GHOSTS OF KREMLIN

Updated Sunday 15 May, 2011 12:18 PM

GHOSTS OF KREMLIN

By Alex Shalenko

Moscow was a city seemingly permanently covered in grey, damp cloak of fog that never quite solidified into rain, soaking into every surface that exposed itself to the elements as the car sped up along the Tverskaya, splashing water at the bystanders unlucky enough to be on the sidewalk. The splashes of red hanging from the buildings did little to brighten the mood; I have always found it ironic that the state’s largest holiday was held during such a gloomy season when no sane person would want to be outside. As it was, the banners and slogans took on somewhat of a sinister appearance – the color of the flag, the color of blood that it signified.

"Almost there," the driver growled, barely intelligible with his thick accent. Just like this whole stay, he was unpleasant in the least, and rude and annoying for the most part – solid and immovable just like the Russian-made Volga car, itself a giant that was probably an anti-personnel vehicle in its previous life.
The entrance to the Kremlin, the gloomy keep of this grey city, was just ahead, surrounded by the guards whose uniforms were much less ceremonial than practical, and whose AK-47s were almost certainly on a hair trigger. Just by the Lenin Mausoleum, the gate still inspired some unwanted awe, not losing any of its imposing presence even when overshadowed by the bulky, angular form that housed the body of father of the nation – a place of pilgrimage for the locals, who even at this early hour formed a long line, waiting patiently to get in. It was all like a twisted version of Lincoln Memorial near the Independence Day – yet it was all grey, gnarled and covered in barbed wire fog suffocating the city in its soft, yet inescapable grip.

The driver exchanged a few words in Russian with the guard, and the car proceeded further into the belly of the beast, underneath the great Spasskaya tower, now adorned with a new clock, arrows replaced by Hammer and Sickle, revolving over the shape of the world, complete with parallels and meridians over the shapes of continents. The Kremlin was built in such a way as to make the visitor appear small in its royal presence; the ancient halls reverberated with echo even as the massive walls looked down with the cold eyes of the guards manning them. Even though this was not my first time here, I could not help but feel a bit overwhelmed – not as much at the architecture of the place as at the undoubted symbolism it represented.

Here, inside the Kremlin complex, the Hammer and the Sickle ruled even more obviously than in the great city that surrounded it. The silhouette of an Orthodox church in the distance still stood, albeit the crosses were now replaced by the omnipresent duo; it was, for all intents and purposes, a sight that would have been laughable if not for the surrounds crawling with guards. There was no one to meet me here but a handful of stern-faced guards, holding their weapons with looks of grim determination.

I walked on, waving the diplomatic passport on more than six separate occasions, crossing over the cordons that walled off the heart of Kremlin from the world. The walls were imposing themselves with the eyes of impassionate guards and soulless bureaucrats; here, the Empire lived with a calculating, corrupt life that one takes on when in no doubt of absolute power.

The hallway was lined up with portraits of the stern-faced leaders, only somewhat enlivened by an occasional painting of nature that did not have the air of quiet solemnity to it. The sheer length of it was very obviously designed to dwarf a visitor, make him feel small and insignificant when about to enter the holiest of the holy places, the chamber where the Premier would meet with any visitors he deemed of sufficient importance. I walked on under the dead white lights of the lamps adorning this passage, on and forward. It was not a feeling of fear, more so the one of uneasiness; the scale of this monument to the Soviet reign was large enough to inspire discomfort. The colorless and cold lights, the equally cold and frigid faces of the guards only underlined the sterile and somewhat artificial mood here in the sanctum, the holiest of the holy of the leviathan state.

The process was anything but speedy; if anything, these people had an insurmountable number of forms, checks, approvals and pre-approvals before any progress could be made. The bureaucracy ruled here with iron fist, stamping out any thought of creativity, flexibility, or speed; if it was not stamped by at least by a dozen officials of varying degrees of self-importance, it was null, void, and rendered obsolete.

It was already getting close to noon when I was finally at the large door, covered with metal engravings and pictures praising the glories of socialism and its heroes; I could not help but wonder if the massive frames hid some sort of armor that would protect those inside the office should there be a need to make a desperate last stand. It was disturbing to think in these terms; who would threaten them here, in the heart of their empire?

In contrast to the oppressive magnificence of the building, the General Secretary Lukyanov was a less than imposing figure; short, plump, and balding, he was the very definition of the stereotype of a bureaucrat. The office itself, though decorated with slogans, pictures, and small statuettes proclaiming the impending victory of communism, was anything but Spartan – indeed, somewhat fitting for the voluptuary resident therein, who seemed to genuinely relish the comfort it provided.

"Comrade Lukyanov," I had uttered a greeting, trying to stay close to the diplomatic protocol. The man eyed me, looking a bit like a fat and apparently complacent cat trying to evaluate whether or not the mouse was worth catching. Somehow, he seemed less than dignified, albeit no less dangerous to get on the wrong side of - Lukyanov’s voice had a ring of steel to it that indicated why this fat, bald, old man was invested with the office.

