AUGUST 9 . J-P called at last. He’ll probably come to Munich soon. So now I have to wait. How do I fill the time?
First of all, you can’t get away from Russia. I called up Yury K., a poet exiled from the Soviet Union seven years ago. The three of us (his daughter came from Moscow) wandered
around town. Even though he is a young and contemporary man, there is something of the traditional Russian emigre about him: his manner of speech, his gait, if nothing else his walking stick umbrella. We tossed around Moscow problems and emotions on the cozy streets of Munich. From here they seemed bittersweet. His attentiveness prompted me to tell him everything about my life. There’s more space for Russian speech here than at home. It’s strange or, more precisely, unfair. We went to the Alte Pinakotech, had some German beer, and then looked at the paintings.
I told Wolfgang about our day that evening. He listened closely, but I don’t think he understands half of what I was talking about. How can I tell him about an exiled Russian poet when he has no feel for or interest in poetry?
AUGUST 12. One of the most attractive spots in Munich is the English Garden. Radio Liberty, one of the most important and inseparable parts of my Moscow life, is located there. The building is disappointingly ordinary, just a few low houses behind a fence. I had thought . . . On Sunday I went to the park nevertheless and found a large open-air beer halclass="underline" gigantic mugs of beer, substantial German food, and peaceful faces happy with life. I sat down at a table with a mug of beer and started up a sociable conversation with my neighbor, a merry and friendly Bavarian. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my hand: a wasp or bee sting. Actually it was nice to feel a little sorry for myself. But by the next day things took a more serious turn. My hand was swollen, I couldn’t even bend my fingers, and Wolfgang
and I had been planning a trip to Hamburg. We went to a doctor. That was almost like an excursion to a museum for me, and it turned out to be much more interesting. The museums here are like our museums, while the doctors are completely different and much better. This doctor was charming, unhurried, and amiable, as if we had come to visit him at home. Talk about my hand was interspersed with other conversation. Even the shot, which usually terrifies me, was not bad. While the doctor unpacked the syringe, filled it with medication, and painlessly injected it into my vein, I told him about our problems with AIDS and other infections caused by dirty needles. Wolfgang and the doctor were surprised. They could barely believe it. They sympathized. The doctor didn’t want to be paid—it’s not every day he has a Russian patient—but Wolfgang insisted.
AUGUST 14. “Hamburg” always brings to mind corruption and vice—a port! But it’s nothing of the sort; it’s an ordinary city. While Wolfgang looked for an inexpensive hotel, I looked out the car window at a woman strolling up and down on the sidewalk, trying to see any “signs” that she was prostitute. To my disappointment, she didn’t try to pick anyone up. She merely smoked nervously. Things must be bad with customers , I thought.
I don’t know about customers, but things certainly looked bad for vice on famous Reeperbahn. The sex shops were almost empty, and the shills tried to lure even me into the video salons. Apparently my curious gaze made them think I was interested. I quickly finished with the life of sin and went off to see the
THE INTIMATE DIARY OF A RUSSIAN WOMAN 33
architectural sights. Hamburg seemed cold and distant after Munich, despite the incredible heat that day, which almost killed me by evening. Wolfgang was late for our appointment, and I spent three hours hanging around the station entrance. Not the best place to wait! At least I learned how men try to pick up women in this city, although the men weren’t German and not even European. Several attempts were made, and they all began with inhuman patience. First the men stared at me for a half hour. Then they came over and offered to help. One asked for a lighter, even though I wasn’t smoking. Not very inventive! But he was the one I almost asked for help. I suddenly realized that I was going to pass out from the heat and my exhaustion. That had never happened to me before, and I panicked. Still, I decided not to depend on a dubious helper and went inside the station to look for the first-aid room. Luckily things went well. One of the waiting rooms was air-conditioned, and I felt better.
What was I to do if Wolfgang didn’t show up? Even though I knew it was unlikely, I decided to work through the situation, just in case. It was getting toward evening. First I said to myself, “You can’t handle this simple situation. Go back to your quiet socialist paradise.” That set me straight. I found a few ways out: buy a ticket home (which is how I regarded Munich by now) or get a room in a hotel and then call Wolfgang’s office in the morning. I counted my money. I had enough for a hotel, but what about the ticket? I decided to wait until eight and then think about the ticket. And just then Wolfgang showed up as calm as could be. I didn’t make a scene or rebuke him! I calmly said, “A little more, and I would have fainted. Or maybe died.”
After a delicious dinner and big mug of beer, we sped back to Munich to the music of the Kleiderman orchestra (Wolfgang
bought me a cassette in the roadside cafe). It was raining, and the sky was filled with dark gray, heavy clouds, through which the full moon shone. “I have the feeling that we re racing from our lives into nothingness/ 5 I said to Wolfgang.
“We're simply driving fast from Hamburg to Munich,” he replied. But you can't stop me that easily.
“I've come up with a title for a short story, ‘De Munich a Hambourg avec Vamour pour la lune ,’ understand?”
“How can I not? I know French well.”
At that moment I realized that it was a lot easier to love the moon.
AUGUST 17. I think I'm beginning to guess what’s behind the cliche of the “mysterious Russian soul.” We ruthlessly expend ourselves without counting on a concrete “earthly” result. It’s a kind of emotional dissoluteness (or genius?). Our actions and spiritual moves have no specific goals, and as a result, there is total unpredictability. Wolfgang can’t understand the reasons for my suffering. It never occurs to him to ask why. These lessons in nonunderstanding are useful for me and exhausting for him. He wants everything to be in its place. After long conversations and arguments I go into town for new impressions, while he continues arguing with his common sense. When I get back, I find letters from him, appealing to my reason.
Sometimes I infuriate him. Recently during lunch in a restaurant I said that there is no single truth, that everyone has his own. He slammed the salt shaker down onto the table and practically yelled that the sound of that shaker was an objective
reality for everyone. “But everyone perceives that sound in his own way,” I countered calmly.
So which of us has an easier life? Neither. He does not recognize emotions; he just keeps getting enmeshed in them and does not understand what is happening to him. Then my help can save him. I rationally analyze his irrationality, and he agrees with a smile. We switch places, and everything is mixed up. If we were in love with each other, we wouldn’t need to discuss this. I’d like to see our relationship through his eyes.
And still, Wolfgang, I thank you for your common sense. I miss it so much!
AUGUST 20. “In all the time I’ve lived in Munich, nothing like this has ever happened to me,” Wolfgang said in amazement. I was walking in Schwabing, the student section of the city, when a man came up to me and asked me something in German. When he saw that my German wasn’t very good, he switched to English.
“What is your favorite color?”