The Howling

As I walk into the restaurant it is clear that something is going on. A photograph of this moment would show several heads turned in the same direction, a group of people pointing in the opposite direction, cutomers caught half way between sitting and standing, and others twisting their heads and necks to see, although there is nothing to see but the closed door to the bathroom. From behind this door there is a terrible noise: a strange and unearthly howling.

Time seems to be suspended at first, and then things begin to move on again.  The howling is truly terrible and as ice apparently drips down my own spine, I see fear and anxiety in the faces around me too. The howling develops to include gibbering and crying and a repetitive high-pitched shout, the manager is called and a small crowd of colleagues and clients surround him, advising and pointing, propelling him into the lair of the strange and distressed creature. The manager goes in alone. Everyone waits. The restaurant becomes still, and the canned christmassy music apologetically regains control of the place.

I take my drink and notepad and settle to my quiet reflections as planned, but the atmosphere is tense and there are still distractions: men in suits speaking into two-way radios, a waitress slipping in through the door to the bathrooms and dashing out again, more suits moving about, in and out of the cafe. Customers have left hastily.

Then, just as we have almost forgotten the terrible howling, a group emerge through the door at last. Five or six young men, in their early twenties probably: one is being supported by the others. He is impossibly thin. The manager follows them as they wind their way between tables and chairs, making for the door onto the roof which, in the summer, is an outdoor cafe besieged by pigeons, but is now a shimmering white square in the dusk. They help him down the three short steps onto the wide, flat roof where snow has met rain and is now part ice, part treacherous lake. Holding on to the railings at the side, the thin boy shudders and shakes but stays on his feet. I can see his breath forcing tiny clouds into the evening air. The others stand around now, one or two of them light cigarettes, the manager is waiting by the door, watching.

Finally the boy recovers a little. It seems as if his bones will poke out of what he is wearing; too little for this temperature at this time of day in this city. He is a human leaf in autumn, scant and skeletal, trembling and vulnerable and ready to drop. The boys have left slushy prints across the roof and managed a slow and careful descent down the slippery iron staircase: two walking backwards in front of him, the others following in a brotherly bundle from which hands emerge at all angles to hold his shoulders, his arms, his elbows, the railings and each other.

Much later, and way too late, three paramedics arrive in the cafe. The manager shows them which way the boys went, and they trudge across unsteadily to the railings to look hopelessly down into the darkness. They will be miles away by now. I realise that the dark-looking faces in suits who have been giving one another sideways glances and talking furtively into mobile phones, have not been calling for security backup, they have been calling for help. I catch the look on the manager’s face as his gaze followed the footsteps the boys have left, and see a surprising gentleness and genuine concern: not, after all, for his business, but for the boy.

Looking out of the window of the cafe, following those icy footprints, I can’t help but feel this concern too. But the image that follows me home afterwards is that of the many arms around him as he makes his slow, precarious way back into the night. He is not out there alone.

Inside Out

This morning sees the First Snow. A few, tiny, lethargic flakes flit about in opposite directions as if they have forgotten what to do since the last time. Should they descend, should they float back up? I am being guided through the lanes and alleys behind the roaring Moscow streets. After this visit to the surgeon my vision is so smeared that the sounds of the city have thickened and seem to press against my skin. We sweep past layers of voices: chattering, urgent, idle, laughing. These Russian tones are familiar to me now, although I can still filter them out if I want to, (something I can never do with the voices of my native tongue).

Behind the hospital the lanes wind and twist past crumbling balconies that reach outwards from old houses, groups of builders silently smoking, a cafe and a row of bikes. After two injections in each eye, several drops to anaesthetise and still others to dilate, the world is far too bright for me right now. I am seeing double, but it’s double nothing. All the details blur into a violet halo; an aura which surrounds each shimmering line, each shadowed face. The tiny snow flecks are pointed out to me. It’s hard to seize them into sight in the garish blur of this doubled version of the world but as a perfect, miniature snowflake finally lands upon my sleeve and winks at me I cannot help a sudden smile. I make a wish.

We walk past two men standing very close together: a uniformed policeman and a dark-haired man in very old boots. It is a silent transaction, there is nothing to hear. The details of their faces I cannot make out, but the thoroughness of the fingers searching into every corner of all the pockets of the bag being held out – this is something I can somehow sense, even in the brief flash of time it takes to walk past them. Now it is really starting to get cold.

Later in the metro I remember the tiny snowflakes so clearly that it feels as though they are flying about inside the carriage of the train. I close my eyes, because they are still playing tricks. It turns out that closing them doesn’t help. Pictures begin to sketch themselves into the reddish black darkness of the underside of my eyelids, which seem now to have become screens. Or mirrors? Faces build and fade there from time to time: some abstract, some recognisable, some hovering in between. Now I suddenly find myself staring into the image of my own eyes, as they were before, and noting how they clearly and defiantly gaze back. I am so shocked that my eyelids snap open and I am relieved simply to see lots of sleepy people sitting in a very ordinary train (inside which it is not snowing).

Looking outwards I cannot see what is there to be seen, but have still somehow perceived many tiny, invisible things. Looking inwards I find I can see what is not there to be seen at all. Today the world is inside out.

