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Authors: Lawrence Scott Sheets
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associated with the “mafia,” not everyone in racketeering-type activities was getting rich, including Vova. There was little romance to his “profession.” True, he always anted up at restaurants and had enough cash to keep Ellie in nice threads. But he didn’t even own a car, let alone one with a driver. Accordingly, our return to Leningrad was aboard one of the notoriously rickety, smoke-belching Ukrainian-made Lvov buses. It must have been manufactured not long after Stalin’s death. We sat on the back bench, sprawled out, enjoying the rays of sun through the dirty window glass of the clunker. Back in central Leningrad, we took a shorttaxi ride to an old building near the Kirov Theater. We climbed up to the second floor of a decrepit corridor and turned right. It was another communal apartment.
Vova, having forgotten his key, knocked on the door; on the other side, I could hear a lock turn. The door opened, and there stood Lena, Vova’s first wife. At this point, the mystery of what had happened to her became clear; they were still living “together” in the same communal, another prerevolutionary rundown wreck. They had two of the five or six rooms, one where Lena slept and another next door for Vova and Ellie, wife number two, their headboard directly touching the wall against hers.
Lena smiled at me and shrugged, describing the unorthodox situation without words.
After a few minutes of awkwardness, we all sat down in Lena’s room—a down-at-the-heels rectangle with enough room for a bed, a couple of chairs, and a nightstand covered with some cheap cosmetics and old magazines. Vova opened some down-market Georgian wine with a flip-off plastic cap. For the first time, I watched him get drunk—and in front of his two wives, who seemed to be on good terms, more so in fact than with their “husband.”
Vova drifted off into more banter about the rottenness of late-Soviet life, and his “delusional”—as he saw it—Communist father. He started in again about Pavel and his “degrading” work at the Button Factory, getting up to dial his phone number, 184-8488, only to be told by Pavel that he was leaving for the night shift at the Button Factory.
Vova instantaneously suggested we go visit Pavel at the factory. The two wives, sensing a possible scandal abrew, wisely declined to join us, and we were quickly out the door. “I’ll show you a real Soviet factory and how those workers humiliate themselves,” he snarled.
We grabbed a taxi and within minutes were at the side door to the Button Factory. Vova knew the place well, having worked there previously. A night watchman recognized him. “What the hell are you up to?” he asked. “This is an official excursion for our foreign delegation (me),” Vova responded, lying.
The watchman relented and we sprinted up a flight of stairs. I worried that Vova was there to stir up some sort of scandal with Pavel in admonishment for his continued “degrading” manual labor.
We ended up on an enormous factory floor where dozens of automated machines whirled away. Inside each were thousands of plastic buttons of all shapes and sizes, tumbling their way to a fine gloss.
Pavel appeared in a work apron, dragging a huge, heavy bag of buttons behind him. He looked proud, not degraded. Then a small group of workers, men and women of all ages and description dressed in work overalls, latched on to us, each trying to outdo the other in terms of hospitality. Several recognized Vova, the camaraderie temporarily turning his despisal for the “degradation” of the Soviet factory into smiles.
A foreman barked. He ordered one of the enormous tumblers, which sounded like little cement mixers, shut off, mentioning proudly that they were Italian made. He opened a panel on one machine and told me to stick my hands inside, like a pirate’s chest. I pulled open my palms to reveal dozens of multicolored buttons. Some had two holes, some three, some four. Some were orange,
Vova, having forgotten his key, knocked on the door; on the other side, I could hear a lock turn. The door opened, and there stood Lena, Vova’s first wife. At this point, the mystery of what had happened to her became clear; they were still living “together” in the same communal, another prerevolutionary rundown wreck. They had two of the five or six rooms, one where Lena slept and another next door for Vova and Ellie, wife number two, their headboard directly touching the wall against hers.
Lena smiled at me and shrugged, describing the unorthodox situation without words.
After a few minutes of awkwardness, we all sat down in Lena’s room—a down-at-the-heels rectangle with enough room for a bed, a couple of chairs, and a nightstand covered with some cheap cosmetics and old magazines. Vova opened some down-market Georgian wine with a flip-off plastic cap. For the first time, I watched him get drunk—and in front of his two wives, who seemed to be on good terms, more so in fact than with their “husband.”
Vova drifted off into more banter about the rottenness of late-Soviet life, and his “delusional”—as he saw it—Communist father. He started in again about Pavel and his “degrading” work at the Button Factory, getting up to dial his phone number, 184-8488, only to be told by Pavel that he was leaving for the night shift at the Button Factory.
Vova instantaneously suggested we go visit Pavel at the factory. The two wives, sensing a possible scandal abrew, wisely declined to join us, and we were quickly out the door. “I’ll show you a real Soviet factory and how those workers humiliate themselves,” he snarled.
We grabbed a taxi and within minutes were at the side door to the Button Factory. Vova knew the place well, having worked there previously. A night watchman recognized him. “What the hell are you up to?” he asked. “This is an official excursion for our foreign delegation (me),” Vova responded, lying.
The watchman relented and we sprinted up a flight of stairs. I worried that Vova was there to stir up some sort of scandal with Pavel in admonishment for his continued “degrading” manual labor.
We ended up on an enormous factory floor where dozens of automated machines whirled away. Inside each were thousands of plastic buttons of all shapes and sizes, tumbling their way to a fine gloss.
Pavel appeared in a work apron, dragging a huge, heavy bag of buttons behind him. He looked proud, not degraded. Then a small group of workers, men and women of all ages and description dressed in work overalls, latched on to us, each trying to outdo the other in terms of hospitality. Several recognized Vova, the camaraderie temporarily turning his despisal for the “degradation” of the Soviet factory into smiles.
A foreman barked. He ordered one of the enormous tumblers, which sounded like little cement mixers, shut off, mentioning proudly that they were Italian made. He opened a panel on one machine and told me to stick my hands inside, like a pirate’s chest. I pulled open my palms to reveal dozens of multicolored buttons. Some had two holes, some three, some four. Some were orange,
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