My Women

If only they knew how close they were to the truth. But then, a wooden barrel-key tag flashed in the hand of one of them: — For a grandson like that, we’ll find a room. But don’t hold it against us: it’s a double room in the wing (St. Petersburgers, don’t hit me, I don’t remember if it was A or B, but it was along the canal) — 5th floor.

The potential scandal with Tamara ended before it began because I already had the registration forms in my hand.

The room was a single unit: you enter into a small hallway with a coat rack and a bathroom, then a door to the main room. Along one wall were two beds with pull-cord switches for the sconces above. The windows were closed; it was stifling. Before I could even deal with the luggage, Tamara had “uncorked the room,” throwing the window wide open. Within a minute, “Messerschmitts” were swarming in the air. Before we could even close the window, I was already being bitten by this bloodthirsty armada. Chasing mosquitoes around the room with towels, we naturally got into a fight — because it wasn’t Tamara’s fault for letting them in, but mine for allowing myself to be bitten. One word led to another, temperament took over, and I grabbed the keys, slammed the door, and left.

I thought I’d take a walk in the cool air to look around and cool off… but man proposes, and God disposes! Entering the elevator, I pressed the first button and… ended up in the basement, where there was a bar-restaurant. I thought — even better!

A group of “Burghers” was sitting at the tables, having a blast. There was a piano in the corner, and one of them was lively playing various tunes while the rest howled along. I had studied German in school, so, gathering my nerve, I told my neighbor: Mein Name ist Juri und ich lebe in Tiflis, Georgien. These “Burghers” turned out to be East Germans who spoke decent Russian. We drank to victory, to Stalin, sang “Suliko,” ate shashlik, and drank beer. It was good, satisfying, warm, and felt like home. Time flew by unnoticed. At 3 AM, the bar was closing, and we were asked to leave. The Germans pleaded with me to go with them, but an inner voice reminded me of patriotism and my wife — though more likely, the inner voice was someone else’s; after all that beer, I probably didn’t realize it.

The elevator wasn’t working, so after counting five floors, I inserted the key into the second door from the stairs — my room, I knew it. But I didn’t have to unlock it; the door was already open. “Thoughtful of her,” I thought, “leaving it unlocked so I wouldn’t wake her.” Entering the hallway, I slid the bolt shut. Without turning on the light, I stripped down. I thought about taking a bath, but exhaustion took its toll, so I didn’t.

The room was quite dark; the window was closed and draped. Tiptoeing toward my bed to avoid lectures about my “drunk face,” “philandering nature,” and being a “pig that finds mud everywhere” — and most importantly, to avoid explaining where, with whom, and why I had been drinking and roaming — I approached “my” bed. The familiar scent of Signature perfume, which I’d recently given my wife, seemed to say: — I’m here, let’s forget everything, come to me!

“Perfect,” I decided. I lay down and gave her a “soulful” hug of appreciation. But what happened next was beyond the pale.

A piercing shriek, a slap, and “Tamara” yanked the cord, turning on the light. The only thing familiar was the scent of the perfume. Everything else was like a scene from Eldar Ryazanov’s famous movie, even though it wouldn’t be filmed for another three years.

There I was, in my room, sitting on the bed — but instead of my wife, two pretty blondes were lying on the two beds, screaming at the top of their lungs. The only thing I could squeeze out was: — Where is Tamara?

Someone started pounding on the door. A faint thought stirred that this wasn’t just their nightmare, but mine too, as I thought about the coming explanations with Tamara and the potential Jesuitical consequences. I broke into nervous, Homeric laughter.

One of the girls rushed past me and opened the door. I was still sitting on her friend’s bed in nothing but my underwear — lucky I hadn’t gone for that bath and taken those off too. About five people burst into the room; it felt like they’d been standing guard. In an instant, I was on the floor with my arms pinned behind my back. The girls turned out to be Polish, and now they were eyeing me with curiosity. Someone in the hallway shouted that they’d finally caught the “rascal.” I stopped laughing and started thinking frantically: what kind of “rascal” were they looking for? A translator arrived to check if anything was missing, including the honor of Milena, whom I’d lain down next to. They didn’t check that, settling for her assurance that I “didn’t have time!”

