by Dina Bennett
On our way to the Bolshoi, we stop for a drink and pre-ballet snack at a small, elegant hotel. We’re feeling special, giddy about finding a place where the two of us can be alone. Just as our bill is brought to us, we hear a man’s voice calling “Bernard.” It’s James, who bounds up the steps to where we’re sitting, seeming uncommonly pleased to see us. “Have a drink with me,” he enthuses.
“Yes,” Bernard says. “Yes, we’d love to. Come, join me. Tell us, what are you doing here?”
“I’m staying here.”
“You mean you’re not at the Rally hotel?” I blurt, as nonplussed as I was when I heard his plane was bringing in spare parts. In thinking about it, I realize there’s no rule that states it’s a requirement to stay in Rally organized lodging. It’s just simpler that way. Our hotel in Moscow is a relic from the Intourist age, that travel agency founded in 1929 by Stalin and staffed by KGB agents. It’s designed to house 3,000 guests a night and is so faded it clearly accomplished that mission for decades without respite or renovation. Though the KGB provenance makes bugs in the phone a possibility, the place is such that it feels more probable we’d find bugs—the biting sort—in the mattress.
“No,” James says. “Those hotels are fine. I just prefer this one. Why don’t you stay here, too?” It’s easy to see why James has chosen this place. A clue to its exclusivity are the Maybachs and Maseratis parked in front, half-million dollar cars that are the property of oligarchs who exit the hotel wearing Raybans, regardless that it’s nighttime. Every one of them sports an oligarchess on his arm, slim, strikingly beautiful, and fabulously dressed. The staff here is discreet, polite, there when you need them, vanished when you don’t. At the Rally hotel, the laundry operation is so inefficient that, when garments haven’t been returned the night before our departure, security guards break into the room of one team and yank the driver out of his bed, enraged by his earlier demands for his clothes. They then slam him up against the wall and, while he’s dangling from the fist encircling his neck, explain to him the niceties of Russian laundry. Other teams on that floor, hearing the commotion, stage a protest in the lobby in the wee hours of the morning, with one Rally driver stripping naked and parading around the lobby to emphasize the need for clean clothing and its speedy return.
I’m dazzled at the plethora of good things coming my way. First, ballet tickets. Now an invitation from James. It hasn’t escaped me that, ever since Novosibirsk, James has been seeking out Bernard’s company. I’ve seen the two of them together many evenings, engrossed in conversation. When I join them I wind up talking to one of James’s teammates, but I can still overhear smatterings of politics, helicopters, airplanes, wine, and cars coming from their direction. Bernard and I are now torn as to which group to sit with: the first group of Robert, Maddy, Sybil, and the rest with whom we’re comfortable, or the second group of James, Matthieu, and cohorts, whom we’re just getting to know. It’s a dilemma I never expected to find myself in.
Explaining to James that we have ballet tickets, we stroll to the famous hall through a cold drizzle, the bubbling murmur of voices from an excited crowd crescendoing as we approach. Entering the warm glow of lobby lights, I see a delicate misty shawl of water droplets spread over my shoulders, sparkling like diamonds.
Russia is all about officialdom, and at the Bolshoi the aisle ushers take their jobs seriously. One of these stout ladies scrutinizes our ticket as if it’s a counterfeit hundred dollar bill, wrinkles her nose at it and at us, and escorts us to our perfect seats in a dress circle box.
The lights have dimmed and the orchestra taken up the first few notes of the overture to the first ballet, Carmen, when the usher brings in two more people. The first is a portly matron in a dress meant for someone half her size. The other seems to be her daughter, who, coincidentally enough, is half her size. The box, though, is already full. As they look around for somewhere to sit, others in the box seem to recognize them and a polite whisper rustles behind us, like dry leaves in the fall wind.
Bernard, gentleman that he is, immediately offers the matron his seat. She misunderstands his gesture and stands like a stout tree, rooted in place. He then misunderstands her stolid refusal as a preference to stand. Only after he sits again does she make herself comfy—on his lap. There she nestles for the entire performance, her massive bosom obscuring most of the ballet, unless Bernard wishes to lean his cheek against the sofa cushion of her left breast. Not to be outdone, I offer the half-size woman a corner of my seat, which she is small enough to squeeze into without overwhelming me.
