Report of Pushkin Institute Reunion: Paris, France, May 2009
Dates: Thursday, May 21 – Monday, May 25, 2009.
Present: Antonio Marino (Italy), Birgitte Dane (Denmark), Carole Mettler (France, many years ago Switzerland), Catherine Déom (Belgium but now France), Esa Hakala (Finland), Floriana Fossato (Italy but now Geneva), Katia Membrado (France), Lena Bernard (Russia but now France), Mervi Mustonen (Finland), Myriam Dupuis(France), Oriane Lipman (France), Peter Emerson (Northern Ireland), Ravi Abhyankar (India), Albert Traxler (Austria but normally in flights)
***
Thursday, May 21, 2009:
After a ten hour flight in Air-France, which can be credited for inventing the narrowest leg space in the aviation industry, I land in Paris in the morning. Carole/ Karolina is waiting for me on the other side. It has been years since a French girl has kissed me. Except Carole’s hairstyle, she hasn’t changed a bit – the same black-rimmed glasses, the same ballerina walk and the same sharp tongue. At home she introduces me to her husband, Gerard, her eleven-year old daughter, Marjerie, and two fat cats.
In the afternoon, we meet Antonio at the nearby railway station.
***
Antonio: Antonio hugs us. He is now a man wearing a graying goatee beard. At Pushkin institute, he was too young to have a beard. “I need shoes.” This is the first thing he says after entering Carole’s house. He gesticulates, and I know it is urgent that he should buy shoes. We leave the house in search of a shoe-shop. The evening before, Antonio had specially bought new shoes for the Pushkin reunion. In the flight he realized it was too tight. On the way from airport, he has suffered.
Today is a holiday in France. We can’t find any open shop.
“Ja nie mogu.” Says Antonio, but he has to keep walking, until we find a shoe shop. We find an open supermarket, but it has shoes only for women and children. In desperation, Antonio looks at the size of women’s shoes. If there was a 44 size among lady shoes, he would have bought it, but there isn’t any.
Finally, we find an open shop. It offers 50% discount, but as we learn it is on the second pair, and Antonio needs only one. He tries one pair, does a waltz around the shop. Tries another and does a tango. Reluctantly he tells the French girl he is buying the 95 Euro pair. Before wearing, he looks at the label. He screams. I think he has an attack of some type.
“Oni menya ybjyut.” He says.
“Kto?” I look around. Has he seen any compatriot mafia?
“Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.” He says and throws his hands in the air.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Oni menya ybjyut.” He says again. “If someone sees my shoes and knows… what an Idiot…I come to Paris and buy shoes made in Italy!”
***
In the evening, Myriam joins us for dinner. Carole says we should be ready by eight the following morning. She has planned a surprise for us.
“Girls?” says Antonio. He has not changed after all. “But why at eight in the morning?”
“You be ready in time. You will see for yourself.” Says Carole in a mysterious tone.
Antonio and I go to bed wondering what is in store for us the following morning.
“Idiot,” Antonio says instead of good night, “V Parizhe kupil Italianskuyu obuvj.”
***
Friday, May 22, 2009:
We are ready in the morning. Myriam drives us in her car. We are taken to an unknown place. Church? But it not Sunday. And evidently, the two girls are driving there for the first time, since on the way they have to ask passers-by for directions. Finally, we stop next to an aerodrome and I solve the puzzle. We were driven by Myriam so far – in her Renault. Now Carole will drive us – in an aeroplane.
***
Carole: Carole Mettler-Kremer is a Russian translator-interpreter and an expert attached to the Paris court. Russians in France involved in any legal matter, whether adopting babies, needling translation of certificates or immigration documents, come to Carole. That is her profession. But she has a hobby. Flying. She has been taking lessons. Once she gets a licence to fly without an instructor, she can come for the next Pushkin meeting in a plane. She may buy a plane before she buys a car.
***
Antonio refuses to fly.
“Aren’t you insured?” I ask him. He simply walks away.
