Smashed in the USSR: Fear, Loathing and Vodka on the Steppes (19 page)

When Igor Alexandrovich awakens he remembers nothing. He rises and paces about the cell. We are all silent. He comes up to me, his head trembling: “Could you tell me the time please?”

“I left my watch at home on the piano.”

“Yes, yes, it is easily done,” he nods. “And may I ask what your name is, if that is not confidential?”

“Pushkin, Alexander Sergeyevich.”

Igor Alexandrovich knocks at the cell door asking to be let out. When the sergeant comes he asks: “Would you be so kind as to tell me where I am?”

“Up your arse,” replies the sergeant and goes off to lie down again.

After a few hours Igor Alexandrovich recovers his senses. I tell him about his fit. He sits on his bed lost in thought for a long time. Then he looks at me with tears in his eyes: “Finita la comedia.”

As a doctor he understands very well what has happened and knows his end is near. “Ivan Andreyevich,” he whispers to me, “I pray that death may come sooner rather than later. I would like to be done with this life.”

The next day Igor Alexandrovich has another fit, an even more violent one. We make a terrible racket but still they refuse to call an ambulance. After all, it’s not worth going to any trouble over an old beggar.

I do not see Igor Alexandrovich die for I’m released the following day and I take the first train out of Tblisi.

I go west, to the town of Zestafoni, joining a group of tramps who sleep under the carwash by the fruit market. Tramps regard Zestafoni as their capital, perhaps because the local police are lenient and no one has ever been jailed for vagrancy in this town. When the bazaar opens in the morning I earn a few roubles helping farmers carry goods to their stalls.

Most traders sell chacha under the counter. The police take their cut and turn a blind eye. Real chacha is made from grape skins but this is only for personal consumption. The bazaar variety is made from rotten fruit and anything that will ferment. Some brewers fortify their chacha with luminal and calcium carbide.

Near the entrance to the bazaar there are a couple of kiosks which sell odds and ends: envelopes, cosmetics and shoe-laces. They are owned by two Georgians, Archil and Soso. One evening as we sit outside the car-wash Archil comes up with a three-litre cask of chacha. He makes an offer: “I’ll give you this if you pick up Soso’s kiosk during the night and move it further away from the bazaar entrance.”

“What about the cops?”

“I’ll take care of them. You’re not breaking into the kiosk.”

“Okay.”

We find an old telegraph pole, chop it into rollers, and at night move Soso’s kiosk about 100 metres away from the entrance to the bazaar.

The next day Soso approaches us, offering another cask if we’ll roll his kiosk back and drag Archil’s away. This goes on for a week. There’s no enmity between the two men; they’re simply having a joke with each other. They have a sea of chacha and they
think up this game out of boredom. Everyone has to find a way of entertaining himself.

There is a tramp in our circle who goes by the name of Lousy Vassya. Lousy Vassya has lived in Zestafoni for years. Everyone knows him; some even pity him. All year round he wraps himself in a dirty woollen coat which has not a single button. He likes to sit in the sun scratching himself. A tall and sturdy peasant, he’s bloated from constant drunkenness and unable to do any form of work. From time to time a woman approaches Vassya and surreptitiously holds out a small medicine bottle. Reaching deep under his armpits he catches a few lice and offers them to the woman at a rouble a piece. His price is as stable as the London stock exchange. Georgian folk medicine recommends live lice as a cure for jaundice. They are stirred into yoghurt and fed unnoticed to the patient.

A few days before Mayday the bazaar director Vakho comes to us. “If you go on the First of May demonstration I’ll give you a barrel of wine.”

Tempted, we get down to business. We find a couple of poles and Vakho gives us three metres of red linen. We boil glue on our bonfire and mix it with chalk to make paint. Then we try to decide on a slogan. I propose
Lenin is with us!
but the others reject that as too inflammatory.
Peace to the World!
is too innocuous. Finally we agree on
Zestafoni tramps salute the First of May!

Neatly stencilling the slogan, we hide the banner under the carwash and go around to other places in town where tramps congregate. Most of them sleep outside the metal plant where waste pig-iron is dumped. These tramps are distinguished by their burn scars and blackened clothing. Some agree to join us on the parade.

The parade begins with schoolchildren, followed by workers from the metal plant and then other factories and institutions. We infiltrate the contingent of shop workers, waiting till we are about 40 metres from the platform of dignitaries before falling into a group. This way the police have no time to seize us and pull us out.