After the last curtain call, everyone stands, including Bernard, much to my relief. Toward the end I’d been fearing that two hours of unbudging Russian heft might have flattened him like Road Runner on a bad day. Handshakes and hugs all around, and the two women depart. Only then does my seat neighbor explain they are the mother and daughter of the orchestra conductor, and they’re off to congratulate him backstage. Everyone around us exudes pleasure that we behaved so well with two such honored guests. Bernard is relieved not to have any pressure from me to discuss the performance. After all, he really couldn’t see a thing.
Going Solo
ST. PETERSBURG
When we arrive at our immense hotel in St. Petersburg, towering above the shores of the Gulf of Finland, we’re immediately confronted by Gustav. He sees me and grabs me. “Tomorrow, on our rest day, I would like you to take Laure around the city.” He’s not even bothering to ask. I look to Bernard for help and say, loud enough for Bernard to hear, “I’m so sorry Gustav. We need to work on our car tomorrow.”
Gustav’s having none of it. “She’ll be waiting for you in our room.” Bernard, ignoring my beseeching eyes, thinking he’s supporting my ususal desire to see what’s around, takes his side. “Yes, Dina. You’re going out anyway. You’ll enjoy the company.” As Gustav walks away, I say to Bernard, “I can’t do this. I can’t speak French all day to someone who’s depressed. It’s Gustav who should go around the city with his wife. You’ve got to get me out of this.”
My long hours in repair shops have given me more than just an opportunity to study the fine print embossed on each wrench. I’ve also discerned the patterns of other Rally crews. Who helps out, who works alone. I’ve had plenty of time to ponder what I see.
There’s an interesting distinction between male teams and couples. With the former, the pair arrives at the repair shop, works on the car together, and drives out (usually) at day’s end. With the latter, the husband appears at the repair shop, digs around for his tools in lonesome solemnity all day, perks up happily when someone—usually me—brings him a bite to eat, and returns to the hotel to find his wife refreshed and invigorated from a day out with the girls. Except, that is, for Gustav’s wife. She seems so out of her element, so isolated, that she can’t find her way toward human contact.
Then there’s me. Call it loyalty, call it stupidity, I cannot abandon Bernard and the weakened Roxanne. I surprise myself by this, because in our past life, in the period pre-Rally, this was not my way at all. Back then, I easily did what I liked, figuring if Bernard needed me, he’d say so. That was my approach when the Rally began. I was all about the journey, and Bernard was all about the day’s goal. Now, the Dina who’d ditch Bernard seems like another person. When it comes to doing what’s necessary to keep Roxanne moving, I’m with Bernard all the way. Bernard, too, is morphing. He’s seeing the benefits of changing his mind from car matters, even if it only happens once he’s parked the car and even if it’s only for an hour.
I’ve been developing a new philosophy these past weeks, which I haven’t been able to articulate very well. It’s something like, if we are to enjoy the good times together, then we have to go through the bad together. It strikes me as unsportsmanlike to be along for the ride and then leave Bernard alone to put in hard labor trying to keep Roxanne going. Though I’m still no star mechanic, I am good, and getting better, at extracting the right tools, offering moral support, persuading the
boss to assign us a mechanic or a welder. I’m also accomplished at ordering lunch. I’m ready to stake a claim that this has importance and meaning beyond the mere actions.
Bernard has had a chance to see me try hard to change myself, while accepting that some of my worst personality traits are here for good. Take, for instance, a few days ago at a hotel, where I spent a half-hour in loud confrontation with a desk clerk. As I argued for a different room, tears of frustration turned my eyes red and my cheeks splotchy. Bernard, meanwhile, took refuge in the bar, hoping that mere distance would dissociate him from the strident complaining person that was me at that moment. We don’t talk about this side of me. What I am learning, though, is that it’s OK to forgive myself, even when I’ve embarrassed us both. Because while Bernard’s been drinking, I’ve gotten us a better room. Yes, I’m still keeping score.