"Mister Franks, I presume," he spoke in clear, albeit heavily accented English with a somewhat lazy inclination to his tone.

He extended his hand; it was warm and wet, as if he was sweating.

We exchanged pleasantries, making small talk to kill the time and to adhere to the protocol before the true purpose of the meeting may be mentioned. The two stone-faced guards stood at each side of the door, cutting any chance of escape, the silent guardians pledged to their leader and the cause he stood for; the ceiling fan hummed slowly like a wounded bird, bringing little movement into the stale air.

"As you are aware," he said, "the crop gathering efforts in Kouban have benefited greatly from the new automation processes." He poured himself a small glass of clear, transparent liquid out of an unmarked bottle, and downed it in one drink; he motioned towards me, pouring me one glass of what I could now recognize as being definitely alcoholic in nature.

"We are pleased to see that our machinery helps to advance the cause," I replied, as instructed back at the Embassy. "Which brings me to the true purpose of my visit."

Lukyanov downed another shot, seemingly having little effect on him; it occurred to me that he probably had a few before my arrival, and was slowly being spirited away into the realms of utter drunkenness. "I am all ears," he replied, sounding like he was a few steps away from starting to slur his words.

"My comrades," I tried to choose words carefully, "have found ourselves in a bit of a dire need."

"Are you talking about the border issues with the Appalachians? They seem to be a bit of trouble, aren’t they now?" he asked, now obviously rather drunk. "Actually, the Appalachian border has been quiet lately – but Texas has been caught supplying propaganda to our proletarians, which is, to say the least, an intervention in business of a sovereign nation."

"I shall dispatch a note to Houston tomorrow, and demand that President Daverson issue a formal apology," Lukyanov barked, the tone of his voice becoming more and more hoarse as the time passed.

Something about his expression told me that the meeting was over. Quickly making my goodbyes, including a drunken hug from the General Secretary, I managed to make my way out of the office, and back into the relative sterility of the corridors, where the bureaucrats seemed just as oblivious to the passage of time as they were to the rest of the world.

The driver waited for me outside, waving to get in the car. For a minute, there was silence as we passed under the Spasskaya Tower again, this time to leave Kremlin where the suffocating atmosphere of those clinging on to every bit of power permeated even the very stones of the building.
"Music?" the driver’s voice caught me by surprise. "I’ve got a few good stations here, if you’d like."

For the first time since the beginning of my rendezvous, I thought I had seen the man smile. In fact, he did seem much less tense, and more relaxed as we sped away from the city center. "I’ll leave it up to you," I replied, looking outside at the spires and the towers vanishing into the cloak of rain.

It was only a moment before the sounds of heavy guitar rock filled the car. "My daughter loves this stuff," the driver said with a chuckle.

He was definitely much more cordial now, directing the big black Volga through the currents of Moscow streets where life went on as it has before. His English, while not perfect, was much more fluent and understandable now, as well.
"So, what did you think?" he asked with a wry smile.

I had to think for a moment before answering; it was not an easy "yes" or "no" question. It was at times downright frightening, and at times so slow to where I was seriously starting to consider tearing my hair out from the sheer frustration – yet at the same time, it got the good old adrenaline pumping.

"This is about as close as it will ever get," I replied. "It was… different – different but very much worth it."

"You’d be surprised what it was like before we got Lukyanov," the driver smiled. "The last guy, Sergei something-or-other, - we all made bets on how long he would last before he slips. I guessed two months… Got this one with the money, -" he pointed at a plush bear hanging from his rear view mirror, complete with obligatory hammer and sickle. "Sometimes I think he believed he was for real – our people barely managed to get him off that Japanese couple when he went berserk on them. At least Lukyanov knows his place, and knows who his paycheck is coming from... and the tourists love the whole over-the-top thing, with the drunk General Secretary on the top of it all."

"Do you do the whole angry routine for everyone," I asked of the man, "or just for us Americans?"

The driver laughed. It was a clear, long, and thoroughly healthy laughter of a man genuinely humored by the question.

"Have to live up to the reputation, you know?" he was all smiles. "We are supposed to be the Evil Empire, after all, not The Beatles groupies!"

"Ever since Brezhnev and all of them bungled it up and let the Union fall apart," he spoke in a more sombre tone, "we had to figure out what to do with all the old Party people. Sure, a few of them were smart enough to see where the things were heading, and to abandon ship before it sank, but some others did not see it coming; when Andropov decided to take things into his own hands, it was already all but over, and war cremated it. You know the story, so I probably shouldn’t be telling it to you again, it is just that all of us old military guys tend to go on and on about it.

Me, I was a captain in the army; the pay was piss poor, and when they decided to ship all the Party men to Moscow and turn it into a goddamn theme park, it was hard to turn down the offer – I have two kids to feed, you know?"
"Let me buy you a drink," I said, feeling a bit more relaxed here. "I think you’ve done a great job here, Yegor," – it was a first time I called him by name.
"Just giving you your money’s worth," he smiled and directed the car away from the rain, from Kremlin and its ghosts of time long gone, and towards civilization.

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