Читать книгу Russian She-bear in American and British Settings - Юлия Кузьменкова - Страница 9

It so happened that our arrival in Washington coincided with the beginning of Advent, the period of fasting before Christmas. However canonical rigours are always wisely alleviated for those who travel and I helped myself to a hearty dinner (as it was only common sense to do after a long and tiring journey) and decided to attend an evening service. I ferreted from a local newspaper that in Washington services were held daily, alternatively in English and Church-Slavonic. After consulting a map I chose St. Andrew’s for my pilgrimage as it was situated in a picturesque district of Georgetown.

At a quarter past seven I was standing in front of the beautiful Orthodox cathedral sanctified by the Moscow Patriarch Aleksey the Second during his visit to the USA in 1992. From the outside, however, nothing betrayed any signs of activity, the doors were locked and I was about to leave when at last my timid knocking was heard and somebody let me in. There were no onlookers, only about two scores of parishioners deep in prayer, and my arrival was almost unnoticed. The congregation were a motley crowd: mostly Americans and Afro-Americans in jeans and vests, a couple of Greeks – their church was just opposite the cathedral, half a dozen business-like choir ladies in pants and with bare heads, and three or four women wearing traditional dark robes and headscarves; to my surprise there were no reverend looking grannies, whose presence always adds a peculiar touch so characteristic of any Orthodox church in Russia.

Nobody paid any notice to me, neither was there a habitual candle-vendor – often a source of information necessary for newcomers and inexperienced neophytes. Still I decided to inquire about the local customs and icons; the latter were undoubtedly worth attention from both religious and aesthetic points of view. But when I approached one of my former compatriots (while questioning her I happened to mention where I came from) I received a curt answer in which even my not too sensitive ear caught upbraiding tones. Getting used to different modes of ‘welcome’ in churches back home I wasn’t much moved by her attitude and tried to focus on the service which was in English that day. I was prepared for it, if only theoretically so; once in an old-believers church in Moscow I chanced to come across a chant translated from Church-Slavonic into English and supplied with ancient musical ‘hook’ notation. But all my ‘homework’ proved to be of little value – very soon I realised that it would take much time to get used to the service so unusual. Its outer form, like, for example, a lot of knee-bowing performed with pious eagerness, was, of course, easier to observe and to follow.

The service finished, I stayed for a few minutes to ask a blessing from the bishop, an elderly Russian émigré who appeared to be remarkably understanding and attentive. Meanwhile the congregants began to disperse, the majority directing downstairs. There to my sheer amazement I found a basement cafeteria stuffed with a variety of tempting appetising cookies. I’d never seen anything like that in Russia, and for a split of a second – woe to my overcriticising mind! – I imagined that the next step would be to sell there beer, gin and tonic etc. But my she-bear wisely cautioned me not to impose our own rules on an unknown monastery – as an old Russian adage goes; it reminded me that, after all, I was only a guest in America. However, I reasoned, even in Rome one shouldn’t copy everything the Romans did and resolutely made for the exit.

Only outside, in the darkness of a deserted street, it came to me that the way back to the hotel could be ‘a bit of a problem’. I had secretly hoped that a motorised parishioner (all those present had come by cars) could give me a lift – at least to more lively quarters where I could hire a taxi – but in fact, nobody would go in that direction. There was a bus stop nearby, they kindly informed me, and I could get somewhere downtown and then take another bus which would probably take me to my destination. Or I could walk a few blocks up to the National cathedral: there was more traffic there and the streets were lit. My heart sank: the perspective of walking to the hotel on my own wasn’t much inspiring, but the picture of myself waiting alone for the bus in the unknown quarters at that late hour was even less attractive. Yet, for my sins I deserved nothing better than that. With a sigh I started moving up the street and after but a few steps I saw headlights of an approaching car. O, merciful God! – a taxi. But why was it moving so slowly, as if searching for something – or somebody? A terrifying thought; it didn’t help much to remember horror stories about the other, darker side of American city life.

With mixed feelings I stepped from the sidewalk and waved my hand. The taxi noiselessly stopped without turning off the motor and a young unsmiling Latino scrutinised me. I shivered unconsciously. “Where to?” he barked. Oh, my! In agitation the name of the place slipped from my mind. “Just a moment,” I mumbled as bravely as I could at the same time desperately searching my pockets for the writing pad with the name of the hotel. “You kidding or what?” came the reproach, and interrupting his suspicions and producing – at long last – the blessed pad – I almost stumbled: “Do you happen to know where…” Without waiting for me to finish he nodded and by the same gesture pointed at the passenger seat thus leaving me no choice but to accept the invitation.

I tried to make sure he understood me right by describing the hotel whereabouts but a kind of awkwardness still persisted. “Are you from Britain?” he almost startled me by a habitual tension reliever. I answered – anticipating some compliments concerning my accent as a topic for small talk. Least of all I could imagine what followed. His attitude towards me changed in a flash. The face, a minute ago so sullen, almost unfriendly, became one broad smile which only his kind could produce naturally. Forgetting for a second the traffic which was rather dense this time of the night he turned to me. “Yes, sure, I should’ve guessed that,” exclaimed he as if genuinely delighted; “you were returning from the Orthodox cathedral. Oh, God, you’re not the first Russian lady I’ve met this year in Washington!”

I thought I’d be very lucky if his hobby wasn’t to collect their scalps. How silly of me to have supposed so! All the way to the hotel turned out to be his continuous though passionate monologue about the crisis in Russia. He couldn’t imagine how it could have happened – in the country so rich in natural resources; he wondered how long could people endure being robbed to such an extent; he regretted the consequences of the USSR disintegration (he reasoned – not without logic – that destroying the balance of the world forces would inevitably affect quite a number of countries in the future) and – knowing Russian government leaders much better than I did – he blamed them for being weak and corrupted and scolded their counterparts in the USA for narrow views and snobbishness. But when I ventured a question whether he was a member of a communist or radical party – though I wasn’t sure if political organisations of that sort still existed in America – he shook his head and swore energetically, his opinion easily read.

How understanding and how sympathetic, I mused, was this guy – like so many Americans we had encountered, and how strikingly different was his attitude from that of our escorts who assumed the air of always knowing better (even in matters of our professional needs). Though both Russian émigrés, their ‘impeccable’ manners and pretended cordiality was but a mask to hide contempt at our dealing with problems, both at home and in the unknown premises.

Thus driving along night Washington I experienced a strange feeling, as if I had been taken years back, to Moscow of the Breznev’s era. Yes, everything seemed very familiar, surprisingly familiar – the same quiet streets of a big city about to go to sleep, a politically-minded (a bit too talkative but meaning no harm) taxi-driver leisurely touching the steering-wheel and an incomparable ‘aftertaste’ of the church service. The impression became so vivid that for a brief spell I completely forgot where I really was…