Despite all this, St. Petersburg’s my last chance to see something of Russia, because our next stop will be Tallinn, the capital of Estonia. Bernard and I discussed this in friendly fashion during the interminable 455-mile drive north to St. Petersburg from Moscow. Because Bernard does rational, not emotional, I extracted the following from my play book. “I need a break,” I tell him. “I just don’t think I can spend another rest day with the car. Of course I will if it’ll really help, but it seems to me nothing much is wrong with Roxanne now, at least nothing that we can fix.” This sounds clear and objective to me. I know it’s also a tad defensive, but after twenty-four days on the road, we’ve made it through more dicey situations than this.
“Sure. You should see St. Petersburg. I’ll check Roxanne. Don’t worry about it.”
When he gives me permission to go, I reverse course. “I don’t have to, though,”I dither.“Or maybe you’d come with me?”I look at him, imploring him to connect with me telepathically and read what my mind’s saying: “Please, just ONCE reject the responsible course and come be irresponsible with me.”
Bernard’s no mind-reader. Rational doesn’t allow for that. “No, I want to check a few things. You go ahead. Take the whole day. I’ll be fine here.”
Spending my one free day shepherding a distressed woman around St. Petersburg is beyond my ability. If I’m going to have freedom, it’ll have to be on my own terms. I sneak out of the hotel, Bernard having agreed that, if he sees Gustav, he will tell him I’m off on an errand for the car. Nevertheless, when I leave the hotel my shoulders are not swinging with insouciance. It’s more like toting a hundred-pound sack of potatoes on my back, so burdened am I by guilt. Nevertheless, I set out, determined to enjoy my day wandering St. Petersburg.
My plan is to romp around the Hermitage Museum and other parts of the Winter Palace, afterward inspecting whatever Russian Orthodox churches I come across. With no time to spare, I bypass the snaking line at the museum entrance by melding into a French tour group. I find myself wandering the museum aimlessly, the heavy antiquity on display making me feel ever more dark and gloomy. I decide eating will lift my spirits. The cafe in the museum’s basement is filled with tables groaning under delectable gooey salads, ceramic platters of jewel-like beets and carrots, glass bowls of salty herring and smoked fishes with their attendant loaves of rye and pumpernickel bread, and of course the full array of goulashes, soups, potatoes (both latkes and mashed), and desserts. Even this appetizing spread can’t stifle the needling voice of dismay that’s been whining its mantra of “Shame on you,” ever since I left the hotel. Innocent enjoyment is what I’m supposed to be experiencing, not this sense of delinquency that’s dogging me.
Ditching the museum for the bright sunshine, I wait for the bustle of the city streets to work their usual magic, because the energy of any city is something I’ve always enjoyed. Now, it’s all rather disorienting, too many tourists swarming about, everything big and vacuous. Really, what am I doing out here by myself ? Isn’t the whole point of this trip to stand shoulder to shoulder with Bernard against whatever comes?
Rooted amidst the hubbub, I seem to rise above the busy clamor, seeing myself far below, silhouetted starkly, like the martial statues in the Winter Palace courtyard. A ray of warm sun shines down, as if a brainbased janitor has stopped dusting inside my skull to pull back a corner of curtain to let more light in. Exactly what she hopes to illuminate I can’t yet say, but I do feel a change, at best a modest permutation of my normal way of thinking. It’s not an earthquake, more like a slight shifting of ground that alters my perspective. What I realize is that “Is Bernard with me?” or “Am I with Bernard?” aren’t the right questions. Nor is it about “Is he better than me?” or “Am I better than him?”These questions aren’t even relevant.
Stretching out my arm, I signal a cab to stop. A much dented, rusty jalopy pulls over. Though it’s a shabby affair, I instantly feel more at home inside this vehicle than I did on the street. My enthusiasm on discovering Bernard in the car park is made all the warmer by the happiness of his smile when he sees me get out of the cab well ahead of my proposed lateafternoon return time. He’s let me go. I’ve come back.
