Nadezhda Nikolaevna seemed proud of the museum. I made sure that I looked impressed by everything she was telling me, even if I missed some of her explanations. When we were done with the first floor, we tackled the spectacular staircase, which had a wavy banister that ended in a bronze jellyfish-like lamp. I let her go first, and discreetly positioned myself behind, worried that, with the cumbersome slippers, she might trip and roll down this fine but slippery example of Russian art nouveau.
Half an hour later, as we walked back towards Arbatskaya, Nadezhda Nikolaevna suggested that we find a café and sit for some tea. ‘The visit only took us one hour,’ she said, ‘we still have time left.’
I was hoping to stay around the centre, see if Stepanov was at home so that I could crash on his couch for a couple of hours before meeting Lena.
‘It was a very interesting visit,’ I said. ‘I think we can consider it a full lesson. Let’s stop here and meet next week.’
‘Martin, I would prefer if we finish our lesson time. I’m paid for a three-hour lesson and it’s my job to give it to you.’
She looked determined. Not wanting to offend her sense of duty or make her feel I didn’t value her teaching, I agreed to continue our lesson.
We walked into the Old Arbat. A few stands stood in the middle of the pedestrian street, selling wares for tourists: soviet flags, matryoshka dolls, lacquered boxes, painted eggs. We walked into the first café we saw. It was warm and cosy inside. The wood-panelled decor imitated a traditional Russian country house and included, near the entrance, a real stuffed cow. We sat at a small table by the window, facing each other, and ordered a pot of black tea.
I was afraid we wouldn’t have much to talk about, but Nadezhda Nikolaevna continued speaking about Gorky. To my surprise, in the intimacy of the café, she was giving me an entirely different spin on Gorky’s story. As I understood it, Nadezhda Nikolaevna was now telling me that Gorky was a sell-out. While he’d written very interesting stuff in his early years, after 1917 he’d become a puppet of the soviet regime, especially following his return from Italy. The house we’d just visited, I was being told, was unworthy of a writer who claimed to represent the proletariat. In exchange for supporting Stalin’s increasingly totalitarian regime, Gorky had been granted plenty of favours, including a position as president of the Writers’ Union.
‘And for what?’ Nadezhda Nikolaevna said. ‘He didn’t write a single good line after the revolution.’
I wondered why Nadezhda Nikolaevna hadn’t told me this version of Gorky’s story while we were inside the museum. Perhaps, I thought, she was afraid that the dezhurnayas following us across the rooms — to ensure that we didn’t break or steal anything, I’d assumed — would intervene if she deviated from the official version of Gorky’s story as presented by the museum.
When the tea arrived, Nadezhda Nikolaevna took a small foil-wrapped parcel from her plastic bag and placed it at the centre of the table. ‘A little surprise,’ she said, smiling. She unwrapped the parcel, uncovering a napkin with a few rolled-up blinis.
‘I made them myself for our little excursion,’ she said proudly, as she extended the napkin with the blinis next to the teapot. ‘I hope you like blinis with tvorog.’
Noticing my hesitation, Nadezhda Nikolaevna explained that it was fine to bring your own food to cafés in Moscow. ‘The food in these places is expensive and not very good,’ she said.
I could see from the menu that it was possible to order an entire meal for two for the price of a cocktail in Propaganda.
I took one of the blinis and had a bite. Buttery, sweet, delicious.
‘They are lovely,’ I said.
Over tea and blinis, Nadezhda Nikolaevna continued with Gorky’s story, telling me how, in the end, the great soviet writer had fallen out of favour with Stalin and had probably been killed by the secret services.
‘They painted the walls of his bedroom with poisonous paint,’ she said. ‘So Gorky fell ill and died.’
‘Interesno,’ I said, nodding. I wondered why Stalin’s people, who had kidnapped, tortured and killed with pleasure, would resort to such creative methods to murder an ageing and not particularly dangerous writer. But I was getting accustomed to the myths and parables Russians used to explain their recent history. When the official version of historical events seemed artificial, the emergence of alternative narratives was only natural. These stories, some of which might have held a grain of truth, spread by word of mouth through Moscow’s many shared kitchens.
The hot tea was bringing me back to life. I was really enjoying our excursion. The Gorky Museum, the stories, the chilly air outside. I was particularly touched by the home-made blinis.
As Nadezhda Nikolaevna was finishing the story of Gorky’s death, the young waiter who had brought the teapot came over and planted himself next to our table.
‘Woman,’ he said, addressing Nadezhda Nikolaevna.
I had learned that, ever since the perestroika, Russians had had a problem addressing each other. The word tovarisch — comrade — previously used to address any fellow soviet citizen, had become politically obsolete. But pre-revolutionary language was not really an option: during the seven decades of communism, the old words for sir and madam were deemed too bourgeois and had fallen into disuse. Now, when addressing a stranger, Russians were left with little choice but to say man, woman, boy, girl, or — to people around my age — young person.
Nadezhda Nikolaevna, wrapped up in telling Gorky’s story, didn’t seem to notice the waiter.
‘Woman,’ the waiter repeated, now louder, without the slightest trace of a smile. ‘You can’t bring outside food into this café.’
‘Oh,’ Nadezhda Nikolaevna said, looking up and smiling, ‘but these are blinis that I made at home.’
‘I don’t care what they are,’ he said. ‘You need to order food from our menu.’
Nadezhda Nikolaevna blushed, embarrassed at having been talked down to — or perhaps, I thought, at having provided me with the wrong information about Moscow’s customs. The cheerfulness she had shown all morning dissolved at once. She looked down, started to wrap the rest of the blinis.
‘Woman,’ the waiter said, not moving an inch from the table, ‘if you can’t afford the food in here, just stay home.’
‘Go fuck yourself!’ I found myself saying, in plain English, as I jumped up to face him, knocking over my chair.
The waiter, confused, stepped back and disappeared into the kitchen.
A few minutes later Nadezhda Nikolaevna and I were walking in silence along the Old Arbat. ‘I’m sorry I snapped in the café,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t my intention to make a scene.’
‘Moscow is changing,’ she murmured, gaze fixed on the pavement, a sad tone in her voice.
She seemed even older, more fragile — walking now with difficulty. As we moved along the pedestrian street, I offered Nadezhda Nikolaevna my arm. We made our way towards Smolenskaya, flanked by families and tourists. With one hand she clutched my elbow, with the other she carried the plastic bag with the unfinished blinis.
5
LEAVING NADEZHDA NIKOLAEVNA at Smolenskaya, where she unexpectedly kissed me goodbye, I decided to avoid the metro and take a walk. I had some time to kill before meeting Lena.
The sky was brighter now, almost blue, but the sun didn’t seem powerful enough to dissipate the late autumn chill. As I marched among the towering constructions of the New Arbat, I remembered how, on a previous stroll, I had been told that the large buildings on the southern side were meant to represent open books. Each structure was formed by two flat wings joined at a wide angle, but, as far as I could see, nothing else in their design suggested the shape of a book. Glancing at their plain façades, I now wondered if the architect’s intention had really been to emulate books or if, more likely, the alleged resemblance had been an afterthought.