“So he’s not a thief, but a maniac,” a cop rumbled, pinning me harder to the floor. “And how did he get in?” I barely wheezed out: — I’m not a thief or a rapist! I live here, and the door was open! The translator, after talking to the girls, explained that I was lying and didn’t live there. Silence fell. Taking advantage of the confusion, I started explaining: — If I came to steal, would I strip to my underwear? And if I decided to rape someone, surely it wouldn’t be in the Hotel Leningrad! Give me my clothes and I’ll prove I live in this hotel — and anyway, where is my wife?

Rummaging through my trousers, they produced the barrel-key: — Look, see? I live here, I’m not a thief! — My dear fellow, you don’t live here. This is the key to a different room! — There, you see? Everything’s fine — I just got the wrong floor.

The cop gave a crooked smile: — Just a small thing left then — to go up one floor and find out if you’re the husband of your… what was it… Tamara, or not.

I simply couldn’t imagine explaining my presence in the Polish girls’ bed to Tamara. The mosquitoes she’d let in would be glaring evidence of my “devious, vile plan as a cheater and a scoundrel.” Naturally, this would be followed by her throwing every heavy object within reach at me and demanding I take her home to her father immediately.

I started begging: — Anything but that! I’m here on my honeymoon; I had a fight with my wife this evening. How will I explain a bed full of Polish girls? She’s Georgian (I could lie a bit, since my wife was actually worse — a Molokan) and she’ll slit my throat because of your lack of trust!

The Polish girls had already realized I wasn’t a thief or a spy — just someone’s husband — and through the translator, they asked the policeman to let me go. With what pleasure I would have stayed with them! Anything but going up one floor. — Please leave me here, I’m honest! — I tried to move the man’s heart. — Get dressed, let’s go upstairs.

While dressing, I suggested taking me straight to the police station to sort it out in the morning — nothing worked. They led me up. On the stairs, I pleaded: — Let’s do this: I’ll go into the room, and if there’s any noise within a minute or two, arrest me. You’ll have the keys and the door will be unlocked.

The whole cavalcade went up to the fifth floor. Quietly opening the door, I handed the key to the cop and entered. — So you finally showed up? And I’m sitting here waiting for you! You pest! — Shh, people are sleeping, — was all I said. — I’m going to strip, wash up, and come back.

I quietly went back out into the hallway. Everyone had already understood. At the floor desk, they were giggling. The Polish girls were pressing their hands to their chests — maybe inviting me for a visit with my wife, or maybe without. I took the keys and said goodbye.

By morning, the whole hotel knew about the “wedding night” of the Georgian and the Polish girl, but that was already morning, and I had told Tamara everything much earlier.

Part 3

To prevent you from getting the impression that our honeymoon consisted entirely of moving between hotels and my high-stakes, near-sexual adventures, I must disappoint you — there were no more moves, and the hotel quickly forgot about us as a scandalous couple.

Naturally, we hadn’t come to Leningrad on our honeymoon to drift from room to room looking for trouble; we came to enjoy the magnificent architecture of the Northern Capital: the bridges, the museums, to visit Palace Square and imagine the storming of the Winter Palace. We wanted to visit the Aurora and perhaps scratch onto one of its barrels — “Know our kind: my grandfather fired this at the Winter Palace.” We wanted to admire the suburban palaces and talk to Leningraders, with their purest Russian language, about the famous “porebrik” (curb). Naturally, we switched our focus to the sights.

Tamara, as a “refined intellectual” with a degree in journalism, made a list of everything we had to visit. My task was the logistics: finding these spots on the map, asking people how and when to get there, how to get tickets, and everything else involving travel. Unfortunately, back then there was no internet, and you could only call from the hotel room or for two kopeks from a phone booth.

We decided to dedicate a week to museums: the Hermitage, the Russian Museum, the Kunstkamera, Peterhof, the Aurora, the Peter and Paul Fortress, the Mint, St. Isaac’s Cathedral… and, of course, to visit “Katka’s Garden” in Ostrovsky Square — to get a look at the Leningrad eccentrics.

The first thing we decided to do was watch the raising of the bridges on the Neva. I ran around asking the floor maids about the schedule, and to my surprise, different people gave me different times! In Tbilisi, the bridges don’t open, so we don’t have those problems, but here there are nearly twenty drawbridges — try remembering when each one goes up so you can make it to the right side of the river in time! You’d think there wasn’t one smart person in the city to realize that if you raised all the bridges at once, people wouldn’t have problems with being late. It only later dawned on me that the bridges are raised at different times not to torment drivers, but for the convenience of ships passing through the Neva.

