Calligraphy Lesson Read Free

embassy. In front of it would park incredible foreign limousines that had turned into our Starokonnyushenny Lane straight from American movies. You could press up against the window and take a good look at the dashboard—the number 220 on the speedometer was especially impressive—and we boys in our mousy-grey uniforms would heatedly debate the merits of Mustangs over Cadillacs or those of Chevrolets over Fords till a policeman leapt out of the booth outside the embassy gates and sent us packing.
    A reception for the Canadian hockey players was held in the embassy. Word of the Canadians’ arrival spread instantly, and we crowded on the opposite pavement, trying to get a look at our idols. These were our gods, come down from television’s ice rink, and it was strange to see them in suits and ties. In the first-floor windows of the Arbat townhouse, flung open on that warm September day in seventy-two, we caught glimpses of Phil Esposito, “Bullyboy” Cashman and brothers Frank and Pete Mahovlich. In response to our adoring screams they peered out of the windows, smiled, waved, gave us thumbs up—all as if to say, Well, fellas, ain’t life just dandy!
    So many years have passed, yet still I can see, vividly as ever, the toothless grin of Bobby Clarke, who’d leaned out of the window and thrown us a badge. Other players, too, began throwing badges and sticks of chewing gum. Even some biscuits. It all really kicked off then!Try as I might to catch something, anything, I was shouldered aside by those with more luck on their side. I would have ended up empty-handed. But then the miraculous happened. Bobby Clarke, who was almost lying on the windowsill, began jabbing his finger in my direction. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was looking at me , and threw me some gum. I caught it! He laughed and gave me another thumbs up—you did good, son! It was then that we were driven off by the police. I shared the gum with my friends, but the wrapper I held on to for ages. Need I mention that it was the best-tasting gum I’ve ever had in my life?
    The next day Mum came into our class. She had her strict face on. Mum knew how to be strict, and when she was the whole school was afraid of her.
    She began saying that our behaviour had brought shame and dishonour upon the school and the whole country as well. We’d been photographed by foreign correspondents, and now the whole world would see how we’d debased ourselves by fighting over their chewing gum.
    Everyone was silent. I felt injustice in these accusations. And suddenly, to my own surprise, I spoke out.
    â€œWhy does our country have no chewing gum?”
    â€œOur country doesn’t have a lot of things,” Mum replied. “But that doesn’t mean you have to lose human dignity.”
    I didn’t forget that.
    As headmistress, Mum was the school’s representative of that prison system, and she had it hard. I know she shielded and saved the skins of many. Trying to do whatever possible, she rendered unto Caesar the things which were Caesar’s, and Pushkin unto the children. For several generations Pushkin was a secret code, the key to the preservation of the human in this bedevilled country. By then many already believed that the worse things were, the better, the sooner everything would go topieces, but those like her strived to endow an inhuman existence with humanity. There was no saving her own skin, though—she got what was coming to her, and then some.
    By the time I was seventeen our relationship had deteriorated to the extent that I’d stopped talking to her. Completely. We lived in the same flat but I wouldn’t even say hello to her. I couldn’t forgive her being a Party member, nor our having to write essays on Virgin Lands and Malaya Zemlya 3 at school. I thought that the struggle against the odious system must be waged without compromise—starting with yourself, your family, those