goes by, and so on. Of course, I exaggerate a bit, especially since I’m fortunate enough not to know how you are put into prison. But they talk to you as if you were a potential lawbreaker. You can take only 100 rubles’ worth of presents. In other words, you arrive in America and onto the charity of your friends, because you can’t go far on $320. Or you could sit on Fifth Avenue with a cup and a sign that says PERESTROIKA, GLASNOST. I’m sure people will give. All those crazy rules are supposed to combat black marketeering, but I know that the real crooks will manage to bring out an elephant if they want.
I came home in a horrible mood, had a fight with Mama over a trifle. I’m very nervous, going off into the unknown.
JUNE 25 . It’s my own fault. I wanted an adventure, and now I’ve got to handle it. My Georgian artist friend gave me his painting. He came with his wife to visit me yesterday, learned about my trip, and suggested I take his painting with me. He said that if I’m starving in those “terrible capitalist jungles,” I can sell it. It’s not a bad deal for him. The painting might fall into good hands. That’s how an artist’s name is made. He gave me a piece of paper showing that the painting was bought in an art salon.
I called friends who told me that I had to get permission from the Ministry of Culture to take the picture out. I shuddered. Everyone knows what goes on in that place. So I started through the circles of hell. The main office told me that I had to show the painting to a commission that would evaluate it and give permission to take it out of the country. The commission
works once or twice a week for a couple of hours, and it’s the only one in the whole country. Early in the morning I went off to the address I was given, lugging the heavy and carefully wrapped treasure, only to find an enormous crowd storming a small, dilapidated building in the center of town. You have to sign up in line weeks in advance and check in every week early in the morning. It looks as though I’ll be running around checking on my place in lines all over the city. Mama is going to help me. I can’t handle it all myself.
JUNE 2 8. The main thing now is not to spoil my relations with my many friends. People are envious. That’s understandable. Who wouldn’t want to go to America? No one can believe that I’m in a bad mood, that I’m nervous and want to get into bed and forget about everything. I don’t even know where I’ll live in New York. I don’t have any friends there. Besides, I don’t know how I’ll buy a ticket to travel beyond New York. Rubles buy a ticket only as far as that city. I have to keep calling America to ask friends to help me, and each call costs up to a hundred rubles. Many naive women think that over there everything’s cheap. One recently told me that almost every public toilet has panty hose for free, in case you get a run and need to change into a new pair. What a Communist future! Everyone is so conscientious and honest and would never take an extra pair. It’s amusing to see the utopian propaganda stories the Soviets tell transposed to the “rotten capitalist world.” Many friends are offended when I try to return them to reality. They think I’m trying to fool them.
To tell the truth, I myself have only a vague idea of things. I don’t know how much things cost, where you can get a cheap meal, or where to shop (I know I’ll want to buy something). It’s also hard to get used to the idea that what’s inexpensive here is expensive there—for instance, the subway and the bus. A ride in the subway in New York is said to cost a dollar, while here it’s only five kopecks. And what if you get sick or break a leg, God forbid? Who’ll pay for that? Of course, you’re better off not landing in a Soviet hospital, but at least it’ll kill you for free. As for the famous crime in America, we’re well prepared. We have our own.
I wake up at night and wonder, Why the hell am I doing this? I was never afraid to go to Europe. Why am I being so provincial and afraid now? Big deal. They say that America outside New York is just one big village. I’ll be fine. I speak the language, my mind’s intact, and that seems to be valued there.
JU NE 3 0. I got my visa at the embassy today. It wasn’t so bad. I came early in the morning, signed up in line, and by twelve was inside the building. The world has changed. Before, our authorities wouldn’t let you out of the country. Now it’s the Americans who are very careful about letting you into theirs. I’ve heard they refuse visas to a lot of people. It’s a good thing I was warned that you have to answer the questions carefully to create the impression that you’re not interested in staying in America. You have to pretend to be happy with your life as a prosperous Soviet citizen: “Yes, my apartment’s fine. I like my
job; I get a lot of money. I have loads of relatives, and I adore them all. And I’m a patriot and am just going to see how bad things are over there so that I can enjoy it here even more.” I think this is crazy, because a person could lie and stay on if he really wanted to. At one point the stupid interrogation drove me to say, ‘‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning to stay illegally.”
At six I was home with the visa. I must admit that the Americans work quickly and well. I had to wait several days at the German Embassy.
JULY 1 . At last after enormous efforts I’ve gained entry with the painting into the dilapidated building. The Ministry of Culture did not disappoint me. It has an inexhaustible supply of surprises. The painting was valued at seven hundred rubles, and now I’ll have to pay 100 percent duty at customs-—that is, the full amount of seven hundred rubles. The receipt from the art salon says one hundred rubles. The ministry doesn’t know that I didn’t buy it at all. I showed the receipt and said gloatingly, “I’m so glad the painting has gone up in value. I don’t think I’ll take it with me. I’ll return it to the salon with your new evaluation.”
“Our valuation doesn’t mean a thing for the salon. We don’t guarantee that new price,” the ministry girl told me with metal in her voice.
Mama, who helped me in this battle, and I decided to go higher up and find out about these double prices. But as the old saying has it, fish rots from the head. The ladies at the top were
even worse and tried to steal the receipt. Mama reacted quickly, tore the piece of paper out of the hand of the more aggressive protector of culture, and left quickly. Curses followed her.
When she got home, Mama called the customs people, who said that the receipt from the art salon was enough. Who’s right? We decided that I would take along seven hundred rubles just in case and see what happened.
JULY 3 . I think I am going to be a real specialist on lines. It turns out that it’s almost impossible to exchange money, too. You have to sign up in line and check in twice a day. Of course, you can find the “right people” and pay them, and they’ll do it without a line. The interesting part is that they don’t accept rubles for payment, only dollars. The fee is $50, which comes out of your crummy legal $320. I’ll fight to the end and won’t give that mafia my money. So my number in line is 3,095. The exchange does 300 to 400 a day, so that means close to a week. The crowd is fully democratic or, rather, anarchic. Every day new ideas are tested as our numbers are checked: Write a letter to the Supreme Soviet; declare war on the Mafia. I think we’ll soon be called to storm the bank. Of course, the word “storm” makes many people shiver since the Winter Palace was stormed in 1917, and that’s why we’re all standing in lines.
J U L Y 4 . I got up at six this morning and went to check in at the Aeroflot line and then straight to the bank. Outside Aeroflot everything is in order. There’s a respectable and businesslike man in charge. It’s like being in the army and he’s the commander. But strange things are happening outside the bank. There are several lines at once: the general line, one for people leaving in the next two days, and one for war veterans and invalids. I have a good memory for faces, and yesterday I saw a pushy young man who tried to get into the general line. Today he is on cratches in the line for invalids—a clever and inventive way out. It’s time to have a medical commission for that line. I got home at one, took a nap, and went back on watch. I’m cooperating with a young woman. She’ll mark me in at Aeroflot, and I’ll do the same for her at the bank.