Since most people agreed that the Blagoveshchensky Bridge was the first to open, we decided to go to the English Embankment to wait, and then move along the embankment to watch the others in turn. Leningrad is not Tbilisi. Standing on the Neva embankment at night, you realize it is the “Northern Capital” where the wind pierces you to the bone even in summer. By chance, we found a building with a recessed entrance where Tamara and I successfully sheltered from the wind. It would have been fine, except the few passersby looked at us as if they were seeing living people sitting on a staircase for the first time; many laughed and pointed fingers. In Tbilisi, people sitting on stairs wouldn’t cause such a stir — likely a result of my Caucasian upbringing, as you could get punched in the eye for such mocking.

When the bridge finally opened, we emerged from our shelter and immediately realized the comedy of the situation. We had been sitting on the steps of the Wedding Palace (the registry office), and people assumed we had been waiting in line since the night before to get registered. Not wanting to suffer in the cold or end up in another comical situation, we hailed a taxi and watched the rest of the bridges from the comfort of the back seat!

For the next week, Tamara’s program focused on museums. Somewhere, to my misfortune, she bought a “Guidebook to the Sights of Leningrad.” First on the list was the Hermitage — the one where, as soon as you “leave the gate, turn right,” as Arkady Raikin used to say. The USSR was a country with the most well-read population. Every family had its own home library, mostly subscription editions, and those who weren’t lucky enough to have real books bought wallpaper where painted bookshelves looked as good as the real thing. My grandfather’s library began with 35 volumes of Lenin — a tribute to the year 1937 — followed by 30 volumes of Charles Dickens, 22 of Tolstoy, 11 of Kuprin, 28 of Balzac, and of course, our everything — Pushkin, Lermontov, Chekhov, Dostoevsky… In Tamara’s and my library, we had plenty of everything as well. There was both classics and fiction. My wife, a certified journalist and amateur artist, had a special love for painting, so we had enough books on the subject, from museum treasures to reproductions.

I had my own view on this “paint-and-varnish” art. I could never understand why Raphael and Pirosmani were both considered “artists.” They explained to me that Raphael studied painting while Pirosmani did not, so Raphael knew about perspective and Pirosmani did not. When I said that in that case, Rachmaninoff and I are both pianists — it’s just that Rachmaninoff studied at the conservatory, so he knows the notes and can play with two hands, while I never studied and play with one finger and don’t know the notes — no one liked that comparison. Pirosmani remained an “artist” to everyone, while I, unfortunately, was not a “pianist.”

However, in the State Russian Museum, I tried to rehabilitate myself and almost proved that I was no less great than some, such as Kazimir Malevich. His “Red Square” — a painting from 1915 titled “Woman in Two Dimensions” on the back — is a red quadrilateral on a white background, slightly different in shape from a square. So, I approached the museum guard, a gray-haired woman sitting near the painting, and offered my own version — “The Green Square.” The painting would be titled “Philosophy of the Greens and the Third Rome.” Unlike Malevich’s square — who, due to gaps in his education, didn’t know the difference between a rectangle and a square — my “Green Square” would be a strict square on a white background. As for the price of the green masterpiece, I stated that agreeing on it shouldn’t be a problem.

This old lady, who perhaps remembered Stalin building her a “happy childhood,” first turned red, then green. Reaching into her garment as if pulling out a prop Mauser pistol, she declared that while the KGB wouldn’t give me millions, they would gladly give me twenty to twenty-five years for trying to sell a fake and thus insulting and disgracing the great Russian artist, Kazimir Malevich.

Part 4

After we had scoured almost all of Leningrad, we visited our translator-relative Alla and her two daughters several times. The girls were as different from each other, both inside and out, as my two wives. Alla’s daughters, Tanya and Alyona, declared that if we didn’t see Petrodvorets, we might as well consider our trip to Leningrad a waste. The elder, Tatyana, wouldn’t stop talking about the Upper and Lower parks, the Kolonistsky park, the Olga and Tsarina pavilions, the Gothic Chapel, and much more.