So only Carole, her instructor, Myriam and I enter the plane. It’s a four-seater (Robin DR 400, whatever that means). When we sit inside, I realize Myriam’s car was more spacious. This is the smallest plane I have ever sat in. We put on the headphones. Carole takes off. She talks to the traffic control. She looks a confident pilot. So I don’t feel much when the plane tilts on one side. Below you see the green of Paris, then a castle, and finally Disneyland. The traffic jam at its entrance looks like a massive bunch of colourful toys. We are in the air for about an hour – driven by an aspirant from Pushkin Institute.
Myriam then brings us back home. We then go to fetch Birgitte.
***
Birgitte: Few people may know this, but Birgitte and I used to walk during nights during our Pushkin days. From about two to three in the mornings. Holding hand in hand. Under snow. She was next to me when I saw snow for the first time in my life. “Shto sluchilosj?” She had asked me, surprised at my face.
“Sneg.” I had said. “Eto pervi raz v zhizhni ja vizhu sneg.”
It is the same Birgitte – twenty three years or so later. She has two professions – a manual one and an intellectual one. She decorates, paints, works on houses. (Remember Danish remont?) And she works as an interpreter in all possible languages, except Russian. Why? Because there is no work in Russian. Finnish, Swedish, English supply her with her intellectual work.
I look closely at her face – to see any signs of the twenty three years in interval. I can’t see any. She is the same young girl who walked me under the Moscow snow near Ulitsa Volgina.
***
Birgitte and I return from our walk in Paris (sans snow) and find Esa and Mervi have already arrived. Myriam returns, and finally we are joined by Catherine – Sister Catherine. We sit in Carole’s pleasant garden. We raise the first toast in the bigger group – za vstrechu, za vstrechu, za vstrechu.
***
Sister Catherine: If there was one person from Pushkin institute who could have joined a monastery, it was Catherine, and she did. Catherine, like Prince Myshkin in Dostoevsky’s Idiot, represents all that is good in humankind. She is always smiling, always helpful. Her face and smile is that of an unspoilt child. Catherine has helped children including orphans in Russia and Russian-speaking countries. She is in her uniform, and for the next three days that is the only dress we will see her in. She has sought special permission from her lords and masters (ladies and mistresses?). She had to take a leave for three days. Only when she produced the Pushkin database that boasted of countries from Canada to Australia, from India to Ireland, from Belgium to Madagascar, the church authorities understood the importance of the Pushkin event and let her go.
In two cars we move to U Pirosmani, the Georgian restaurant at rue Boutebrie, 6. Last year when I visited Albert in Moscow, we went on the very first day for dinner at Moscow’s U Pirosmani. And now a year later, we meet in the same place, only in Paris.
“There will be a surprise.” Albert had promised Carole on phone. “I will have one more person with me.”
Who is it going to be, we had wondered. Marina? (Albert’s wife) Or one of his innumerable admirers from all over the world? In either case, would that person be a misfit for the Pushkin meet? The answer springs from the chair across Albert – Katya Membrado. She had been silent all this while.
Besides Albert and Katya, Peter, Oriane and Lena are already there. No matter how you plan, and no matter how you count, we notice that there are thirteen people at the table.
***
Albert: Albert, as you know, was my roommate in Pushkin. We worked in shifts, i.e. he went to bed when I woke up. Throughout my Pushkin stay, I wore jackets that Albert had stopped using. If in any old photos, I look handsome, that is thanks to Albert’s coats. Albert has not changed – except his success is evident through his exterior. His hair is now short-businessman like. Every time I meet him, he has flown from somewhere, and in a few hours he should fly to some other place. This time in U Pirosmani he tells us the next morning, he must fly to Tripoli. “Where is Tripoli?” Some people ask.
Albert just smiles. (By the way, Tripoli is in Libya)
Lena captures the essence of Albert.
“He looks like a Novi Russki.” She says. Yes, Albert is a New Russian – but without the anecdotes.
