Caroline Walton - Smashed in the USSR

From time to time new arrivals from Russia come to stay with me while they get settled. They remind me of myself when I left home all those years ago. These young people expect the streets to be paved with gold, but they can only find illegal work as washers-up or cab-drivers. Some give up and go home again, tired of being treated as less than human.

I have begun a new career as an actor; some film students invited me to work with them. And I went to a studio and had my voice recorded for the new James Bond film The World Is Not Enough . They wanted a Russian speaker to curse like a sailor. I let rip, but in the end they only allowed me to use the mildest words.

Outside of work I hardly mix with local people. At my age it’s hard to learn a new language. Even if I could communicate we wouldn’t understand each other. I’m not lonely; on the contrary, I sometimes long to go away from this city to a quiet village by the seashore, where I know no one at all.

Mostly I occupy myself by thinking about my past, trying to make sense of it. Like the disgraced teachers and engineers of Toliatti’s market-place I always held the Soviet system responsible for my downfall. Throughout my life I felt plagued and persecuted by Komsomolists, bosses, judges and camp Godfathers. This isn’t to say that when I poured myself a glass of wine in the morning I did it as an act of protest against the system. Of course not. But it consoled me to think that if I drank too much it was because I had no choice.

Now this old line of defence has fallen away. I am free from Komsomolists and Godfathers but I still drink. At least I know that whatever I have done, however deeply I have degraded myself, I shall pay for it. The thought cheers me slightly.

Despite everything I sometimes thank God that I became an alcoholic and took to the road instead of spinning out my days in Chapaevsk, talking of nothing but work and how many potatoes my allotment has yielded. I’ve broken through walls that confine the normal human being. I’ve discovered that things I once feared hold no terrors at all. Prison doesn’t worry me; I can live by begging. I can live without a home, possessions or human companionship.

I’ve learned too, that there is no limit to how far a man can fall. Every so often you reach a barrier. No, you say, you have some pride left, you won’t quaff furniture polish or drink in the street; you’ll never hold out your hand and ask for money. But you do. People are like electric currents: they follow the path of least resistance, and it’s easier to move downwards. The most terrible thing of all is that you get used to your degradation. Human beings can adapt to anything. And if ever a shadow of guilt or self-disgust darkens your door — alcohol soon chases off such unwelcome guests.

So I’ve discovered that my early fears were not so terrifying after all. Yes, I’m dependent on vodka, but that renders me independent of my surroundings, albeit temporarily.

Do I miss Russia? Perhaps not, yet still images haunt me of my past, particularly those days in the forest looking after the beekeepers’ hives. I even feel nostalgic for the patter of raindrops on my tent roof and the sharp scent of herbs hanging up to dry.

But I haven’t severed all my ties with the past; I even receive occasional letters from Olga. She never remarried. When my sister told her I had emigrated she started to entertain hopes, perhaps thinking I’d come off the bottle at last. Well I soon dashed those expectations; I told her that the West has given me no reason to stop drinking. Then she wrote back: Come home Vanya, let us show you how to live .

Her arrogance makes me angry. After all these years she still can’t understand what led me to drink in the first place. I was not interested in becoming the ideal Soviet family man. The truth is, I just wasn’t ready for a family at all. Yet at the same time her letter arouses feelings of guilt, especially towards my daughter, who is now ill.

Damn them all. I push the letter aside. What did they expect? At least I can be proud that I resisted their pressure to change into someone I am not.

I have to get out of the house. I pick up my stick and set off down the Romford Road. It is a typical English June day, blustery, the sky weighted with grey clouds. It starts to rain. Women huddle under bus shelters, adjusting their hijabs.

My sore kidneys twinge and the filthy air makes me wheeze more than usual. In the far distance seagulls wheel over the Barking dump, reminding me of my far-off days on The Wave .

As I pass a kebab shop I catch the eye of an acquaintance through the window. He rushes to the door:

“Vanya! Where are you going?”

“Hello Grisha. For a walk.”

He falls in beside me. Grisha arrived a couple of years ago with his family. He usually takes great care of his appearance but this morning he is unshaven and his clothes are crumpled.

“I’ve left home. To teach them a lesson. My wife and her mother ganged up on me again. All I wanted was a Mercedes, for God’s sake. I’m a man, aren’t I? I can get credit but they said we couldn’t afford it. I know my mother-in-law wants to humiliate me. She doesn’t respect me.”

Neither do I. But I like Grisha’s mother-in-law and by giving Grisha a place to stay for a while I’ll be lifting a burden from his family’s shoulders. Besides, for once I feel like some company.

“Grisha, let things calm down. You can sleep on my sofa.”

“Vanya, you’ve saved my life,” he claps me on the shoulder.

We pass a supermarket. To cheer him up I suggest: “How about a bottle?”

The next few days are a blur. I wake up at the foot of my stairs with my pockets empty and my walking stick broken. My bones ache as though I’ve been beaten by a whole station of policemen. Grabbing the banisters, I haul myself up to my room. After swallowing the pain-killers my doctor gave me, I lie down.

The horror approaches. I stare into it like a rabbit transfixed before a cobra. I have to act while I can still think.

I call a friend, a young girl from Rostov. “Irina, I’m going to die tonight for sure. Call a taxi and take me to hospital.”

“Ivan Andreyevich, you know the hospital won’t admit you again.”

“Excuse me for troubling you.”

I put the phone down just in time. The mouthpiece has started to crackle with sounds I identify as Voice of America.

Irina is right. Since being in this country I’ve dried out in hospital four times. The detox clinic won’t take me again either. Not that they’re much use. They insisted on talking about my past, how I related to my father and other nonsense. They expected me to bare my soul to some young whelp with no knowledge of life. I begged them to give me injections, to knock me out while I got over the worst of the dt’s. Surely the West must have discovered a cure for alcoholism; it is impossible they don’t have that drug in their arsenal. But they refused me. They probably thought I was a drug addict to boot. So I drank all the mouthwash I’d brought with me and that wasn’t enough. I managed to get to a phone and call Grisha, who brought in a hot-water bottle full of vodka. Somehow the doctors found out I’d had a drink and ordered me to leave. I lost my temper and raged at them but they would not relent.

Hours pass and with every minute I feel more scared. If only I can ride this one out I’ll stop drinking for a while and then keep things under control like I managed to in Georgia. The TV flickers. Silent cues shoot coloured balls across the screen. They are not enough to distract me. Rain patters on my window. The street lamp outside my room casts a yellow pool onto the wet pavement. Tiny devils frolic in the gutter. If I drop my guard they’ll climb up the drainpipe and slip in under the window frame.