I read about Peterhof in a promotional booklet too — it described it as a brilliant suburb of St. Petersburg on the Gulf of Finland, where you could feel the sea breeze and see about 180 fountains and 4 cascades! Surrounded by the architectural masterpieces of Rastrelli, Le Blond, and Michetti… you would feel the aesthetics of the “Russian Versailles” — from perfect lawns and whimsical garden forms to garden labyrinths, pavilions, and Small Palaces.

So, Tamara and I decided to spend our last weekend in Leningrad visiting Peterhof. We clearly didn’t have enough energy left for the other palaces and sights of the Leningrad suburbs. After resting for a couple of evenings in Leningrad restaurants, we took the suburban train from the Baltic Station to Peterhof on Sunday.

The train was quite crowded. I thought it would have been better to go on a weekday since, unlike many others, all days for us in Leningrad — even weekdays — were holidays. After thirty minutes of travel, we were at the Peterhof station, which itself is an architectural monument. Walking for a while along the “people’s path,” as everyone called it, we arrived in Peterhof. Once again, we regretted not going on a weekday; the size of the crowd was already irritating, as many Leningraders came here not to see anything specific, but simply to stroll. And, of course, there were many groups of foreigners with translators.

I was struck by a scene that would be impossible in Tbilisi — two women, drunk as lords, were sprawling on the grass to the right of the path, while next to them, two almost translucent little girls, about 3 or 4 years old, were weaving a wreath of flowers.

I won’t describe the parks and fountains of Peterhof; much has been said and written about them. I will simply say that it made a staggering impression on us! I have never seen anything more beautiful. The parks, the fountains, the layout, and the palace itself were, of course, something marvelous!

Let me tell you about one more episode. The line for the palace was enormous — like the line for the Mausoleum on Lenin’s birthday. Naturally, we didn’t want to wait through that, so I figured out how to “come out dry from the water.” Being someone who gets cold easily, I was wearing my sheepskin vest even while everyone else was dressed for summer; I had long hair and was smoking a Marlboro. So, Tamara approached the guard at the door and, pointing at me, declared that I was a foreigner who had strayed from a group that had already entered the building. They immediately handed us shoe covers, and we bypassed the line into the fairytale palace.

Lana

Selivanovo

In the early 80s, I began working in the laboratory of the Polytechnic Institute, within the Department of Electric Machines — “ONILBEP.” The laboratory was headed by Oleg Valiashvili, who had traded the wrestling mat for a department head’s chair. His Master of Sports title was supposed to transition smoothly into a PhD! He was a large man with a powerful neck and a great desire to look like a boss, but in essence, he was a “good fellow” with the grip of a wrestler. The laboratory operated on a self-financing basis, and our salaries depended on what technical tasks (TZ) Oleg could secure from the Main Directorate, and to a lesser extent, on whether we actually completed them.

Oleg was never short on cunning. He would travel to Moscow for these tasks right before the New Year, precisely when everyone was packing up and only the “penny-ante” or “impossible” tasks remained — but those were the ones that stayed funded! To everyone’s surprise, he easily snatched up the “impossible” ones, making it look as though his lab could handle any challenge. Oleg would leave Moscow with the funding secured. Of course, he knew he was playing a no-lose lottery. At the Main Directorate, they understood he’d been handed a “dead duck,” so no one would hold him accountable for failure. And if something actually worked out, he might even get a medal pinned to his chest.

That year, he was tasked with developing a tracking drive for bobbin-winding machines. It was a pressing matter: our viscose fiber wasn’t selling in the West because our bobbins were straight, while abroad they were conical. In short, we needed a tracking drive to switch to conical bobbins.

Well, the development of the drives was assigned to me. We — a “group of comrades” — were sent to the Selivanovo Machine-Building Plant, somewhere near Moscow, where they manufactured weaving looms.

There were three of us: myself, Soso, and Rezo.

We flew into Moscow without a hitch and, after spending a day idling in the capital — at our long-favored “Lira” cafe — we headed to the railway station for tickets. My logic was simple: if the Rustavi Metallurgical Plant is in Rustavi, the Tbilisi TV Plant is in Tbilisi, and the Tolyatti Auto Plant is in Tolyatti, then the Selivanovo Machine-Building Plant must, naturally, be in Selivanovo. We’re buying tickets to — Selivanovo!