***
We are eating and drinking and toasting. Khachapuri, Khinkali, adzhika… yes and unlike Moscow, Georgian wines are available here. The brunette Georgian waitress talks in accented Russian.
I always had this dream of a Pushkin meeting once a year, in a different country. We are an unusual group, a United Nations speaking in Russian. Mervi now raises a toast, thanks the hosts, and offers to host the next year’s meeting in Helsinki, Finland. By now, everyone is happy. We all raise hands to approve the candidature. A year from now, in May 2010, we will meet in Finland. (And in 2011 in Moscow to celebrate the 25 years of our joining Pushkin). Here is… to Helsinki!
***
Esa, as you may know, was my flat-mate at Pushkin. He shared the other room with Mark. Esa was the hard-working guy, and it took time to know the humour behind that serious face. Without complaining, he washed the floors and bathroom, silently tolerated the indiscreet acts of his roommate.
He now works as an IT-Librarian in the University of Helsinki. He is happily unmarried. Cooks for himself. What can be a greater joy?
***
Mervi:
Look at this Mervi and look at this Mervi. I don’t need to say that she is surprisingly unchanged. She says her daughter is thirty, but I don’t know how to fit that mathematically. Mervi taught in Moscow, and would like to finish PhD at some point. She is a kind soul, fond of kissing everyone in sight, and as the evening lengthens, the kinder she becomes. ***
We don’t notice time, but it’s past midnight. We also didn’t notice the passing of the twenty-two years. The food is Georgian, the language is Russian and we are young again – the Pushkin 1986 model.
Finally, the restaurant staff begins to get uneasy. We sense that and reluctantly begin to leave. We must catch metro before it closes. It’s too late. The ticket windows are closed. We don’t have enough tickets. We hug one another, and on one ticket two or three of us move through the turnstile. (Zaitsi in Russian). We are not really worried about a ticket checker catching us. We say good bye to Albert on the platform across, and Carole, Esa, Antonio and I get in the train. It’s past one, and a long day that started with a flights piloted by Carole ends with the train taking us safely to our destination with no ticket checker in sight.
***
Saturday, May 23, 2009
On Saturday morning, Carole’s husband Gerard and I go running in the Vincennes woods (if I’m not mistaken they are called “Bois de Vincennes”). Later, we plan to come here for the Pushkin picnic. We run some eleven kms and in the process observe hundreds of colourful cyclists wheezing past us.
After breakfast, everyone gathers at Carole’s place. On the way to the picnic, we stop at the local supermarket. I remember our shopping at the Univermag next to the theatre Vytyz near Belyaevo. Mark and I sometimes bought grocery there - rushing from one queue to another, fighting for the last bread loaves and the kefir cartons, listening to the rude replies of Russian shop assistants, and paying in roubles and kopecks which we didn’t respect at all. None of that is applicable when the Pushkin 2009 shop at Paris. The experience is pleasant, products are in plenty and fresh. Only the prices are in expensive Euros and of course there is no joy of “dostavatj” something. After shopping, we walk to the woods via the Vincennes Castle. Just as we enter the woods, rains threaten to fall. To our surprise, we find an open pavilion with a roof, as if someone knew we were coming here for picnic. The girls are well prepared. A bed sheet is spread on the floor, and all that supermarket shopping gets unloaded very rapidly. One man stops and looks at us. I think the presence of Sister Catherine in uniform confuses him. And the language the group speaks in is alien. Who on earth are these people? What are they doing in the Vincennes woods? He unashamedly stares at the group, and when the French girls question him, leaves. We start eating and clinking glasses.
Suddenly a tall tramp appears from nowhere. He stands behind Carole and begins to make threatening noises. He is carrying a big rucksack on his back and a stick in his hand. We continue to speak in Russian to make sure he doesn’t understand us. His voice is raised. He is making gestures. He is not talking in French. I wonder what to do. This man is too tall for my comfort. And it’s not easy to fight madmen. I believe in the Gandhian principles of truth and non-violence.
