USSR journal, Moscow

Jan 20. Moscow. We rise late, talking all hours, two curious creatures. Sasha Karpenko‘s apartment with its tall ceilings, white lace curtains, is a place out of time, and outside large snowflakes feathering Moscow, and all of the Russias, is equally unreal.

It’s been days since I’ve written in my journal. As usual, there is never enough time. We have a stolen week together, living like a couple, and he puts his arm around me on the metro, strong, and sure like I had imagined, so the fairytale comes through.

Oleg discusses plans with Sasha who has a performance tonight at the Ministry of Culture. Today we will go to museums. Then to Sasha’s performance. Late start it’s nearly 1 PM but we awoke at 11:30. In winter we are bears under the covers, the animal comfort of bodies touching. We are different together, alone —no Nadia hovering over us. Cherkassy seems so far away indeed.

He gets up to find a phone number, familiar footsteps. We settle down quickly to the business of living. It’s so easy, as if we’ve done it all our lives. I wonder where the lines of division will fall as they always do. Where will the small irritating instances arise? Human nature being what it is. What will make us cross with each other?

I don’t want a relationship like he has with Nadia. I don’t think it’s possible. We were never fall into the same traps. How angry he was when she started treating him like dirt again. I don’t understand the relationship at all. And neither does he. How she alternately hates him than his affectionate it doesn’t make sense.

As Oleg and Sasha talk, I can understand enough Russian to know what they’re saying. Yesterday we went to AlphaGraphics to Xerox some poems. They were Macs and LaserWriter and faxes there. I was in hog heaven. Yesterday was an electronic day. Before that, we went into the  offices of SF/MT to pick up email. We met the general director who assured us we could hook the US Robotics modem up in a couple of weeks—yeah, maybe. Nothing ever works out how you plan it in the Soviet Union.

Jana Janus gave me the phone number of a publisher in Leningrad. Tonight we catch the train to that fabled city. The only way to get things done around here is to go in person, it seems, and it always helps to have a bribe on hand. But never called it a bribe. It’s a gratis gift. Paying it forward as it were.

We wait around for hours in Sasha’s apartment. I finally threw a fit before we can escape to the Pushkin Museum. I did not come all this way to hang out in his apartment. I feel badly, throwing a fit, but because I’m being too polite, and compliant, I get myself into these jams. And then I’m fit to be tied. I hate it when other people control my time. I thought I was going to blow a gasket.

Half the day is gone, and then Sasha wants me to come to an Afghani veterans poetry performance afterwards. My day has been inefficiently planned by someone else. We did manage to get to the Pushkin Museum, and to also attend Sasha’s event. I’m glad we did because it was big deal—a massive hall filled with adulation. For poetry! Sasha is like a rock star. I had no idea.