They’re both married and middle-aged men. It’s silly to generalize, but our men are all alike. They never miss a chance to have fun on the side. They consider it a small diversion from the grayness of daily life. They may be right, for our life is
awfully monotonous and joyless. You can’t take your wife out to a restaurant. You can’t get in on Friday or Saturday night, and if you do by some miracle, you will get a load of negative experiences. The food will be cold, the champagne warm, and the waiter will be rude and cheat you. Besides, you have to drink. If you go out in the evening and don’t order at least two hundred grams of cognac, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of wine, five or six types of zakuski, a main course, ice cream, and coffee, the waiter will despise you. So just for the two of you, you have to spend half your monthly salary.
Isn’t it better to visit an unmarried woman? You bring a bottle of wine, a crummy bouquet, and you’re given food, drink, and maybe even . . . Moscow men are not generous. A young friend of mine told me, “Mama told me that if I go to see a woman, she must give me food and drink and some to take home.” Of course, his mother was just the opposite. She took men for a bundle.
Maybe it’s our own fault. We women take it all without a whimper. We always have food in the refrigerator and a bottle of wine—just come.
I hate writing about this. Where did this psychology come from? I think it starts at school. Once I dropped by to see friends of my parents, a wonderful intellectual family. Their erudite son was home alone and bored. Suddenly he got an idea: He called his female classmates and invited them over. His condition was to bring wine, preferably more than one bottle. Fifteen minutes later there was a horde of girls with bottles and food, and a few minutes later, miraculously, a crowd of boys ready to drink appeared. They turned on the music, drank and danced and kissed on the balcony. About two hours later our
host got bored. He opened the door and chased everyone out except two pals and me (I was from a different category). I remember it very well. He stood at the wide open door and pushed people out. He even used a mop to make his point.
Mama never believed me. She thought I exaggerated. Recently she saw for herself. It was one of our many revolutionary holidays, and I was at home, as usual. This time I was in an old sweat suit spattered with paint, redecorating the kitchen. A friend telephoned. An educated, well-to-do young man, he had been at a party and been drinking. He was in a good mood, and he wanted to see me. My mother’s presence and my protests didn’t stop him. He came by taxi and called again from downstairs. I couldn’t chase him away. He came up, ate, drank some more, and told me about his trip to Switzerland. Then he began to feel the partying: He had a headache and wanted to sleep. Kindhearted Mama suggested he take a nap. But he had completed his program, and now he wanted to go home. I went out into the hall to say good-bye, and he started rummaging in his bag. Well, I thought, a souvenir from Switzerland. No way! He was looking for money. He didn’t have enough for a cab. I had to lend him five. When I got back to the kitchen, my naive mother asked what he had brought me from Switzerland. We both still have illusions. When I told her about the five rubles, she burst out laughing. Laughter through tears. What can you expect when the richest men come to your birthday with bottles that they drink themselves?
The doctors were generous; they brought food and drink. The food wasn’t anything fancy—a can of peas, some canned fish, and a dozen eggs. It wasn’t a very refined meal, but there was a lot of good cognac. We decided to eat first and then go
to Anya’s. Katya and I drank a lot to cheer up. The conversation didn’t go well, but the cognac helped. We remembered Anya and went to her place. As usual, she immediately set the table and brought out the wine, and we had more to eat and drink. Then we discussed her medical problem.
We spent the night at Anya’s. No, there was no sex; no one needed anyone else. What a stupid evening!
OCTOBER 24. Most of all, I like visiting our family friend Luba and her mother. It’s like going to another century. They have a small apartment in a building of the Stalin era. The house is surrounded by ugly factories and chimneys. The courtyard and entryway are filthy and smelly. But when you shut the door, you enter old Moscow. The old mismatched furniture, placed to create warmth and coziness, evokes a special atmosphere. Photographs of grandfathers and great-grandfathers speak of their noble heritage. Theirs is a mixed line: Italian, German, French, Russian, Armenian. I can never take my eyes from the picture of Luba’s grandfather: high forehead and a noble and slightly haughty profile. He was shot in the twenties, when he was only twenty-seven. Her other grandfather, the Armenian, came to the Soviet Union from Persia in the thirties. He had been a Communist there and became an “enemy of the people” here. He spent several years in prison and survived miraculously. Luba’s mother went to Moscow to see Stalin’s chief executioner, to beg for her father’s life. The incredible happened: He was released from prison. That was one of the mysteries of the Stalin era: Some people were spared unexpectedly. Luba’s grandfather
returned taciturn and never spoke about prison. When his daughter washed him, it pained her to see the horrible scars on his back. Her father shopped only at the free markets. He didn't want to have any contact with the Soviet regime, even in the stores.
I always find spiritual peace in this home. People live by eternal values here. Luba is devout and goes to church. She is beautiful but disregards it, dressing modestly and a bit old- fashionedly. Her mother was very lovely in her youth. There is a portrait of her done by a famous Armenian artist. She used to paint, and some of her exquisite water colors hang over the big couch. There is also a small Persian rug, hand-knotted, which is said to be very valuable. Plates with portraits of the imperial family hang on the walls, part of a large service now lost.
The food is always delicious. There are some specialties of the house. The table is set beautifully, and dinner turns into a ritual, just like the olden days. We almost never drink. It’s not necessary here. I once said that people should be brought here as if for treatment; all your anxieties and fears go away.
Both women are contemporary and follow current events. Luba lives a life that is a strange mix of the bohemian and the religious. She has never married, but it would be hard to find the right candidate for this house.
She and her mother are always helping someone, and there are always friends or relatives staying with them, sometimes shamefully abusing the hospitality.
When I feel down, I call Luba’s mother. I go over, we have tea in the kitchen and talk, and things fall into place for me. The wisdom and spiritual nobility of this woman are astonishing. Age has not diminished her attraction or charm. She is always
well dressed. She wears lovely old rings on her fingers and gorgeous beads on her neck.
And she makes the best tea in Moscow, the best pies, and the best jam.
Their apartment was always an attraction for our entire family. Father, who didn’t like going out, was prepared to spend endless evenings here. Even my not very convivial husband told his secrets to Luba’s mother.
Every time I leave their home, I think, God grant them health and strength.
OCTOBER27. The eternal and rather naive question: Why is there so much evil in the world? Like a chain reaction, it gives birth to more evil and grows to gigantic proportions. You could write a science-fiction story about a city choking on evil. Usually the meanest and least attractive places are big cities. Muscovites, for instance, have the reputation for being grim and rude.