Myriam takes her phone and calls the police. The call has no effect on the vagabond. Either he doesn’t understand French or he has complete trust in the French police.
Esa, a real man, gets up and faces the tramp face to face. He starts talking to him in… German! He locks eyes with the madman. We wait for the French police to arrive any time. And also wait for a possible hand-to-hand combat between a homeless and a Fin.
The French police, as can be expected of them, don’t come at all. Finally, everything is resolved in a surprisingly amicable way.
“Could I have some water?” the madman growls.
“Yes, please.” Says Myriam and hands over a glass to him. Esa goes back to his seat.
“I wonder if he will next ask for wine. I refuse to give him wine.” Says Carole.
“Well, the poor man is homeless… and possibly starving.” Says someone else.
Katya appears wearing a white coat. She can be easily mistaken for a French policewoman.
The tall tramp drinks water and leaves. Non-violence always wins. Maybe we should have offered him water and food and wine in the first place. Maybe he indeed believed Katya to be a policewoman and didn’t want any scenes.
Our picnic, after this entertainment interlude, continues. Peter raises a toast for the absent members from the Pushkin institute… the Canadians, an American, an Australian, and the missing Europeans. We are certain they will all make it next year.
***
Peter, as you know, is a green party candidate in Northern Ireland. He has travelled most of the world on a bicycle, but flew to Paris as far as I know. I can confirm he is the only one who has actually improved his Russian since he was at the Pushkin institute. I don’t know how he achieved it without having much to do with Russia. Like in 1986-87, he insists on speaking in Russian. If you talk to him in English, he replies in Russian. Possibly that’s the reason his Russian has improved. He is cracking jokes all the time – some of them understood only by him. During our picnic he suddenly goes on the grass and takes a siesta. ***
The food is getting consumed. The bottles are becoming empty. We now start singing Russian songs.
“Medlinno minuti uplivayut vdalj”, “K sozhaleniyu denj rozdeniya toljko raz v godu”, “Katyusha”, “Podmoskovnie vechera”, “Pustj vsegda budet solntse” … for some reason we sing detskie pesni. Now the passers-by look at us with even more curious glances.
We decide to walk in the woods, leaving the French girls to look after our belongings. ***
Katya has been missing all these days – or years I should say. I am meeting her after 1987. She was my neighbour (room 532) at the Pushkin institute. Currently, Katya works at Deloitte and lives with her daughter in Paris. You can compare photos to confirm how Katya hasn’t changed either. (After the reaction of the tall tramp, Katya should seriously consider joining the police force). ***
We walk in the woods. The sun is now shining. Great weather and wonderful greenery. When we come back, we decide to pack up – with great reluctance. We have a dinner appointment – with ourselves! At the chateau (castle) Sister Catherine takes more pictures. Oriane and Peter decide to go with Catherine to see the exhibition of Bulgarian icons. Antonio is addicted to the centre of Paris – he rushes off. Carole goes home. Birgitte, Mervi, Esa, Myriam and I sit in Myriam’s Renault and travel to the centre. In a multi-story basement parking Myriam parks her car. We are invited to her house. ***
Myriam, Katya, Oriane (and Isabella) were my neighbours at the Pushkin. There has been an Agata Christie type mystery as to who the fifth person in 532 was. None of the three French girls can remember who she was. My guess is that only four of them lived there during the first term. If anyone knows about the fifth person in 532, please let us know.
Like Albert is a successful businessman, Myriam can be said to be a successful businesswoman. Her studio apartment at the heart of Paris (Next to the Luxemburg garden) is testimony to this. It is as difficult to access Myriam’s flat as it is to access Sarkozy’s presidential house. Myriam carries at least two visiting cards. Her apartment is lovely, with pictures of sharks and large paintings on the wall.
That reminds me, scuba diving is Myriam’s hobby. I don’t understand this: Carole wants to be in the air, and Myriam loves to be under water. Is land not enough for the French girls?
