The moment lift doors closed, strangers bargained for our Levi's and the mix-tapes in our bright red boombox; over-diluted Fanta - a home-made rock-cake free with every cup - tasted like orange swimming-pool water; and everywhere, the queues.... Souvenirs were Revolution-related: socialist-realist posters and wonderful enamel badges like this one.
Our last night, and three of us went to the ballet; we lasted until the first interval. As we walked from the theatre into the crisp and foggy Moscow darkness, the ground seemed to vibrate, and a low, rumbling hum filled our heads and chests.
We turned a corner into a streetful of military vehicles. Walking towards Red Square, every road was a car park for tanks, rocket-launchers, trucks and personnel carriers, thickening the air with exhaust fumes: a dress rehearsal for the 70th anniversary October Revolution parade. Here was the Cold-War in blunt terms; the preceding week's whispered hugger-mugger of conversations with friendly but guarded Muscovites was suddenly so much more sinister.
24 hours later, I was walking the dog with my father in a home-counties village. “When I was in Red Square last night...” I began to say, as my father burst out laughing.
“Listen to you! 'When I was in Red Square last night...'” he chuckled, as we turned right along the path beside the graveyard where he is now buried.
No comments:
Post a Comment