Once Dima had left, we quickly turned the kitchen sofa into its bed shape so that my dad could rest, and everyone including Nastya caught about four hours’ sleep.
We were expected at Lilya’s at 5 p.m. Dad had no chance of being eased into Russian life slowly. Lilya’s hospitality was flawless, and regardless of our lethargic state, neither Nastya nor I wanted to miss her excellent fish. As it was Lilya’s birthday, both her daughters had decided to make a surprise visit from Moscow; Masha (with her son Kirill), and Olga, who brought her husband (also named Dima). Lilya’s two sisters were also there, as they had been the year earlier. It was quite a sizeable party. I forget how many courses there were but I remember there being more than seven. Every kind of fish cooked in every kind of way, just as it had been the previous December. The difference was that in this party there were also several bottles of vodka, Cognac and champagne. It’s not that we got drunk, but after twenty-two hours of travel and only a short period of rest, the copious amount of food alone was enough to make us feel sleepy. We left at about 11 p.m., late enough to have drunk many glasses of good champagne and early enough to avoid the dreaded karaoke.
As this was my dad’s first time in Russia we wanted to make a good impression, however, due to the size of our apartment, and the fact that it has only one bedroom (which is also our living room), my dad was relegated to sleeping in the kitchen. He was relatively comfortable, as the sofa bed was large enough and stuck right next to the radiator. If anything, because of the lack of ventilation, he was too hot during the nights. This situation may sound overcrowded, but it was luxury compared to how Dima had been living. Over the autumn period – while I was away in the UK sorting out my new criminal records certificate – Marina’s brother Vova, her mother Luda, and Marina’s pregnant daughter Natasha, from a previous marriage, all moved into Dima’s apartment. I’m not sure what their reasons were. Vova apparently fell out with his wife, Natasha fell pregnant by someone who nobody really knew and consequently she needed some assistance; and as for Luda, there was apparently some discomfort in that she lived with her mother, and wanted to be further away from her. By comparison our apartment felt roomy.
The winter was much colder than the last one. When I arrived with my dad in Krasnoyarsk the temperature was -5°C, but by the time he left it was -35°C, though we had experienced a few days of -38°C. Because of this shocking cold, we had to wear more layers than I had the previous years. The day before we left the UK, I had gone to my dad’s house to inspect his luggage. I had made him a list and made sure he had packed everything I suggested: three pairs of thermals, several jumpers, snow boots, undershoe ice grips that fit to the boots, a hat or two, a set of thermal gloves. My dad was prepared in every way except for his coat. I had instructed him to bring his long woollen winter coat that he would normally wear over a suit if he was attending a posh do; it felt really warm and heavy in Wales, in Russia however it was like paper. I didn’t realise until at least a week after arriving that my dad was in fact freezing his arse off. Thankfully Boris was kind enough to lend my dad a real fur shapka and a large black cotton hunting coat that could handle temperatures as low as -40°C.
In our apartment, like in all old Russian city apartments, the heating stays on constantly in winter and cannot be turned off. It’s controlled by the central heating system elsewhere in the city and is piped to every building. This makes all apartments a bit stuffy; because my dad was sleeping next to the radiator in the kitchen, and because he couldn’t open the windows of the balcony, he slept really awfully throughout his visit. Several times he opened the door to the balcony just a fraction, but this injected the kitchen with too much cold air in a matter of seconds. The ice on the inside of the window frames got thicker every day, eventually becoming more than an inch thick in places. Due to the stuffiness of our apartment, and the lack of sleep, my Dad was more lethargic than I had ever seen him; some days he even slept in till about midday. Taking a shower didn’t help either. Our shower room has no ventilation, so when you step out of the shower it’s near impossible to get dry with the buildup of steam. Even if you do manage to get dry, the constant heating soon has you wet with perspiration. This may have been why my father took fewer and fewer showers throughout the month. Like in summer, we sweated like pigs.
In our apartment, the only way one can wake up fully and escape the oppressive heat of the apartment is by going outside. However, this isn’t simply a case of popping your shoes on. To go anywhere in Krasnoyarsk in winter you have to prepare as if you were going on some major arctic expedition. You must ensure you have several layers on your legs, two pairs of thermal trousers, thermals on the upper body, a jumper, your coat, gloves, a scarf, and you must never ever forget your shapka. With all these clothes on, you sweat horrendously before you even step out the door. This makes the Russian tradition of sitting for a few moments of silence before you take a long trip even more tedious.
ii. Rambo