Before they left, Misha began a sinister conversation with me which left me feeling very upset. He said how pampered the West is, and so how much weaker than Russia. “So don’t think you’re Number One.” He then quoted Bulgakov, to the effect that God punishes, but the devil smoothes your way. “I do you good, but I wish you evil.” It was horrible. He thinks most people are animals. I think I was talking to a literal fascist.
Sunday 26 January
Yesterday’s lovely weather continues. I spent the day out skiing in Kuskovo Park with Irina, and listening to Vysotsky with her and her mum. Irina was immensely kind: she knew I was tired out and upset by Misha’s talk last night. Over lunch Natalya Ivanovna began musing over the political scene and blamed the West for being “deceived”. Hearing another onslaught as the eponymous representative of the West made my heart just sink, but Irina stepped in and said, “Not all Westerners.”
When I got home I drafted my next radio talk till midnight.
Monday 27 January
It’s a good bed in this flat and I’m beginning to get over my fatigue. I borrowed money to give Misha as rent, and he came round with flowers.
At 3.00pm I met Natasha from the House of Architects to discuss a sign for the office. She’s been in the wars. A water heater exploded and somehow burned off the hair on one side of her head. In August she’d also been in the underpass at Pushkin Square when the police let off some tear gas with no warning. She only got a sniff, when she turned and ran like everyone else, but she still sounds as though she has a heavy cold. It was just before the coup and she thinks they were practising. But in an underpass… ye gods!
At night Irina and I went to a good concert by the Lithuanian Chamber Orchestra. They played a Schnittke piece, commemorating the bloodshed on 13 January 1991 in Vilnius. It was a bit trite, but sitting in that audience with everyone remembering the horrible atmosphere of those days and what happened later in Moscow, I was moved. Some people rose to their feet at the end. The orchestra ended with a fantastic quartet Shostakovich wrote about the Second World War. If you listen to that kind of thing in a British concert, it sounds a bit academic and you feel half the audience is struggling with the discordance. Here it was perfect.
Tuesday 28 January
Up at 7.00am to finish my radio piece, then over to “Memorial” to record it. They were pleased with the content, but I made an awful mess of reading it. I’m beginning to master that style of writing in Russian though.
At lunch I went across town to look at office furniture in a Polish shop. Disappointing. Irina came back to see the new flat. She has got an abscess in her gum and needs to have another tooth out, but can’t afford to deal with either, as it would cost over 500 roubles. People’s health must really be deteriorating here. She said that although nothing is organised here or works to plan, there’s a sense of organisation behind the chaos. I know what she means.
In the evening I did all the office accounts from November onwards. I’ve woken up almost every day with a dislocated jaw these past weeks. Probably tension. Today it lasted till 5.00pm and gave me a headache and pain in the back of the neck.
Wednesday 29 January
Last night I saw on TV that the new draft Russian Criminal Code will whittle the death penalty down to one or two crimes. The Lithuanian Embassy told me they’ve abolished it except for murder. I wonder if Amnesty played any part in this.
I don’t really know why, but I’m feeling jaded and despondent about things. It is all just too much having to badger London and everyone here about everything. I’m losing the drive. It’s partly because the underside of life is showing itself here. I gave my keys to the old flat back today, and the landlord said he’d shown someone round the flat on Sunday. How did he know I moved out on Saturday, unless he’s connected to the people who listen to my phone? I’d overpaid him for one translation and so sorted it out today. He’d known but kept quiet about it, and today made excuses to cover his dishonesty. For devilment I spoke in English throughout the conversation and watched him struggling for words for a change.
Tonight I had a very strange phone call from a former prisoner, who has now moved back to Moscow from the USA. How did he know my new number? His questions were very nosy and odd.
The landlord told me he is now the Moscow representative of a Belgian humanitarian organisation. Help.
Thursday 30 January
There was a light blizzard all day and a zero-degree temperature. I had a productive time, changing money, getting my plane ticket and dropping in to Izvestiya, where Valery Rudnev told me the GKChP wives have appealed to Amnesty, and Izvestiya wants to publish our reply. Tricky.
I also had an appointment with the Central Prefektura about our rent, and am gratified that we have got the charity rate of 70 roubles. It involved five minutes’ actual work, but I was there one and a half hours. It is a disgusting, shambolic place. A fight broke out in the queue, of the “Shut your face!”, “You’re a loony!” variety, among people who had been waiting for three hours. When I eventually got into the room, two secretaries were standing in the windows, applying their make-up and discussing their shopping with their backs to the room. So I sat there along with three men, who didn’t say anything the whole one and a half hours. Down the corridor a man was shouting and hitting things in an office.
The striking thing was that everyone who came in with an application was reasonable and intelligent, but none of them understood what they were supposed to be doing, or why. I certainly don’t. Working like this must be so unsatisfactory for the people actually in the offices too. I noticed the phone was permanently off the hook, which explains why I can never get through.
In the evening Irina and I went to hear Yuly Kim singing at the Moscow Energy Institute. He did one song lasting about two hours called ‘Moscow Kitchens’, tracing the history of the human rights movement and ending with a roll of honour. A child burst into tears. I had to sit with a pair of gloves down the back of my neck, there was such a draught.
Desperate Donnegan says that Vasilyev, the head of the fascist Pamyat group, lives above the bread shop in Serpukhovskaya Street. Maybe that explains the chauvinistic sign in their window when the Leningrad singer, Talkov, was assassinated.
Knowing I’m leaving tomorrow, I was hit by a great wave of relief. I’m beset by problems I just can’t solve and I’m glad to run away. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Bye!
POSTSCRIPT
Monday 17 February
This time I am trucking five lightshades with me, a roll of Amnesty posters and a ream of photocopying paper. I’ll be glad not to do this anymore. Had beautiful flights, my luggage was second off the carousel, and a very civil cab driver immediately drove me home for roubles. Inside the flat I found everything had changed. Half the furniture had gone and two beds smelling stale and smoky had been put in the front room. I’ll be glad not to be a tenant in someone else’s flat anymore too.
The night news was interesting. I was struck by how much serious work is being put into the new situation all over the country. You don’t necessarily get that impression from the foreign media.
Tuesday 18 February
The temperature has dropped to -16 degrees, but it was a bright, sunny day. It’s very hard to keep energetic and enthusiastic about the string of bureaucratic things I have to do, which I don’t understand and which seem to lead nowhere, very slowly. Today I planned to get the rent agreement stamped by PREO, REU and the Central Prefektura. Don’t ask me what any of the initials mean because I haven’t got a clue. At PREO they told me, “It’s not that easy”, and I have to phone them back at the end of the week.