Guillermo Erades - Back to Moscow

She stared at me across the books piled up on her desk, awaiting an answer, her smile revealing the sparkle of a gold tooth.

Of course I had read about Pushkin — he was all over the place when I drafted my project proposal. I just never got around to reading what the illustrious man himself had written.

Sitting on the wobbly visitor’s chair, pondering what to say, I glanced around the office. The window, half-blocked by books, had been sealed around the frame with brown adhesive tape — a deliberate attempt, I imagined, to further isolate the academic space from the outside world.

‘Pushkin,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

Then, looking into Lyudmila Aleksandrovna’s magnified eyes, I launched into an improvised answer on the impact Evgeny Onegin had had on me. The greatest love story, I said, so much truth in it. I added that I’d read Nabokov’s famous translation, and that it had so moved me that I’d resolved to learn Russian in order to absorb the poetry as originally written by Aleksandr Sergeyevich.

Lyudmila Aleksandrovna nodded slowly, visibly touched. She removed her glasses and wiped her teary eyes.

She believed me. How could she not believe in a foreigner who loved Pushkin?

‘THIS IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS,’ Colin says, his finger resting on an open page of The Exile . ‘I can’t believe they gave Propaganda two fuckies.’

Stepanov lifts his sunglasses, leans over Colin’s shoulder, glances down at the newspaper. ‘Propaganda is definitely no match for the likes of Cube or Papa Johns.’

‘Papa Johns deserves its two fuckies.’ Colin flips the page carelessly, ripping the edge. ‘They pack the dance floor every Sunday night with dyevs from Samara and Tula and fuck knows where.’

‘But there are very nice girls in Propaganda,’ I say, not fully understanding Colin’s point.

Colin looks at me, his Irish-blue eyes reddish from the night. ‘Sure,’ he says, half smiling, ‘but when it comes to taking them home, man, they are uptight. Propaganda is full of spoilt Muscovites. They’ve picked up stupid ideas from the West.’

The waitress is now refilling our coffee mugs.

‘What do you mean, stupid ideas?’ I ask.

Colin takes a sip of coffee, wipes his mouth. Then he takes a swig from his beer glass. ‘You know, they got it into their heads that decent women must make themselves unavailable.’

My head is throbbing, I feel sick. I look around for the fastest path to the toilet and see that the place is empty, aside from a table at the back where three Russian men are drinking cocktails and laughing loudly. For a moment I can’t tell where we are, or how we got here. My ears are buzzing. The lack of music fills me with sudden regret that we are no longer in a club. I see a buffalo head on the wall staring straight into my eyes, which scares the shit out of me, but then it makes me realise that we are at the American Bar and Grill, in Mayakovskaya.

‘Man, you should take that shapka off,’ Colin says, gripping Diego’s shoulder. ‘It’s fucking hot in here.’

Diego grabs his hat by the earflaps and pulls it further down on his head, though it still doesn’t cover his long hair at the sides. ‘My shapka is part of my look,’ he says, grinning. ‘It gives me an edge.’

We all laugh. Diego has only recently switched his Latino image, which involved heavily gelled hair and unbuttoned black shirts, for the furry shapka look, anticipating — he would later claim — the style Pasha Face Control was to make popular during the elitni era. But, no matter what he wears, Diego’s large hairy body and clumsy moves give him the air of a big placid bear.

‘This shapka makes you look like a tourist,’ Colin says. ‘Russians don’t wear those hats any more.’

‘Precisely,’ Diego says, raising his thick dark eyebrows. ‘The shapka gives me a foreign and exotic air. Besides, it’s a great conversation piece. All the dyevs ask me about it.’

‘That’s not even real fur,’ Stepanov says. ‘Where did you get that piece of shit? On a matryoshka stand by Red Square?’

I look at my watch and realise it’s six in the morning. My vodka-flooded brain is shutting down. The thirsty little Cossack is exhausted from battle, stumbling next to his horse, ready to crash in his tent. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I ponder whether to go to the toilet first or wait for my eggs and bacon.

This is two months into my stay.

In a way, Colin was right about Propaganda. It was at that time that Propaganda introduced a kind of face control. Not a strict door policy — that would come later — but they made an effort to keep the trashiest dyevs out on the street. Expats were always welcome, of course, all we had to do was say a few words in English to the bouncer and we were in. But Propaganda’s face control — which heralded the arrival of the post-Duck elitni era — distorted the night’s demographics, which had, up until then, played to our advantage. There were fewer dyevs inside the club now, and the ones who made it in somehow felt they could afford to be more demanding.

In any case, as The Exile famously wrote back then, Propaganda remained the best place in Moscow to meet dyevs who were out of your league.

It was in Propaganda that I met Lena.

Thursday night: Propaganda night. I’d been drinking with the brothers, vodka and whisky shots at Stepanov’s place, then vodka shots and beer in Propaganda. After a piss run, I found myself standing by the bar, captivated by a pair of big blue eyes. Straight blonde hair falling over her forehead, stopping in a perfect line just above her eyelashes. Classic Propaganda haircut.

‘I’m Helen,’ Lena said.

The music was loud, so Lena and I had to talk into each other’s ears. Lena’s hair smelled of rose water and cotton candy. Her voice was soft and sensual.

I ordered two shots of vodka and we toasted za vstrechu, to our encounter. I held my breath, drained the vodka glass, bit the lemon slice, breathed again. The alcohol made a lovely burning pang in my stomach.

Lena took a small sip and left her glass, almost full, on the bar. ‘I like the DJ,’ she said.

I looked at the dance floor and saw Colin and the other brothers forming a circle around what I assumed were Lena’s uglier friends. The music was a tedious techno beat I didn’t really care for.

‘I love the DJ,’ I said.

Lena and I talked for two or three minutes, which, back then, was as long as I could go before my Russian started to fail.

She didn’t smile, Lenushka, not even at the very moment when we first met, and, as I tried to make conversation, I couldn’t help but think she was somehow distracted and absent. Lena was distracted and absent, I imagined, because she’s a nice dyev and we’re in Propaganda and, whatever The Exile said, nice dyevs come to Propaganda to listen to the DJ and dance with friends. Not to meet foreign men. In her eyes, I thought, I’m nothing but a shallow Westerner, a soulless pleasure-seeker looking for an easy fuck.

‘So you’re an expat,’ she said.

Our cheeks touched accidentally. My entire body stiffened.

‘Student,’ I replied.

Lena was now fiddling with the lemon slice that came with her vodka. She looked towards her friends on the dance floor and for a moment I thought: she’s about to walk away.

Then she turned to me and finally asked The Question.

‘Why Russia?’

Now, I could tell Lena about my studies in Amsterdam. I could tell her about Katya and how she’d ripped my heart out and eaten it, leaving a hole in my chest. I could tell her how I’d had no choice but to leave the city. I could tell her how Moscow had not even been near the top of the list of universities I’d initially applied for. But that’s not what I told her. That was not a good story for Propaganda.