The bigwigs on the platform know the order of the march so that they can shout appropriate slogans to each section.

“We greet the first of May with the highest respect for study!” they cry to the school children.

“Hoorah!” respond the kids with a half-hearted cheer.

“The world’s youth are the vanguard of Communism!” they shout to the students.

“Hoorah!” cry the students, with even less enthusiasm.

“More goods! Cheaper and better!” they shout to the bazaar traders.

“Hoorah!” they mutter back, no doubt thinking, ‘surely to God not, otherwise how are we going to survive?’

“A healthy mind in a healthy body!” they call to us, for according to their programme we should be doctors.

“Hoorah!” we roar at the top of our lungs, unfurling our banner. The loudest of all is Lousy Vassya. Pulling a hand out of his armpit he waves at the town’s fathers. They stand in shock, rictus grins on their faces. As we march past I catch sight of them whispering to each other. I fear we won’t see that barrel of wine, but I’m wrong. The barrel appears in the evening and we don’t need telling what to do with it.

A few days later the police come to question us. Fortunately they only laugh and decide to overlook the matter. It would be too embarrassing to take us to court.

Not long after the parade Lousy Vassya overhears two Georgians arguing over whether anyone can drink a litre of chacha straight down. Vassya volunteers to try. He has been drunk since morning and wants to show off. He tips the bottle to his lips and swallows the chacha in great gulps. He just manages to draw the back of his hand across his mouth before he falls to the ground, black in the face. By the time someone has called an ambulance he is dead.

Vakho and many bazaar traders donate money to bury Vassya. We hold such a wake that it’s a wonder no one follows Vassya to the next world.

I grow bored of Zestafoni and decide to try my luck in the capital. Perhaps I’ll cut down on my drinking, clean up and find some sort of permanent job.

On New Year’s Day I arrive in Tblisi. This time I know better than to hang around the station so I take a trolleybus into town. Usually I avoid public transport: you can never get your bearings through the filthy windows. I prefer to walk the streets of a strange city to orientate myself. But this morning I’m tired and in urgent need of a hair-of-the-dog.

In the town centre I stop at a beer-stall. It’s crowded and I have to look around for some elbow space. A voice growls: “Over here mate!”

I go across to three men, alkashi by the look of them. The one who hailed me sports a pair of broken glasses and a pointed beard. “Where are you from?” he asks.

“From where the wind blows.”

“And where d’you stay?”

“Where the night finds me.”

“And what do they call you?”

“Ivan.”

“Ivan the what?”

“Just Ivan.”

“Nothing in this world is simple. not even a boil can lance itself. I know Ivan Moneybags and Ivan the Terrible… Which one are you?”

“None. I’m from Chapaevsk.”

“Let me see… the Terrible was the Fourth so that makes you Ivan the Fifth.”

He holds out his hand: “Kalinin.”

“Kalinin who?”

“Kalinin the Chairman of the Supreme Soviet!” he laughs. “Now we must drink to this meeting!”

Everyone rummages in their pockets. I offer a rouble but Kalinin puts out his hand to stop me.

“Today you’re our guest!”

One of my new friends runs across the road to a wine shop and returns with a bottle of champagne. I’m disappointed, but Kalinin gives me a sly wink and approaches another table where several well-dressed Georgians are gathered. Wishing them a Happy New Year, he offers them the champagne. Then he returns to our table. In a few minutes the Georgians have sent over two bottles of champagne, a half-litre of vodka, and a dozen beers. We plunge into the beer and vodka. After a while we send the two bottles of champagne over to another group of Georgians. In an hour there are so many bottles on our table there’s not even room to rest your elbow.

Kalinin used to be a physics teacher He really does look like the former Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of the USSR and he shrewdly exploits this resemblance.

“When I strike my pose on the Elbakidze bridge people stop and stare. Then they feel obliged to throw me a coin. You can find me on the bridge at any time; the cops leave me alone as long as I keep quiet. Trouble is, after I’ve had a few the urge comes over me to deliver a speech. My oratorical talent has landed me in the spets a few times.”

When night falls Kalinin shows me a place to sleep. Under one of Tblisi’s parks there is a cavern housing steam pipes that heat the city. In winter every railway prostitute, beggar, tramp and thief drifts to that cavern. Some are so weakened by illness and booze that they hardly ever leave the place. Others go about their business by day and gather again in the evening bringing food and drink. All night long the cavern rocks with songs, curses and fights.

