Monday 25 February
I think the landlord sensed he’d overstepped the mark with the TV and was out to appease. He brought the translations then talked for another hour about money. It is very boring. So I joined in and said the TV now has a two-year guarantee – would he like to pay half the repairs? It took some persuading, but he said yes. It’s funny, he tried to win me over by talking about music. He said he’d heard a record of an Austrian tenor, then immediately told me how much the hi-fi cost.
Had a satisfying day revising translations on Morocco, the death penalty and drugs, and the March newsletter, all very good, and catching up on the newspapers.
A concert at the House of Composers in the evening – very good pianist, Mikhail Khoklov, who was a totally natural performer in completely unpretentious surroundings. In the ten minutes before the music started I found out where to get my hair cut; heard that the Moscow Amnesty group’s request for registration has come before Moscow City Soviet and will be approved fast; heard gossip from the Clemency Commission – Andrey Zapevalov’s pardon is in the bag; and heard that our application for office premises is going forward. It made me feel more rooted here than I thought.
Viktor’s mother was at her best after the concert: radiant, benevolent and urging us all to come again. Andrew thought she was the administrator of the House of Composers.
Tuesday 26 February
Many a plopping of drops and whooshings of water today as the thaw takes over. It is +5 degrees today, and the benches and trees are standing up to their ankles in pools of brown water.
Professor Kelina phoned today from the Institute of State and Law, very nice and friendly, and telling me who to contact in the USSR Justice Ministry for death penalty statistics. I then called the Deputy Minister of Justice and he seemed mighty relieved that I was just calling about statistics. I also called Galina Starovoytova, pleasant and anxious to help as always, from providing plates to finding premises. We got cut off three times and she said she would ask Mr Kryuchkov, head of the KGB, to supply me with a better bugging device. Viktor called and has got me an appointment about premises with Krasnopresnensky District Soviet on Monday.
The landlord’s mother-in-law rang today, offering to get me theatre tickets. I wonder what fine psychological calculations are being made in that household?
The evening news said Iraq is withdrawing from Kuwait.
Wednesday 27 February
Apparently the Soviets have told the World Psychiatric Association Review Committee that they “cannot afford to host them here” – so the visit is off. Wow.
I wasted a whole day waiting for the courier, which did not come. Near five o’clock I called DH; apparently the man had just buggered off home with my parcel. I was anxious for a change of scene, so went to say goodbye to a friend, who goes back to the UK on Friday. Having worked among Brits in Moscow for three months and lived without TV, radio or newspapers, she was for some reason adamant that things are hopelessly doomed here; that it is useless to speculate otherwise; and that comparisons with Eastern Europe are not just inappropriate, but extremely irritating. Earlier I had told some journalist friends that the head of Deutsche Bank – which is a major creditor and investor here – rates Prime Minister Pavlov quite highly and thinks “perestroyka’s” on course. Their immediate reaction was: “What could someone like that know?” Pretty darn much, if he’s laying out his money, I’d have thought. What is this with everyone? Basically none of us know what is happening, but why always write it off?
Thence I went for a late dinner with Hella and Siffra. It seemed each room, each cupboard of their flat, contained a computer winking, a fax bleeping, or a telex spewing out agency reports. They find it quite oppressive and sit there writing about the scene, scarcely leaving the flat.
Viktor has got Sergey Kovalyov, the head of the Russian Parliament’s Human Rights Committee, to support my request for premises. Good guy. A letter arrived from home with 2” of envelope missing.
Thursday 28 February
There is a ceasefire in the Gulf! Lunch at Pizza Hut with Irving Rappoport, independent filmmaker who is contemplating doing a documentary about Amnesty. I liked him very much and I liked his conception of the film. No glitz.
Then I went to meet Peter and Roswitha, here to mediate in the Checheno-Ingush region and to start setting up a Quaker office. We had Gorky Park to ourselves. The wind was blowing a fine snow along the ground. There was ice underfoot, and jolly music was blaring loud and soft through the wind from loudspeakers in the trees. We went up to some massive ethnic sculptures in the middle of the park and found they were made of ice!
From there I went straight to Viktor’s to pick up the letters. Zapevalov’s defence lawyer phoned to say the Russian Procurator had just turned her appeal down flat, with no reasons given. She was almost speechless. Viktor’s friend Kostya was there, clever, measuring his words and peering over his glasses. But I found him very depressing and beat a hasty departure. Maybe I should be starting the work from Bobrov, not Moscow, with individual priests, not journalists, and running a commercial (rouble) enterprise at the same time – but I can’t do it and it’s simply disheartening to have every limitation of my work here pointed out. Viktor’s mother gave me a new hat, because she said the old one made me look as though I’m wanted by the police.
This morning I called Yury Reshetov, head of the Human Rights Division of the USSR Foreign Ministry, asking to meet and to keep him abreast of events. His competent and friendly secretary immediately took all this on board and will ring back with a time.
Friday 1 March
Competent, friendly secretary said Reshetov will be away all of March. I wonder if that’s all true, and if it’s not, what it all means. Rang the nice Mr Zhukov to confirm our meeting at Krasnopresnensky District Soviet on Monday. He ended with “So long!”
It was fresh and bright and I sat in the sun reading my paper till Nikolay came for Gone with the Wind. It was all read out in a monotone by one voice in Russian and the English was audible behind, so it was a real mishmash. After three hours forty minutes of all that I was terribly tired.
The landlord and his brother-in-law came round to collect a carpet and the TV tube. Both were exhilarated that the Gulf War is over and that they heard lots of foreigners on the metro. They felt this is a sign of life. Brother-in-law really did improve the TV reception. I was thinking all the time what pound of flesh the landlord will try to extract.
Saturday 2 March
I consulted my dictionary, then set off for the hairdressers. It was upstairs, through beautifully carved Art Nouveau wooden doors – apparently once the house of a poor merchant on Kropotkin Street. There were elaborate cornices, long gilt mirrors and a chandelier.
My hair was cut by Lyuda, a woman of few words with a beehive and a tracksuit. When I said I had a strong natural parting I didn’t like, she said, “Maybe you should learn to like it.” Last night the landlord’s brother-in-law fixed the TV using a textbook for “people who don’t have the right spare parts”, and she cut my hair in rather the same way. It seemed very Russian – inventive and actually very good. I couldn’t describe what I wanted and she flicked through a magazine till she found something halfway there, then cut my hair in about three minutes flat. I was watching her face in the mirror when she surveyed the results and she was proud. It was an enjoyable experience. £1.90.