***
We walk through the small and vibrant lanes of Paris. It’s Saturday. Everyone is out on the streets. And what Paris is famous for, most chairs are out and everyone is facing the streets. This is what I love in Paris – people watching. You don’t sit across the person you love – you and your love look at the people on the streets. How nice!
We have agreed to meet at Notre Dame. In the evening, we reach there at 19.45. In a short while, we are all there. We cross over to reach Café Le Petit Pont, already booked by Carole. The terrace is full, and we have to sit inside. Inside we have a piano player next to our table. When he plays, Birgitte’s chair shakes with the sound. Carole is upset we didn’t get the outdoor chairs despite booking. Floriana makes her appearance. ***
Floriana:
Floriana is a truly multinational and multi-talented person. She is a director on different boards, including Green Peace. Originally an Italian, she is married to a Russian Jew (understandably a successful businessman in Switzerland), has three daughters including a pair of twins, lives in Geneva, continues to visit hot spots in ex-USSR (e.g. Baku next month), has co-authored a book on Russia, speaks in nine languages and would like to attend Ayurvedic therapy in India. While we may all envy the places she has lived in (Paris, Moscow, Oxford, Geneva…), she would like to move to Australia! Well, this is life. ***
The dinner is noisy but tasty. We listen to the popular piano pieces and talk to our neighbours. Like each evening, finally we need to pay the bill and leave the place.
We begin to walk on the quay of Seine. It is a dream walk – cloudless skies, gentle breeze, the smell of water, romantically-lit streets and we walking with friends with whom we studied together twenty two years ago. We are walking not at the top of the riverbank, but below, right next to the river. It’s nearing midnight. A band is playing some great music. As I watch closely, it has six girls playing on all sorts of instruments – saxophone, trumpet… in fact everything except the drums. These are not amateurs. Must be students from the Paris conservatoire. They suddenly break into an Italian song – Bella ciao or something like that. Antonio is delighted. His childlike smile lights up his face. We all unnoticeably dance in our place. We are not young enough to dance with abandon. We are not old enough to listen without our legs moving.
It’s time to go, only because the Paris trains don’t work round the clock. We hug and kiss once again. It’s been another long day.
***
Sunday, May 24, 2009
We have agreed to meet for a river excursion this morning. Myriam takes us through the louvre fountains and pyramid. I remember some descriptions from the Da Vinci Code.
We sit in the boat. The day is hot – genuinely hot. The uniformed French girl offers a running commentary, but we find Myriam’s explanations in Russian more helpful. We see everything from Eiffel tower to Musee d’Orsay, from Les Invalides to Notre Dame… but from a different perspective. It’s always interesting and many a times an aesthetical pleasure to watch the same thing from another angle. Even human beings, when you meet them in a different situation or country, can come across as different.
The French girls admit they have taken the Paris river excursion thanks to us – the foreigners. You rarely appreciate what is near you.
In the hour-long excursion, Esa has managed to suntan as if he was on the beach for a whole day. His face and neck are red like a communist flag.
***
Oriane was my neighbour (room 532) as well. Just as a matter of statistics, six people were present in Paris from rooms 532 & 533 (Myriam, Katya, Oriane, Albert, Esa and myself) which I think is quite remarkable. Oriane played on piano, and spoke excellent Russian then. She was a natural. At Pushkin, once I heard her saying “ot ponidelnika po pyatnitsu” (I hadn’t heard po pyatnitsu until then). I asked her which case (padezh) it was, and shouldn’t it be “Pyatniste” after “po”. She had said she didn’t know which case, but she was sure she was right. And right she was.
Oriane lives in Brest (not the notorious Soviet border town, but a town in France), and after a gap, plans to start performing again on piano this year. She promises that during our gathering next year, she will play for us.
