She then shot an acerbic glance at Dad.
“So,” I continued, “let’s forget about it.” I looked at both of them for agreement.
They nodded like mischievous, chastised children.
That was that. We dismissed the venom of the previous night and went on to talk about how difficult it was to grow old. How sometimes they felt like children because of their helplessness. Each worried about the other driving a car, and yet each needed their private places to escape from the intensity of being in the house with each other. They agreed that the one who died first had “the better end of the bargain.” The bargain, I presumed, was their marriage. Both of them agreed that their own families had conditioned their thinking patterns, and as we explored the values in their backgrounds, we found ourselves drifting into the subject of politics. Both of them had developed political values which were based on resistance to domination. In Dad, this took the form of a violently prejudiced anticommunist stance.
“The Russians are bullies,” said Dad, “and I don’t like bullies. And I don’t believe anyone else does either.”
“Well,” I said, “a lot of people around the world think the United States is nothing but a big bully.”
“Well, at least we can vote for our bullies,” he said, chuckling.
“Yes,” I said, “and we have the right to be communists here, too, if we want to be. That is what freedom is all about.”
“Well,” he said, “that freedom is causing our Congress and our courts and our taxes and even our Supreme Court to dictate to us the Russian way of thinking.”
I laughed out loud. This was so flagrantly absurd that it wasn’t even good for one of our flaming political arguments.
“You must be kidding,” I said. “A communist Congress and Supreme Court with Ronald Reagan?”
“Well, that’s why I agree with the cowboy. Fight Russian force with force. Otherwise we’ll be doomed to live like they do.”
“You mean on twelve dollars and fifty cents a week?” I asked.
“I’d rather have your mother boss me than some son-of-a-bitch bully. And your news-media friends, why do they portray this country on television like it’s some kind of terrible place? Why isn’t there ever any good news? That’s what I’d like to see. Good news.”
“Then maybe you’d be happier in Russia. The news media never tells the truth there.” I thought to myself for a moment and said, “Would you accept a socialist or communist society if it was voted in by the people?”
“God, no,” said Daddy, “because they would have been battered into it without realizing it.”
I sighed, speculating that probably a lot of people in America had the same point of view. “Daddy?” I asked, “why are you so disproportionately paranoid about the Soviet Union?”
“I told you,” he said staunchly, “I don’t like bullies.”
“Well, who bullied you so much that you’re so resistant to it?”
“My mother.”
“That’s right,” said Mother. “I told you. His mother taught your father how to fear better than anything else. Why, he’s so afraid of communists that I couldn’t write to my best girlfriend for years just because she knew a communist.”
“Yeah, and that guy was a damn fool,” said Daddy. “A damn fool who was editor of that damn fool magazine. Why, your friend even got conned into going to Moscow.”
“What’s wrong with going to Moscow?” I asked. “I’ve been to Moscow. Lots of people have been to Moscow, but that doesn’t make them communists.”
“Lordy, I know that,” said Daddy. “I got invited to the Russian Embassy in Washington once and I’m sure the FBI has my picture in a file somewhere.”
“Oh, Daddy,” I said, exasperated, “now, who are you more afraid of, the commies or the FBI?”
“Well, the FBI doesn’t intend to do away with the family and the churches and leave life up to the government experts.”
“Still, there are a lot of people sitting in the Kremlin who are just as afraid of us.”
“Yes,” he said, considering what I said, “I’ve heard that.” A smile began to play on his face. “And since we are discussing Russia and what they think over there, you ought to consider the fact that you’ve been under the influence of a Russian for some time now.”
I stared at him, genuinely astonished. “Me? Under the influence of a Russian?” I didn’t know what he was talking about. My mind raced to the Russian ballet dancers I knew. “Who do you mean?” I asked. “What Russian?”
“You know who,” he said mischievously.
“No I don’t,” I said. “Honestly.”
“Your friend—what’s his name, Vassy? We met him when he lived with you in Malibu.”
Oh no, I thought. I had wondered what Dad thought about the Russian I was with, but it never came up. Now, four years later, he was prepared to let me have it.
“Daddy,” I said, trying to remain calm, “Vassy was under the influence of me. He was the one living in America, driving convertible cars in Hollywood and enjoying a free life. Just because a person is Russian doesn’t make them a communist.”
“Well,” said Daddy, his reasoning turning as easily on a dime as Mother’s did, “you know that all Russians enjoy sadness. They are dedicated to suffering. That’s probably why they have the government they do.”
Well, I thought, he might have a point there. I got up and looked out the window, down First Avenue. Vassy had loved New York. He said he’d never be able to live in New York City without thinking of me. Memories of our time together flooded back to me. Suffering? Yes, in that respect I guess Daddy was right about Vassy. But my goodness, what a joy his Russian soul could be as well. What a tearing, happy, consuming experience our relationship had been. But none of what went on had anything to do with political ideology. If there was anyone who’d rather be dead than Red, it was Vassy. No, it was his Russianness that had fascinated me.
“Daddy,” I began, “don’t you know that I’ve been somehow haunted by Russia all my life?”
