Caroline Walton - Smashed in the USSR

“It’s in the Kuban,” I put on a southern accent.

“Do you have your documents?”

“Well of course!” I reach into my jacket and pull out a package wrapped in old newspaper. The policeman looks on with distaste as I peel off the paper. My new passport is already stained and the residence permit almost illegible.

“Sorry… I didn’t know that it was leaking.”

“What was?”

“The lamp!”

“What lamp?”

“The kerosene one. The electrician was drunk and burnt the transformer.”

“Get the hell out of here! If I see your stupid face again you’ll go straight into the spets.”

So I continue northwards, trying to ride by night when ticket controllers are sleepy. By day I wander around towns, collecting empty bottles for a couple of roubles to buy bread. I bum cigarettes, or pick up dog ends and roll them in newspaper. Sometimes I share a cigarette with another vagrant, sitting by his side smoking in silence, feeling as close as brothers.

I reach Moscow, cross the city, and head northwards. As I near my destination I feel my courage fail. I long to see Natasha, but will she be pleased to see her father, especially in his beard and filthy clothes? At Bologoye I wait a whole day for an Estonia-bound train, sitting on a cold platform lost in thought.

As night falls I rise, cross the footbridge and take the next train south. I return to Moscow and then jump trains to Tambov, Rostov and finally to Sochi. I am relieved that I made my decision in time. If I’d seen Natasha I might have done irreparable harm.

“Kind people! Answer me anyone who hears!”

“What d’you want?” I call out.

A blind man taps his way towards my voice. His face is exactly as I imagine Blind Pew’s in Treasure Island . He doesn’t wear dark glasses, perhaps because he wants people to see the cruel livid scars around his eyes.

“Brother!” he cries, “Help me get a bottle. I can hear a whole crowd of people around me. I’ll be trampled.”

Not waiting for my reply, he pours some small coins from his pocket into his cap. “Get us a couple of bottles.”

“But I haven’t enough for one myself.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Take as much as you need! And a bit extra for yourself. My trousers are sagging with the weight. Perhaps you need it all?”

I come out of the shop with three bottles and catch up with Blind Pew on the corner. With his cap held out to passers-by he whines: “Help me good people. I was burned in a tank at the battle of Kursk.”

“I see you waste no time,” I say.

“Ah, you’re back. Well, what are you dithering for? Slurping up the snot dripping from your nose? Where shall we drink?”

“It’s all the same to me.”

Taking my arm, Pew directs me to left and right, until we reach an obscure beer stall tucked away under a railway bridge. They instantly lay out glasses for us. Placing a finger across the rim of each glass in turn, Pew carefully pours the wine.

“I grew up in Sochi. I was blinded a few years ago when I fell into a pit of quicklime. Usually I take someone along with me to keep an eye out for the police and to buy bottles. I used to have a girlfriend but the police picked her up in Sukhumi.

“The cops can’t do much except give me a kicking, but I’m scared of being sent to the invalid home. It’s worse than strict-regime prison. They take your pension and the staff steal all the food. Anyone who still has legs runs away.

“Of course if you live rough you’re caught between two flames. In railway stations there’s plenty of folk around, but you have to look out for the police. In quiet places you get beaten up and robbed by thugs. They know we won’t run screaming to the law. Anyway, where are you headed?”

“Central Asia.”

“Why not stick around with me? You’ll see how much we can make in a day.”

“Sorry, I’ve made up my mind. The police here are getting on my nerves.’

“Well I want to get to Sukhumi to find my girlfriend. Let’s go together.”

I agree out of curiosity. Sukhumi is in the right direction.

After we’ve finished the wine we go to work. Blind Pew directs me to the centre of town and tells me to stop outside the department store. Taking off his cap and putting a sombre expression on what is left of his face, he begins to sing:

A crowd gathers to hear the sad song of the boy sentenced to death by his own father. I walk from one street corner to the other keeping a lookout for the cops. From time to time Blind Pew tips his takings into his pocket so that people do not think he is making too much. When he points his index finger downwards it means it is time for a smoke-break. Finally Pew says: “Greed killed the friar, let’s stop now.”

We fortify ourselves with wine and count our takings. A Moscow diva would envy us. In two hours we have made thirty roubles.

“But you only sing one song,” I complain.

“It’s the only one I can remember.”

We buy some bottles for the night. I take Pew home to the basement where I’ve been dossing but this turns out to be a mistake. His snores not only keep me awake but they must have awoken everyone on the floor above. In the early hours of the morning the police arrive and haul us off. Luckily they give us nothing worse than a beating. We have 24 hours to leave Sochi.

Reaching the station, we walk along a platform and force open the pneumatic doors of a local train. We lie down in an empty carriage and Pew is soon snoring again. A couple of hours later the train jerks and begins to move, taking us towards Sukhumi. I check the adjoining carriage before returning to give Pew the all-clear. He stumbles down the carriage, singing a song I taught him the night before, one I remember from childhood.

My song is a success: people laugh and give Pew money and a glass of chacha. [32] A Georgian spirit. I make no sign that I know him.

By the time we reach Sukhumi, Pew is rejoicing over the money he’s made. He asks me to accompany him further, explaining he’ll forget the song by tomorrow morning and will need me to teach it to him again.

I decline. To me, begging is degrading, and besides, I don’t want to be supported by Pew. When we alight at Sukhumi he directs me to the bazaar. A group of alkashi has gathered by the entrance. One of them, a bloated, ragged woman, gives a screech. Detaching herself from her comrades she runs up and flings her arms around Pew. Together they stagger off to the station to work the train again.

I wander off to try my luck in town. I’ve never been to Georgia before and I feel out of place. People are better-dressed than in Russia and I sense they’re looking down their noses at me. I spend the day wandering through the town drinking nothing but Turkish coffee. The streets are full of men kissing each other and talking across every doorway. [33] Talking across a threshold is considered bad luck in Russia. Many people have photos of their dead pinned on their lapels and most women wear mourning. Two men begin talking behind me and I step to one side, thinking a fight is about to break out. Cars career like rabid dogs, paying little attention to lights. Drivers stop to chat to friends, ignoring the angry queues behind them