only way she has of making others notice.

Later, I told Babby my thoughts and she replied “You know, you are more alike than you realize. No, it’s not about being late. Your mother was just as insecure when she was younger. She didn’t know what she wanted either.”

My surprise was palpable. “What do you mean? I know what I want.”

“No you don’t. You think you do. Your job, career, all your travels, friends. All those men you tell me you are seeing but never tell me anything more about. But are you happy dear? Are you completely happy?”

“Well no not completely. Is anyone completely happy?” I asked glibly.

“Oh my goodness yes. People are completely happy with the most awful lives.”

“Well I am certainly happy enough. “

“Happy enough for what? You’re so guarded, so afraid of being hurt that you never really let anyone in. This friend you saw the other day. How often do you see her? Of course she’s the perfect friend for you, she lives a thousand miles away! You always seem to be looking for something. And getting upset with people because they can’t provide it.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Your mother. You expect her to know what’s in your heart, but you never tell her. She longs to be included in your life. You never ask for her advice.”

“I don’t need to ask. She gives it all the time.”

“Oh but that’s not the same thing at all. She wants to be asked. The others ask her things all the time, but you never do. You’ve no idea. She misses you terribly you know.”

“She does? Mom misses me?” I was genuinely surpirse. Our phone calls were always brusque affairs that she terminated early.

“Oh my yes she is always rereading your letters and postcards. Wondering what you are doing. Afraid to call because you might not want to talk.”

“But she talks enough for both of us. Always telling me what she would do if she was me. What to do, how to do it, who to do it with, what will happen if I do it wrong.”

“Well now, if you don’t ask her how else is she going to tell you?”

“She’s always so much harder on me than the others.”

“She was harder on you because you mean so much to her. It’s her way of avoiding playing favourites. I think you are your own worst enemy dear. Forgive me for saying something so harsh, but if you just accepted some things like you accept others it all might go a little easier for you.”

“Well, I always thought accepting each others’ differences was part of life’s challenge, and also its reward. But I never thought I’d be the one who was close minded.”

“Not closed dear. Just not quite open all the way. Sort of…ajar.”