Life in Moscow

A few nights ago I had a dream that I was in Moscow visiting an old friend, completely fictitious, but who nonetheless shared some similarities with an existing person. Initially we were sitting separately in an old man's boozer, which might perhaps be more appropriately likened to a tavern, it being a quasi-period themed dream, as we had failed to recognise one another. I was dressed in the height of Moscow men's fashion; a rather worn waistcoat and dark grey work trousers, with a baggy sleeved, open necked shirt, and sturdy riding boots. The man I had come to see lit up a cigarette and ordered a beer from the bar, at which point I knew him as my comrade and went over to say hello. He was a grizzled, stubble-faced git, with careworn features and a shabby wax jacket. Nonetheless, deep feelings of kinship existed between us, and we embraced one another with affection.

Before uttering a single word, he went back to the bar and ordered an extra pint of what he was drinking for me. We then sat down at his table to drink and reminisce. The rest of the tavern was relatively bare, only a few old men coughing into their vodkas. What we talked about was not important. As the afternoon wore on, more people began to enter the tavern, including two young women in elaborate silk, ruffled dresses. I ignored them and continued my conversation, asking after the health of my friend's ailing mother. He talked about her meagre existence mending straw soled shoes and eating potato soup for dinner, of which it was his job to procure. "We're so poor right now that she can't afford to replace her hairbrush, and it's falling to pieces," he mumbled.

Soon it became clear that our conversation had attracted the attention of the two young ladies, who were tittering on a booth some distance away. I caught one of their eyes, and they both sidled closer to us. (Never give eye contact.) After a while, the one in the green dress leaned over our table and produced a beautifully carved, mint coloured hairbrush, decorated with a fine filigree pattern and delicate alabaster swirls. She put it into my hand, told me it was her late mother's and that we should give it to my comrade's sick mother. She was a hawkish lady, heavily made-up, her hair bundled high on her head with a plume bobbing on top. Her friend in pink had blonde, girlish curls, with demure eyes and rouged cheeks. I thanked them for the gift of the hairbrush, after making the necessary polite objections.

Little by little, they encroached onto our table until we were all drinking and joking together. Something in their forward manner made me realise that they were prostitutes, or in the vernacular of the time, wenches, probably of a lowly station trying very hard to pass themselves off as cultured salon sophistos. It also dawned on me that they were probably after the contents of our wallets, but they were pleasant enough company for the time being and made us forget the oppressive gloom of my comrade's troubles. My drunken jollity combined with the novelty of the situation made me want to post a photo on Facebook of our motley gathering, but when I suggested taking a selfie, they seemed very confused. Remembering that this was a period dream and smart phones were not yet invented, I let the subject slide.

More time passed and it was now snowing hard outside. The door to the tavern slammed open and a band of heavily armed, burly men with straggly black hair, scarred faces and tattooed biceps trooped in, demanding booty. "Here come the Flintstones," I muttered to my companions. Everyone in the tavern kept silent, watching as the ruffians looted the place clean. Because they didn't attempt to rob anyone personally and they seemed intent on only stealing the taxidermied animals hung on the walls, the punters and landlord remained compliant. When they'd filled their swag bags, they marched out again, in slow motion to the tune of black metal, and everyone went back to their drinks.

The pink prostitute couldn't keep her eyes off me, and I suspected that I might have a problem with her later on. I decided to call Li to join us, whose plane had recently landed. (Yes, modern technology was creeping in by this point.) Despite Li's eventual presence, they seemed unperturbed in whatever it was they were planning, although they did let out effusions of "Oh, how lovely!" when she joined us. "Let's all go to see the new Star Wars film!" one of them later suggested. After making plans to go to the city cinema the next day, we parted ways and retired to our respective abodes, but not before Pink secretly squeezed my hand during parting and gave me a suggestive silk handkerchief.

The dream skipped over to the next day, and we were all on the cold sunny streets of Moscow, making our way to a shabby downtown cinema. At the side of the main thoroughfare, Li and I were distracted by a throng of people watching dancing Russian bears. The bears were heavily malnourished, their bones protruding, and they had brittle, hay-like fur with numerous bald patches. Through rings in their noses, they were yanked this way and that by bulhooks, the trainers flogging those that were slow to respond. After much goading, they were manipulated into climbing on top of one another until they had formed a pyramid stack. A tattered poster blowing in the breeze read, 'Witness The Incredible Bear Pile - Only In Moscow!'

Suddenly a rotten cabbage flew through the air and hit one of the trainers. This was followed up by a shout from a group of Green Peace activists who had appeared on the scene. "Murderers! Barbarians!" they shouted. I noticed that those bears too old or exhausted to perform were being hanged by the neck from wooden scaffolds, to the extreme amusement of the watching peasants. Li tried to drag me away as we were losing our group, clearly such spectacles were daily occurrences here, but my blood had risen and I shook her off. Sensing trouble, the trainers made a protective barrier around their animal commodities and began to draw cudgels. I decided that it was better not to get involved, but I did flip them off and shout "Peasant scum! Murderers!" before running off like a coward. Such is life in Moscow.