Read Online Back to Moscow by Guillermo Erades - Free Book Online
Authors: Guillermo Erades
Ads: Link
statue represents the banality of modern Moscow.’
‘I find the statue hideous,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ Sergey said. ‘Everybody in Moscow hates the statue. Only the mayor likes it. But the main thing is, the statue is not what it looks like. It’s a
fake.’
Ira placed a boiled potato on my plate and one on Sergey’s plate. ‘Seryozhka,’ she said, ‘eat more. You shouldn’t have drunk before we started the party, now you
are drunker than the rest of us.’
‘A fake?’ I asked. ‘In what sense?’
In what sense, v kakom smysle, was a useful expression I’d learned to drop into a conversation every time I got lost. It was particularly handy in a situation where a question was
addressed to me, an answer was clearly expected, but my comprehension skills had let me down. Instead of asking for the question to be repeated, which would have cast doubt on my credibility as an
interlocutor, I would just ask, ‘In what sense?’ It was such a useful phrase that, with time, I also began to use it when I didn’t know what to say and wanted more time to think.
In what sense?
‘The statue wasn’t meant to be in Moscow,’ Sergey said.
‘It wasn’t?’
‘The statue was meant to be in the United States. It was commissioned as a present from the Russian people to the American people at the end of the Cold War. Americans didn’t like it
so they said no thank you.’
‘Why would the Americans want a statue of Peter the Great?’
‘That’s the whole point,’ Sergey said. There was a bit of sour cream stuck on his thick eyebrows. ‘When the statue was made, it wasn’t Peter the Great. Originally
it was a statue of Christopher Columbus, and it was meant to symbolise the union between the two sides of the Atlantic, or some shit like that. When the Americans refused it, nobody knew what to do
with a giant Columbus.’
‘A waste of money, if you ask me,’ Aleksandra Olegovna said.
‘So,’ Sergey continued, ‘the mayor asked Tsereteli to turn Columbus’s head into the head of Peter the Great. And he fucking did! But they couldn’t find a place in
Moscow to erect such a monster, you know, all the squares are occupied by Lenins and soviet stuff, so in the end they decided to plant the thing in the middle of the Moskva river.’
‘Martin, try the herring and beetroot salad,’ Sergey’s mum said. ‘It’s a typical Russian dish.’
‘Thank you, Aleksandra Olegovna, everything is delicious.’
Sergey began refilling the glasses with more vodka. ‘Mama,’ he said, ‘let him eat whatever he wants.’
‘So,’ I asked, ‘the statue in the Moskva river is not Peter the Great but Christopher Columbus?’
‘Exactly,’ Sergey said. He wiped his eyebrows, seemed puzzled to find sour cream on his fingers. ‘If you look closely you’ll see he is standing on an old vessel, from
Columbus times, not from the times of Peter the Great.’
‘It’s a botch job,’ Ira said.
Aleksandra Olegovna stood up, started to clear some plates. ‘I can hardly recognise the city any more.’
‘This is Moscow today,’ Sergey said, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘We are losing our soul and nobody gives a shit.’
12
L ENA LIVED IN AN old kommunalka not far from Chistye Prudy, sharing the communal bathroom with three families and her bedroom with a girl from Tula.
They had some kind of arrangement, I imagined, as the Tula dyev was never around when I visited and Lena and I could always enjoy a couple of hours of privacy.
Lena’s bedroom was a total bardak, a mess. The bedside tables, like every flat surface in the room, were completely covered in piles of books, old magazines, food leftovers, make-up
paraphernalia, old cups of tea. The room always smelled of incense, which Lena kept burning in my presence – whether for some spiritual purpose or to mask other smells, I couldn’t
tell.
One cold evening in late December we were lying on Lena’s bed, naked, listening to music from an Asian
‘I find the statue hideous,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ Sergey said. ‘Everybody in Moscow hates the statue. Only the mayor likes it. But the main thing is, the statue is not what it looks like. It’s a
fake.’
Ira placed a boiled potato on my plate and one on Sergey’s plate. ‘Seryozhka,’ she said, ‘eat more. You shouldn’t have drunk before we started the party, now you
are drunker than the rest of us.’
‘A fake?’ I asked. ‘In what sense?’
In what sense, v kakom smysle, was a useful expression I’d learned to drop into a conversation every time I got lost. It was particularly handy in a situation where a question was
addressed to me, an answer was clearly expected, but my comprehension skills had let me down. Instead of asking for the question to be repeated, which would have cast doubt on my credibility as an
interlocutor, I would just ask, ‘In what sense?’ It was such a useful phrase that, with time, I also began to use it when I didn’t know what to say and wanted more time to think.
In what sense?
‘The statue wasn’t meant to be in Moscow,’ Sergey said.
‘It wasn’t?’
‘The statue was meant to be in the United States. It was commissioned as a present from the Russian people to the American people at the end of the Cold War. Americans didn’t like it
so they said no thank you.’
‘Why would the Americans want a statue of Peter the Great?’
‘That’s the whole point,’ Sergey said. There was a bit of sour cream stuck on his thick eyebrows. ‘When the statue was made, it wasn’t Peter the Great. Originally
it was a statue of Christopher Columbus, and it was meant to symbolise the union between the two sides of the Atlantic, or some shit like that. When the Americans refused it, nobody knew what to do
with a giant Columbus.’
‘A waste of money, if you ask me,’ Aleksandra Olegovna said.
‘So,’ Sergey continued, ‘the mayor asked Tsereteli to turn Columbus’s head into the head of Peter the Great. And he fucking did! But they couldn’t find a place in
Moscow to erect such a monster, you know, all the squares are occupied by Lenins and soviet stuff, so in the end they decided to plant the thing in the middle of the Moskva river.’
‘Martin, try the herring and beetroot salad,’ Sergey’s mum said. ‘It’s a typical Russian dish.’
‘Thank you, Aleksandra Olegovna, everything is delicious.’
Sergey began refilling the glasses with more vodka. ‘Mama,’ he said, ‘let him eat whatever he wants.’
‘So,’ I asked, ‘the statue in the Moskva river is not Peter the Great but Christopher Columbus?’
‘Exactly,’ Sergey said. He wiped his eyebrows, seemed puzzled to find sour cream on his fingers. ‘If you look closely you’ll see he is standing on an old vessel, from
Columbus times, not from the times of Peter the Great.’
‘It’s a botch job,’ Ira said.
Aleksandra Olegovna stood up, started to clear some plates. ‘I can hardly recognise the city any more.’
‘This is Moscow today,’ Sergey said, putting a hand on my shoulder. ‘We are losing our soul and nobody gives a shit.’
12
L ENA LIVED IN AN old kommunalka not far from Chistye Prudy, sharing the communal bathroom with three families and her bedroom with a girl from Tula.
They had some kind of arrangement, I imagined, as the Tula dyev was never around when I visited and Lena and I could always enjoy a couple of hours of privacy.
Lena’s bedroom was a total bardak, a mess. The bedside tables, like every flat surface in the room, were completely covered in piles of books, old magazines, food leftovers, make-up
paraphernalia, old cups of tea. The room always smelled of incense, which Lena kept burning in my presence – whether for some spiritual purpose or to mask other smells, I couldn’t
tell.
One cold evening in late December we were lying on Lena’s bed, naked, listening to music from an Asian
Similar Books
