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this country it appears that everything is seen in terms of food. That |
is, the labor of one’s hands is measured by how much food you can |
produce, and then you take that and compare its importance to the |
worth of the other work that you do. Some men and women spend |
their whole lives, for instance, learning and doing the infinitely slow |
and patient handwork of retouching Persian Blue tiles down in |
Samarkand to restore the ancient mausoleums. It is considered very |
precious work. But antiquities have a particular value, whereas |
carrying someone else’s bag does not have a very high priority |
because it is not very productive either of beauty or worth. If you |
can’t manage it, then that’s another story. I find it a very interesting |
concept. |
It’s about thirty miles from the airport to the city of Moscow, and |
the road and the trees and the drivers could have been people from |
Northern Westchester in late winter, except I couldn’t read any of |
the signs. We would pass from time to time incredibly beautiful, old, |
uncared for Russian-Orthodox-style houses, with gorgeous painted |
wooden colors and outlined ornate windows. Some of them were |
almost falling down. But there was a large ornate richness about the |
landscape and architecture on the outskirts of Moscow, even in its |
grey winter, that seemed to tell me immediately that I was not at |
home. |
I stayed at the Hotel Younnost, which is one of the international |
hotels in Moscow. The room was a square studio affair with |
Hollywood bed couches, and a huge picture window looking |
towards the National Stadium, over a railroad bridge, with a very |
imposing view of the University buildings against the skyline. But |
everything was so reminiscent of New York in winter that even as I |
sat at 9:30 P.M. after dinner, writing, looking through the blinds, |
there was the sound of a train and light on the skyline, and every |
now and then the tail lights of an auto curving around between the |
railroad bridge and the hotel. And it felt like a hundred nights that I |
remembered along Riverside Drive, except that just on the edge of |
the picture was the golden onion-shaped dome of a Russian |
Orthodox church. |
Before dinner I took a short walk. It was already growing dark, |
but down the street from the hotel was the Stadium stop on the |
Metro, which is a subway. I walked down there and into the Metro |
station and I stood in front of the escalators for awhile just watching |
the faces of the people coming and going. It felt like instant 14th |
Street of my childhood, before Blacks and Latins colored New York, |
except everyone was much more orderly and the whole place |
seemed much less crowded. The thing that was really strangest of all |
for the ten minutes that I stood there was that there were no Black |
people. And the token collector and the station manager were |
women. The station was very large and very beautiful and very |
clean — shockingly, strikingly, enjoyably clean. The whole station |
looked like a theater lobby — bright brass and mosaics and shining |
chandeliers. Even when they were rushing, and in Moscow there’s |
always a kind of rush, people lack the desperation of New York. One |
thing that characterized all of these people was a pleasantness in |
their faces, a willingness to smile, at least at me, a stranger. It was a |
strange contrast to the grimness of the weather. |
There are some Black people around the hotel and I inquired of |
Helen about the Patrice Lumumba University. This is a university |
located in Moscow for students from African countries. There were |
many Africans in and around the hotel when I got back from the |
Metro station and I think many of them were here for the |
Conference. Interestingly enough, most of them speak Russian and I |
don’t. When I went downstairs to dinner, I almost quailed in front of |
the linguistic task because I could not even find out where I was |
supposed to sit, or whether I should wait to be seated. Whenever the |
alphabet is unfamiliar, there are absolutely no cues to a foreign |
language. A young Black man swaggered across my eyesight with |
that particular swagger of fine, young Black men wanting to be |
noticed and I said, “Do you speak English?” “Yes,” he said and |
started walking very rapidly away from me. So I walked back to him |
and when I tried to ask him whether I should sit down or wait to be |
seated, I realized the poor boy did not understand a word that I |
said. At that point I pulled out my two trusty phrase books and |
proceeded to order myself a very delicious dinner of white wine, |
boiled fish soup that was lemon piquant, olive rich, and fresh |
mackerel, delicate, grilled sturgeon with pickled sauce, bread, and |
even a glass of tea. All of this was made possible by great tenacity |
and daring on my part, and the smiling forebearance of a very |
helpful waiter who brought out one of the cooks from the kitchen to |
help with the task of deciphering my desires. |
II |
It’s very cold in Moscow. The day I arrived it snowed in the |
morning and it snowed again today, and this is September 16th. My |
guide, Helen, put her finger on it very accurately. She said that life |
in Moscow is a constant fight against the cold weather, and that |
living is only a triumph against death by freezing. Maybe because of |
the cold, or maybe because of the shortage of food in the war years, |
but everyone eats an enormous amount here. Tonight, because of a |
slight error on the part of the waitress, Helen had two dinners and |
thought very little about eating them both. And no one is terribly |
fat, but I think that has a good deal to do with the weather. We had |
wine at dinner tonight, and wine seems to be used a lot to loosen up |
one’s tongue. It almost seems a prescription. At every dinner meal |
there are always three glasses: one for water, one for wine, and one |
for vodka, which flows like water, and with apparently as little |
effect upon Russians. |
A group from the conference with our Intourist guides went |
sightseeing today. It’s hard to believe that today’s Sunday because |
the whole city seems so full of weekday life, so intent on its own |
purposes, that it makes the week seem extended by an extra day. |