The first “alarm bell” rang from the ticket window like a thunderclap:

— And which Selivanovo do you want? In which region?

— Do you have a selection? — I joked.

After a pointed look in our direction, the clerk opened the “Directory of USSR Railway Stations” and announced that there were five of them. The nearest one turned out to be in the Gorky region. We had no choice but to buy tickets there, with a transfer in Kovrovo. We went back to finish our time at the “Lira.”

The Gorky region. I don’t know about the others, but I only knew Gorky from maps in geography textbooks. From Moscow, it was maybe — oh, three or three and a half centimeters to the east. And who looked at the scale? Who could even visualize it? It’s not like we were going to Kutaisi in Western Georgia; it was somewhere near Moscow, just a couple of hours away. And surely, we’d be met there — the boss had called the plant to say we were coming, and they’d promised to set up a sauna to warm us up.

Everything was fine as far as Kovrovo. Sandwiches with sausage and cheese, washed down with homemade wine, went down like a dream. Since it was a third-class sleeper carriage, the neighbors were happy to help us empty the keg. The smell of wine in the carriage was diluted by the scent of cheap tobacco, quilted jackets, and a goat being transported by a man who, sensing the wine, sat down closer to us with his animal. In Kovrovo, we waited for the train for about three hours, and only then did doubt begin to creep into our souls. Those “3—3.5 centimeters” seemed awfully far. Unfortunately, in those dark times, there were no cell phones, and we could only adjust our movements by asking the people. But, to our great regret, the people were silent. Although after the keg of “Kakhetian,” everyone had a burning desire to help us, no one had ever even heard of a place called Selivanovo!

And so, there we were in a carriage with only six other people, facing a five-hour ride. Outside the window — for the first and last time in my life — I saw a forest clearing straight as an arrow, with tangled undergrowth on either side. It felt exactly like a movie set where the scenery doesn’t change hour after hour, and the carriage is just being rocked to create the illusion of travel. When our spirits had completely plummeted — because there was no wine left, no sandwiches, and no sign of Selivanovo — we suddenly stumbled upon a “Selivanovian.” One of the three passengers was from there. But our joy turned into bitter disappointment, followed by long, hysterical laughter! Selivanovo was a tiny hamlet of seven inhabited huts, where the electric train slows down for only one minute. However, the information this woman gave us was priceless: her daughter-in-law worked at that very same ill-fated Selivanovo plant.

The difference between plant names in Tsarist and Soviet times was that in Soviet times, a plant was named after its location, but in Tsarist times, it was named after the owner! So, the Selivanovo Plant, built and operated back in the Tsarist era, bore the name of its master — Selivanov. But it was located in an ordinary Soviet backwater called Krasnaya Gorbatka, near Kovrovo — where, incidentally, we had made our transfer.

We didn’t ride all the way to the huts but got off at the very first whistle-stop. Hungry, cold, but most importantly — a “light at the end of the tunnel” had appeared!

Krasnaya Gorbatka

Finally, with great difficulty, we returned to Kovrovo. My God, what a wonderful mood we had been in there toward morning, and what a broken state we were in now. From Kovrovo, taking a bus and relying on the remnants of our willpower, we reached Krasnaya Gorbatka.

I didn’t see what the town looked like in Selivanov’s time, but I suspect it hadn’t changed much by the time of our arrival.

I don’t remember the little red-brick factory very well, but the small hatchet they gave me as a parting gift — manufactured right there — was excellent! I do, however, remember the hotel well (on my next visit, there was a new one, called “Ilet,” I think). It was a large log cabin, apparently built back under the Tsar. We were given a “room” with three cots. We dropped our things and went in search of food, as hunger was making itself known. Fortunately, there was a grocery store across from the hotel. The assortment of goods in that store consisted of exactly one item, arranged in beautiful little mounds. People from Tbilisi would immediately think of condensed milk — that’s what the mounds in Tbilisi stores were usually made of — but they would be wrong. The item was called “Tourist’s Breakfast,” and there was nothing else. Not even bread! We took three tins of these canned goods and headed back to eat. The hotel kitchen was at the end of the hall — a tiny cubbyhole with a table and a kerosene stove. An old woman wrapped in a shawl, personifying the entire service staff of the hotel, gave us aluminum forks and, as a personal gesture, a crust of bread.