It’s a murky place, lit only by candles stolen by church beggars. Rats scurry over the bodies of sleeping tramps. The floor is covered in crusts of bread, slimy pieces of rotting liver sausage and shattered eau de Cologne bottles. Wine and vodka empties are collected early in the morning. We sleep on cardboard discarded by furniture stores. On my second night one of the sick vagrants dies. We all leave the cavern, someone tips off the police and we make ourselves scarce while they come to collect the body.

Hippies have made their appearance in Georgia by this time and some of them try to join us. We despise them as dilettantes and kick them out of the cavern whenever they hang around for too long. Once in a while, however, some Tblisi artist or intellectual decides he want to experience life in the lower depths – and offers to pay for the privilege. Then we put on a real feast with songs and folk dances. We tramps know perfectly well what’s expected of us and earn the bottles that our visitors
bring. Putting our arms around our free-spirited friends we spin endless yarns about our lives, sparing no harrowing detail.

One of our bacchanalia ends in a police raid. Nervous about entering our cavern, the cops send in dogs first. A tramp warns me that they’ll use CS gas to flush us out if we don’t leave of our own accord. As we emerge they throw us into waiting Black Marias. A cop grabs me but the confusion distracts him and I manage to slip away. I spend the rest of the night in the park and decide I will avoid the cavern in future.

The morning after the raid finds me wandering aimlessly down Plekhanov Avenue, hungry as a wolf-pack in winter. My head is a barrel of pain and grief; my brains splash about somewhere in its depths. I break into a cold sweat at the sudden hoot of a car. I feel that people on the other side of the street are watching me and whispering words of vicious condemnation. Penniless, I scour the beer-stalls but meet not a single acquaintance. I’m about to breathe my last yet I’m too scared to ask a stranger for a few kopecks. I slink along, keeping close to the wall and my eyes on the ground.

“Have you lost something?” says a voice above my head. A tall beggar stands with his back to the wall, propped up on two crutches.

“A purse - except I haven’t lost mine; I’m hoping to find someone else’s.”

“No one’s lost anything here today. That’s for sure. I’ve been here since morning.”

“Too bad,” I say, moving off.

“Stop!” he cries, “Can you help me?”

“How?”

“I need to buy a bottle but I can’t get to the shop.”

“My pockets are empty.”

“I’ve got the cash. I’ll wait for you in that little square over there.”

“Okay.”

“My hangover’s killing me,” he sighs.

“Mine too.”

He pours a pile of change into my hand.

“There’s more than enough for a bottle here,” I say.

“Buy two so you won’t waste time running back to the shop later.”

When I come out of the shop I see my saviour approaching the square, thrusting his crutches forward and dragging his paralysed body in their wake. I join him and we introduce ourselves. His name is Borya and he comes from Leningrad.

I discover that Borya is no drinker and only sent me for the wine because he guessed the state I was in. He drinks a glass to be sociable but refuses a refill.

“I’ve been paralysed since I was a student. I jumped from a train to avoid the ticket collector. If he’d reported me for travelling without a ticket the college would have cut off my grant. I had no family to support me. Since then I’ve been all over Russia. Once in a while the police pick me up and send me to an invalid home but I always run away. I arrive in some town or other and don’t leave it until I’ve collected 1000 roubles.”

“And then?” I ask.

“I bury them and go on to another town.”

“Are you trying to save a lot of money – for retirement perhaps?”

“No. It isn’t the money itself I need. I give away most of what I collect.”

“But why d’you live like this? You stand the whole day long at your pitch, collecting money. You don’t drink, you don’t smoke and you give it all away?”

“The money is not the most important thing. I make people happy.”

“How?”

“Imagine, I am standing on my pitch, virtually a corpse. A man goes by. I don’t know anything about him. Perhaps he’s a cruel person who beat his wife that morning. I’ve never seen him before and I’ll probably never see him again. He notices me, fumbles in his pocket, finds a three-kopeck piece that’s no use to him and chucks it into my cap. To me those three kopecks are nothing, but I’ve done something for that man.”

“What have you done?”

“I’ve caused him to do good. When he passes on down the road he is a different person, although he may not know it himself. Even if he gave me the money automatically, without thinking, he’s become a slightly better person.”

I stare at Borya, as stunned as a bull in a slaughterhouse. He laughs. “I can see that you’re not yourself yet. Here’s some more money. I’m going to work. Meet me in Gorky Park this evening?”

“Agreed.”