“Now, what do you mean, Monkey?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, “it’s always been there with me. Their music, their language, their food, their humor—their soul. I somehow understand it. It feels familiar to me. It seemed inevitable that I would meet Vassy. And I can’t explain why. And if you want to know, I think you nave some of the same feelings about Russia or you wouldn’t be so involved with your prejudice about the place.”
“What are you getting at?” he asked, genuinely interested.
“Well, I think maybe all of us lived there once,” I said simply.
“You mean in another life?”
“Yes, I mean in another life.”
“Who is all of us?” he asked.
“Our family,” I said.
Mother looked on with eyes wide, remembering the conflict about Russia with her girlfriend.
“And,” I went on, “look at Warren with his magnificent obsession with John Reed and the hopes for the Russian Revolution. That was such a creative obsession that he produced Reds. Now, where do you think all this comes from? I mean, wouldn’t you say there might be more to this than meets the eye?”
“Monkey,” he said, “Jesus H. Christ, Peter be the Baptist, and George W. God from Goldsborough—when it comes to your mind and your eyes, you can make anything seem possible.”
“Well, with the way my mind’s eye is working these days, it’s possible.”
“Yes,” he said, lighting one of his pipes, “anything is possible.”
“Funny”—I smiled and sighed to myself—“that is exactly what Vassy used to say more than anything else.”
“Well, let’s hear about him,” said Daddy, preparing to be entertained by one of my love affairs.
“Wait a minute,” said Mother, “I want to get some tea.”
I waited until they were all settled and told them the story.
Chapter 8
From the very beginning, Vassy
and I both believed we had known each other in at least one previous lifetime. For that reason as well as many others, we were spiritually compatible. The concepts that I was exploring were not foreign to him. In fact, they were quite traditional among many Russians.
Yet our relationship was colorfully embattled because our personalities were diametrically opposed. Dad was right. Vassy’s middle name was suffering and creative conflict, while mine was optimism and positive thinking. The combustion of the two of us together made it impossible to believe that our intense relationship was entirely new. We each knew we were involved in a karmic experience. We believed the intensity existed because we were drawn to work out unresolved aspects, not only with each other but also in ourselves, which the other inspired.
We often spoke of literature being abundant in expressing relationships of love, hate, familial conflict, and fundamentally profound feelings of loneliness, jealousy, power, greed, helplessness, and so on. We felt that great literature was epic because it was really about karma. We believed the experience of life itself was only about working out those conflicts within ourselves, using other human souls as the catalyst.
So, for example, we believed each love affair we experience has its purpose—its reasons for occurring. And on a soul level, we know that. The chemistry that draws us to someone is really the memory of having experienced them before, and understanding that there are unresolved areas that need to be concluded.
Our love affair validated that truth very clearly in our view. But as we found ourselves caught up in the throes of the joyful conflict of loving male-female embattlement, we often forgot the fundamental mystique of our attraction in the first place. On the other hand, perhaps living completely in the now was the only way we could work out our problems together. In the end, the problems were not about each other. They were about ourselves, as I believe all conflicts are.
What fascinated each of us more than anything was the undeniable truth that our relationship was analogous to the conflicts that Russians and Americans were experiencing with each other on a global level. Our relationship was a microcosm of those misunderstandings and cultural differences. But more than that, each of us experienced the conflicts of the male and female energy existent in each of us.
Let me begin with our initial meeting.
I was frantically winding up making a movie when actor Jon Voight called and insisted that I see a work by a Russian filmmaker, a friend of his whom I will call Vassily Okhlopkhov-Medvedjatnikov (his real name was just as complicated). Jon said the film was long but brilliant.
I pleaded exhaustion and said I wasn’t interested in a ponderous Russian film.
Jon said, “I know, but you’ll see something deeply moving. Come. I want you to meet Vassy. Please, do it for me.”
On that basis, I went.
Driving along the freeway toward the San Fernando Valley, I should have realized what was about to happen as I relaxed my mind after the insanity of the movie set. I tried to picture what this Russian filmmaker could possibly be like. I had known many Russians when I was in the ballet; I was familiar with and amused by the colorful explosiveness that underlined their lives, and attracted to the passion and deeply felt sensitivity they expressed in their creative arts.
A picture of the Russian director swam into my mind as I drove. I was bemused by the clear definition of the image. Outrageous, I thought to myself.
The figure I imagined was very clear. He was a tall, lean, rather tawny-skinned man with high Mongolian cheekbones and deep brown, fawnlike, almost almond-shaped eyes. He was smiling with a broad, full-toothed grin revealing white teeth, an impressive array engineered to present “perfect imperfection.” Why such a sophisticated dental allusion occurred to me, I couldn’t imagine. This imposing-looking imaginary male wore a brown leather jacket over loose-fitting blue jeans which were not snug because his hips were slim. In my head I saw him standing in front of my car as I was directed to projection room I. Brown hair crept over the collar of the leather jacket and every so often he swept hair back from his forehead with a circular movement.
All of this flashed in my mind as I negotiated the evening traffic on the freeway.