First Wheels

I watch them from further down the street as they race ahead. The Little One is wobbling, but confident anyway, his small shoulders hunched in concentration, little legs struggling to keep the unfamiliar pedals circling round. Next to him runs his father, keeping pace perfectly, a gymnast’s poise and bounce in his step. He calls out instructions, leans in from time to time to steady his son. I think, how is it that we are all here? This summer’s day, this Moscow street, with lazy poplar pollen drifting across the afternoon, these first-step moments shining in our minds.

Perhaps I caught a glimpse of this image once, back there, in those far-off, far-away times in suburban England, freewheeling down the leafy lanes of my childhood. It could be that I caught a bright flash of all this then, and called it a dream.

“Round and round”, the words echo back to me both in baritone Russian and in light, childish English. My two worlds meet in this moment – balanced precariously, valiantly, upon two shiny new wheels.

click here for Moscow – First Wheels (a very little, sunny, video)

An Odyssey into Russian Reality (Part 2)

Approaching from the water in our little boats, the island reveals its beauty and austerity slowly, in towering layers, the harsh landscape crowned with golden spires. Our invincible menfolk have been rowing heroically, without complaint, for several hours, and now … Continue reading →

Odyssey into Russian Reality (Part 1)

(If I had known how long it would take, we would never have gone.) We ride out of town and keep going north, the firs and birch trees flashing past in mile upon mile of forest. We grind through the … Continue reading →

Time Travel

The metro again. At this time of day it is a ceaseless stream of tired, sagging people who yawn and sway, rattling slowly beneath the streets of Moscow, home to their families perhaps. A spark leaps out of this ashen wash of indistinct faces, and suddenly I have caught an eye. This woman is different.

She peeps from beneath the broad brim of an enormous hat, held in place by a wide silk bow. She has to lift her chin high from time to time to see out. Glancing about her, fascinated and furtive, she seems to be seeing everything for the first time. She looks a little anxious, but amused.

A shawl is draped over her coat: soft, dark green and elaborate, its folds arranged as if she were sitting for an artist who has achieved the perfect arrangement for an exercise in painting in oils. Her posture is unusual, as though trying not to disturb the flow of fabric, while holding her body still against the motion of the train. As if she were being painted. Did she slip out of the studio, (several decades ago) pop out for a coffee and find herself, strangely, sitting on a metro train to Sokol? I imagine that all time travellers have that dazed look about them: it makes me smile. She is an unpainted portrait.

An extraordinary face. Cheek bones that arch with regal curves; a long, Roman nose and a full mouth painted a bright and incongruous red. She is not young, certainly she’s over sixty. But she’s older than that too: a nineteenth century face looking in amused bewilderment at a twenty-first century world.

Still Snowing

I wake to find that Spring was only teasing yesterday. That bright scent in the air, the sunshine (taking off gloves and hat for the first time) had all been a mere flirtation. Today winter is back to whisper in our ears lest we forget, whitening the branches of trees all over again.

I make my way through fresh slush towards the metro station. A woman is standing to the side of the pavement holding a cardboard sign. It says she is hungry. She stands rigid in the gentle snow, a scarf tied beneath her chin, covering her head which is tilted towards her right shoulder at precisely the correct angle to elicit pity from anybody who might look in her direction.

Her right shoulder is slightly raised, lifted just the tiniest shade towards her leaning head, as if between the two some invisible embrace exists, holding her up, and a disembodied voice breathes words which she can barely hear; impossible to tell if they are words of hope, despair or resignation. She even looks comfortable in that position. Snow is building up in little piles on the shoulders of her coat, as on the eaves of houses. Her eyelashes are collecting silent snowflakes.

Upon my return, she is standing in the same place, her body in exactly the same position. She has refined this posture over time. Who knows how long? A small, sharp wind flicks a flurry of snow from the plastic cover of a nearby newspaper stand and blows it over her. Although the sky is clear elsewhere, in her small corner where she stands, perfectly still, it is still snowing.

2012 A Happy New Year!

I have been away for a while. I have been busy researching the notion of insight, inner eyes and finding a new vision for the new year. It turns out that all you need is a good surgeon, an over-worked imagination and some Shakespeare. For more on this, you can read the above new page An Inner Eye.

Meanwhile, my new year’s resolution, emerging fully formed from my recent experiences, is simply to KEEP CALM – no matter what happens.

I wish all my readers a happy, successful, healthy, beautiful Dragon year; full of fun, wisdom, insight, the ability to see what you need to see and be seen when you want to be.

From the Invisible Woman with Love. Happy 2012!

Holding Back the Rain

This gallery contains 9 photos.

CITY DAY 2011 When the city of Moscow celebrates, the Mayor sends people in aeroplanes high up above the city to commune with the clouds so that it won’t rain on our parade. This sounds like a metaphor, or the … Continue reading →

A Place for All Seasons

This gallery contains 8 photos.

The sun is bright but there is a crispness in the air that I love. I remember this from my childhood: the turning of the season with the promise of things fresh and new, as the clearer air of impending … Continue reading →