Borya pours some change into my hand, then he stands up. His body swaying like a pendulum, he returns to his pitch.

Anxious to continue our conversation, I do as Borya suggests and make for the park. As I near his pitch I cross to the other side of the street to pass unnoticed in the throng of pedestrians. The sight of me might remind Borya of his kindness; he’s not in need of my gratitude.

Picking up a bottle of Imereti wine along the way, I choose a far bench in the park where I can sit hidden behind some bushes. From time to time I take a slug of wine, trying to maintain myself on that blissful cusp between sobriety and drunkenness.

Long-suppressed thoughts churn in my mind: ‘Who am I?’ An alcoholic and a tramp. But I’m no white raven; half the country are alcoholics. Our alcoholics outnumber the populations of France and Spain combined. And that’s only the men. If you count women too you have to add on all Scandinavia and throw in Monaco for good measure.

Unlike me, however, most people work, or at least give the impression that they’re working. And for what? Just to drink away their pay at the end of the month. Many men claim they work for the sake of their family. But what’s the good of an alcoholic in a family? How do they pay for their babies’ milk? By collecting empty bottles? And I’ve seen children tremble at the sound of their fathers’ footsteps. At least I had the honesty to ditch the pretence and take to the road, although it cost me my wife and daughter.

The worst thing you can do to someone else is humiliate them, but self-degradation is no less evil. The person who humiliates himself drags others down with him. I’ve seen this happen often enough and I don’t want to be guilty of it too. Yes, I made the right decision back in that forest in the Kuban. I’m responsible only to myself now. Yet the one question remains: how am I going to live? I won’t steal and it’s hard to find work, so how will I buy my drink? In practice I’m almost a beggar, and I’m trying not to admit it. I shut my eyes to the truth. But when all is said and done I have to acknowledge what I am.

Why am I not ashamed to accept Borya’s money while I refuse to hold out my own hand in the street? I don’t consider myself
better than him. It’s not the first time a beggar has bought me a drink. I can’t bring myself to beg, yet I drink at someone else’s expense which is worse.

Another part of me interrupts: but beggars also live at others’ expense.

No, I correct myself, beggars support themselves. They earn their kopecks through self-abasement.

All the same, I am mistrustful of beggars. I have known hundreds: on the streets, in camps, police cells and psychiatric institutions. Most of them are scoundrels and hypocrites. Many times I’ve heard them ask a passer-by: “Give me a few kopecks for the love of God.”

When the person passes on they curse: “May you rot in hell you greedy bastard!”

I sometimes ask them: “How can you talk like that? It’s up to them whether they give to you or not. Besides, people might overhear and what would they think of you then?”

“Fuck them. They are many and I’m only one. If one passes by another will drop something in my cap. Only God sees everything!”

But it’s not for me to sit in judgment. Everyone lives as they can.

In former times whole villages worked as beggars, training their children to follow the family profession. These beggars roamed the countryside, pretending to have lost all their worldly goods in a fire. Others hung around stations asking for the price of a ticket, claiming all their money and documents had been stolen. In Astrakhan camp I met a man who spent years selling a saw outside Moscow stations. He worked with great artistry, dividing his time between Moscow’s eleven termini. His victims
were officers: none below the rank of major. He would go up to the officer, salute, stand to attention and bark: “Comrade Colonel! May I introduce myself? Sergeant-Major Sidorov, of the 187th Standard Bearers, guards division, Order of Suvorov!”

“What can I do for you, Sergeant-Major?”

“Excuse me, Comrade Colonel! Could you buy my saw?” Sidorov would bring out a wrapped-up saw from behind his back.

“But why should I buy your saw, Sergeant-Major?”

“I want to rejoin my family but I need 23 roubles for the ticket. I’ll sell you the saw for five.”

“Haven’t you been to the Commandant’s office?”

“Of course, Comrade Colonel, but as everyone knows, they’re just a bunch of pen-pushers. They’ve never smelled gunpowder. I remember, now, near Breslau…”

At this point the colonel usually pulled out his wallet and gave Sidorov a 25-rouble bill. If the officer was at all suspicious he might ask: “Who was the commander at your Front?”

“Marshall Zhukov, Comrade Colonel!” replied Sidorov with shining eyes. “Now there was a true officer! He loved his men.” Sidorov had learned the history of the 187th Standard Bearers off by heart. If the officer asked any tricky questions Sidorov would reply: “I don’t remember. I was in hospital at the time, wounded in action.”