I pulled up to the gate at Universal and asked where the screening of the Russian film was because I couldn’t remember the man’s name. The cop at the gate said projection room 1! A coincidence, I thought to myself.
I rounded the alley looking for it when there in the street in front of my car was a tall, lean man in a brown leather jacket and loose-fitting blue jeans. He was obviously standing in wait for someone. He looked exactly like the man I had “imagined.” I could see the high-cheekboned structure of his head, although aviator dark glasses concealed the eyes. Impatiently, with a curved motion, he swept his fingers through his hair. I wondered what the hell was going on while emerging nonchalantly from the car.
He rushed to help me out of it, whipping off his glasses as though he wanted a clearer look at me. I thanked him and looked directly into his eyes. I had the definite feeling that I knew him.
“Mrs. MacLaine?” he asked in that way that foreigners do when they’re not really sure how to address one.
“Hello,” I answered. “I hope I’m not late, but we shot late.”
“No worry,” he said. “Thank you for coming. People inside are ready. I am director of movie.”
“Yes, I know,” I answered, realizing as I spoke that he even sounded familiar. “I’m hungry. Is there some food around?”
“Of course,” he said, and with a flourish like a general he commanded a gofer to “bring me whatever is available.” Jon had told me the man was very Russian, whatever that might mean. I wondered how he had gotten permission to come and work in the U.S.
He ushered me into the projection room as though I were the Queen of England and he the Prince Consort. I was trying to remember his name. No matter. I wouldn’t have to introduce him to anyone. I was the guest, and I liked him immediately. His flair for commanding tickled me.
Once inside the screening room, he walked back to the chair with the sound controls and waited for me to take a seat somewhere. I, without hesitation, walked back over to him and said, “I want to sit beside you.” He seemed clearly delighted. Then he rose and greeted everyone in charmingly halting Russianese English, told us a little about the making of the film (which had taken two and a half years and ran three and a half hours), sat down, and directed the projectionist to begin.
The lights went down. I pulled out my cigarettes and he, without asking, reached over and took one. He smoked it compulsively as people who don’t often smoke do. Every once in a while, as the film unfolded, he would smoke and cough and then clear his throat as though it were all a mistake.
The credits told me his name once again. Medvedjatnikov. I said it over in my mind, trying to rehearse it so I wouldn’t forget. And the film that unfolded assured me that Jon had been right. It was indeed brilliant. It was grand, personal, sweepingly moving, dramatic, and in parts, funny and strangely mystical.
But what was really weird—and to this day I cannot accurately describe my reaction to it—was that the leading lady, whose name I still can’t remember, looked exactly like me. It was more than uncanny. It was downright disturbing. Not only did she repeat the image I had of myself, but she moved as I imagine I move! Her facial expressions and way of cocking her head when she was unsure of herself made me feel as I watched her that I was invading my own privacy. It was more than watching a reflection of myself.
When the lights came up, I turned to face Medvedjatnikov. He had smoked the last of my cigarettes. I tried to find a diplomatic way of asking about my screen image, but he didn’t even wait for a question.
“You see, Sheerlee,” he began, rolling my name out with his altogether charming accent, “I have been trying to contact you for twelve years. Excuse me, but you have been as an obsession for me. I don’t know why. Therefore all my leading women are looking as you. All.”
He b
roke out in a wide, dazzling grin. I was equally flattened and flattered. I had heard of put-ons, come-ons, lead-ons before, but this one headed the list. I shut my mouth.
“Twelve years?” I repeated. Repetition is useful when you can’t find anything to say and need time to sort things out.
“That is true,” said Medvedjatnikov. “Ask any of my friends who perhaps you will come to know.”
Jesus, he didn’t waste any time.
“Yes, well,” I murmured, “your film is quite wonderful. What do you plan to do with it?”
“I want American distributor. Is difficult. Who wants to see Russian film? But I’m told is like Russian Roots. Is that not true?”
Yes, he was right. The film traced the life of a Russian village in Siberia from the turn of the century, through both world wars, and into the 1970s, exploring the lives and feelings of the village people as they found themselves thrust into the technological future of revolutionary Russia. It was not particularly propagandistic. On the contrary, it was human and touching in that it expressed the bewilderment of the villagers as they found themselves pummeled and shaken by their country’s revolution and entry into the events of the world.
As I talked with Medvedjatnikov about the film, I realized I was hearing a point of view about Russia that I had not been exposed to before.
“And,” I said, “have you left Russia and brought your film with you?”
“Left Russia?” He was rather astonished. “Never. It is my country. I am Russian. I am not defector. I am not even dissident. I am filmmaker who wants to be free to make films in West.”
I looked at him suspiciously. How could anyone do that?
“I will meet with immigration people next week for reapplication of visa—H-l visa—and soon, God’s willing, all will be in order.”
I had the clear impression that whatever needed to be maneuvered he would accomplish, simply because of the certainty of his boundless, commanding vitality.
“Well, why are you able to travel in and out of the Soviet Union?” I asked. “Isn’t that quite unusual?”
Dancing In The Light Page 16