Sibir Read Free

we three had a conversation. I learned quite a lot about reindeer and would have learned more except that the lady’s dress was so décolleté that every time she turned toward the reindeer man he lapsed into passionate Evenk which
none
of us could understand. Edvard, the Armenian, had taken a fancy to Claire and she was learning a great deal about Armenians.
    It was a good party. I have enjoyed many like it in the Canadian north, although this one had a notable distinction; these people never did get out of hand. When the singing began (and you have to hear Russians singing at a party to believe it) Yura (Tatar) went down the hall bothways from the suite, checking with the neighbours to see if they were being disturbed by the noise. Apparently nobody was. In fact most of them came back with Yura and joined the party. But at 1 a.m., apparently by common consent, everyone packed it in and we all went off to bed.
    It may be thought that we saw little of the tourist attractions of Moscow. This is true, although it was not for want of trying. On one occasion we set out to visit the famous Moscow Exhibition Park. After an hour’s drive we arrived there to find the main gates open, the ticket sellers happy to accept our money, but every single one of the pavilions locked up tight. On another occasion I tried to visit the Military Museum and had the same experience, even though I had carefully checked the hours when it was supposed to be open. There is a special kind of independent arbitrariness in the way public institutions are run in Moscow, and this includes restaurants and stores. They seem to close when, and for as long as, the whim of the moment dictates. This lends a piquant element of uncertainty to Moscow life. One is never sure how any expedition will turn out; and this could hardly be better illustrated than by the Franko Affair.
    It began in the dining room of the Writers’ Club, one of the most sumptuous establishments in Moscow and formerly the headquarters of the Masonic movement, and a favourite haunt of Leo Tolstoy. Claire and I were there one evening in company with Laura Kuskov, a petite blonde translator. We were relaxing after a five-course meal and desultorily discussing life and letters with an admiral of the Soviet navy who was also a much-published author, when a brisk young man named Sasha dashed up to our table. Sasha was a secretary with the Foreign Department of the Writers Union. He thrust three tickets into my hand.
    “Great surprise,” he cried. “Invitations to celebration of most famous Ukraine poet. Special good seats for you to see!” Whereupon he turned and dashed away as if,just possibly, he wanted to be sure we had no chance to refuse.
    “Where is it?” Laura called after him.
    “Is here … at 8 o’clock!” Sasha replied and vanished.
    We assumed he meant the theatre on the second floor of the Club, so we sipped our cognac and continued chatting with the admiral, who was greatly interested in the kilt I was wearing. He seemed a little dubious about its practicability in Siberia, whither we had told him we were going.
    A few minutes before 8:00, we ambled upstairs to the theatre and presented our tickets. The lady doorkeeper seemed puzzled. “Tonight is here scientific films … you are welcome, of course, but here is no poet celebration.”
    Laura snatched the tickets and scrutinized them. “Oh God!” she cried. “It’s at Tchaikovsky Theatre! That
Sasha
!”
    Happily there was a taxi outside and under Laura’s goading the driver made speed. A few minutes later he slewed to a stop and Claire and I were about to bundle out when Laura leaned over, clouted the driver on the shoulder, and screamed: “No! No! You idiot! This is Tchaikovsky
Hall
!”
    The driver took off before I could even slam the door, and at exactly 8 p.m. delivered us to the ornate portico of the Tchaikovsky Theatre.
    Now although it may be socially acceptable for North American theatre-goers to arrive