As fate would have it, Gustav wanders over shortly after I’ve returned. “What did you do today?” I ask him, to distract him from asking me the same thing.
“Laure and I went on a tour of the city,” he says smugly. I couldn’t be happier. I have no doubt that an afternoon enjoying St. Petersburg with her husband was exactly what Laure needed. “So now I will go work on my car. Perhaps we will see you at dinner,” and he strides off in the direction of the car park on the other side of the hotel.
We nod noncommittally and, as soon as he’s far enough away, we grab satchels from Roxanne and duck into a cab, peering behind to make sure no one’s seen us. We’ve learned a quick lesson from James and have booked a room for ourselves in a hotel near the Hermitage. Emerging from the taxi with our little overnight bags, we hand them to a doorman who’s more elegantly dressed than we are. For dinner, we indulge in a sampling of Russia’s rarest caviars and small-batch vodka. I eat more black fish eggs and drink more fine liquor than I should, but I can’t help myself. The two go together as naturally as chips and beer. Bernard matches me shot for shot, spoonful for spoonful. We finish off with a glass of champagne. It feels like vacation. It feels like we’re just married.
Borders: Take Two
ST. PETERSBURG-TALLINN-
RIGA-VILNIUS
By the time we learned that the rest of the Rally was held up at Ivangorod, Russia’s border with Estonia, we were already cruising Estonia’s gorgeous coastline. The air was fresh, tangy with salt from the Baltic Sea. While the rest of the Rally set up tents in the border parking area, took out sleeping pads, and, as Sybil reported later, did yoga on the tarmac, alternately meditating and shouting at scandalized Russian border officials, we breathed the air of the free. Russia was behind us. We swept down a sunflower-lined Estonian byway, rounding a bend to discover fields of deep blue cornflowers. A winding dirt lane crooked a finger and beckoned us past Hansel-and-Gretel cottages with brick chimneys. Some chimneys sported large nests, a bristling collection of branches in the middle of which stood a stork, often with its long bill pointed into the nest where perhaps chicks were feeding. We were so filled with nameless joy that we giggled like embarrassed school kids. Whisked along as if Roxanne were a magic carpet, we slid from buttery sunlight through deep, peaceful shade under a gothic archway of trees. It was enough to give us religion, so starved were we for ease and beauty.
We had time. Time to park in a simple village and stroll, hand in hand, to the pebbly seashore. I gazed across midnight blue waters to the infinite horizon, the sun warming my skin, its heat slowly, resolutely, thawing my spirit. It felt like I’d been holding my breath for weeks, and now, finally, I allowed myself to exhale. “Look Dina, we can buy a sandwich,”Bernard said, pointing out a nearby kiosk.“And a drink, too!”Under other circumstances, we’d have turned our nose up at the cellophaneencased, dry sliced bread assemblage on display. Now it struck me as a veritable smorgasbord of possibilities
. Ham? Cheese? Salami? With tomato and lettuce? Even a citrusy Orangina? Nothing could be more exquisitely savory. We shared sips and bites, sitting on a triangle of green grass in front of the local World War II memorial. We were blissfully unaware of how truly fortunate we were.
It began as an ordinary day. After two weeks hard driving we are almost through with Russia. Not interested in dallying, Bernard and I head for the border post as early as our need for a good night’s sleep will allow. Happily dispensing the last of our rubles to gas up, we follow signs down a narrow, sloping road designed to funnel cars single file into the immigration control area of the border between Russia and Estonia.
We’re not the only ones with this plan. The organizers are in front of us. We spy them just as they’re making a rapid U-turn, spurting dust from their tires in their haste back up the hill. Words fly out their window like shreds of litter as they tear past. I grab at scraps which I think are “closed,” “guard,”“back,” plus curses. These are words that might make an intriguing haiku on the refrigerator door, but with a schedule that spells out that a hundred-plus cars will cross the border that morning, and with Russian facilitators to handle the bureaucracy, they make no sense at all.
So we disregard them, continuing our sedate roll toward the checkpoint in question. “If need be we’ll just crash the barrier and continue on,” the brave, new, desperate-to-be-gone-from-here me says.