***
Out of the boat, we cross over and go to another place on the riverbank. This is called “fruits and vegetables” or something like that in French – an ideal place for a vegetarian like me. The place serves fresh, and that means freshly squeezed, grapefruit juice. Unlike last night, this place is very quiet and cozy. Antonio has already left for the airport, and soon after lunch Birgitte has to catch her flight. Those who were not there can feel the atmosphere and see the food here. Look out of the door and you will see the river Seine. Birgitte has to pick up her bag from Myriam. So we all decide to walk once more to Myriam’s place. We sit in a café at the corner while Myriam and Birgitte disappear. Myriam’s friend Yves, a professional cameraman, joins us and fortunately for us takes the camera in hand. Like a machine gun, he takes several photos at a time. I hope to see them shortly. Birgitte returns. We good bye her with hugs and kisses. I remember the last days of June 1987, when one after another of our friends left the institute. I also remember that as a rule, girls cried at every departure and boys didn’t. (This time nobody cried, unless they cried inside their hearts).
We start walking towards Montmartre. Mervi wants to move to Carole’s house, so she wants to carry the suitcase around the town. As true gentlemen, Esa and I carry it in turns. At Montmartre, we listen to the popular vocal music on the staircase. Some of us go inside the church and touch the cold walls. On a hot day, that’s a great feeling. A soprano voice is singing in the church.
We then walk towards another open café and get a table for us. Lena, the Russian, joins us.
***
Who is Lena? Well, there are about twenty million Lenas in Russia. So it is natural you should ask that question. I clarify this Lena was not a student at Pushkin but was a friend of many studying there. You may remember Natasha and Marina who met us at Dom Druzhbi for the films. Lena was another such person. Albert introduced her to this group this year, and she fondly remembers many of us. She has been married to a Frenchman (Lena Bernard) for nineteen years but speaks Russian without a French accent.
***
The Montmartre café is our last group dinner on this trip. We raise the ritualistic third toast for the women. I raise a toast for the lovely French girls whom we love as passionately as twenty three years ago. They have been wonderful hosts.
After dinner, Myriam suggests we walk down not on the staircase, but through the lanes that take you down all the way to Pigalle. It’s the light of the summer evenings. We walk down admiring the buildings and flower plants in the windows. We walk through Pigalle without entering a single sex shop. (I suppose we have become middle-aged).
At the metro station, we suddenly realize it’s time. It’s over. Until we meet again in a year’s time. In Helsinki. And then in another city. In another country. Year after year. We don’t want to lose again what we have found.
***
Flashback
I want to wind up this narrative by saying how the whole thing started. Just in case you didn’t know.
In December 2008, Carole decided to clean up her house. During the cleaning up, she found an address book. When she opened, it had my address from 1986. (My surname starts with “A”, so most of the time I am at the top of the address lists)
“Where is he now?” Carole thought to herself. “And what does he do?”
While cleaning, the questions did not leave her. We had not met since 1994, and fifteen years is a time long enough to feel curious about a missing friend.
She decided to write a New Year greeting card and send it to Ravi in Bombay, India.
***
For more than ten years, my family doesn’t live at the 1986 address. That flat is sold and I don’t even know who lives there now.
The greeting card reached the post office, and the Indian postman looked at it.
“No Abhyankars live in that building.” He said to another postman.
“Let me see the name.” the other postman said. “Ravi Abhyankar?”
He scratched his head to activate his Intel inside.
“Is it from abroad?” he said. “I remember that name used to get many letters from abroad. Unless I am mistaken, I know where his flat is. Give it to me.”
The other postman carried it to my parents’ house. My mother called me to say there is a greeting card from Paris. I wondered who could write to me from Paris.
I went to my parents’ place to fetch the card. When I opened it, I was thrilled. Have you ever received a letter from someone after an absence of fifteen years? If you have, you will know what I felt.
In the old-fashioned way, Carole had written only her address, no email, no phone. I thought I should buy a greeting card, and send her. When will it reach her?
I became impatient, went to my computer, began researching Carole Mettler, and found her phone in the World Wide Web.
I immediately called her, and we spoke for more than an hour.
***
That’s how the whole thing started. Carole’s cleaning the house has resulted into fourteen people meeting in Paris after a gap of twenty-three years. Is life not a great mystery?
Ravi
Paris, May 2009
