“In the mornings the shepherd came. Just imagine! He carried a long reed pipe. When we heard
his “toot-toot, toot-toot-toot,” we led the cows out of the barn and drove them in a herd.
That’s how our day began. And the shepherd ate at Semyon’s house one day and the next day at
Vanka’s, and so on and so on from house to house. There were two hundred cows in the village.
And in those days there were lots of wolves around here—you could hear them howling at night
from the forest across the river. Especially when the moon was bright. Then it was terrible. When
it got dark, we youngsters got together and we’d sing and dance to the accordion until the mor-
ning. Your mother was a fine dancer, Seryozha. Couldn’t take my eyes off her, you know.
But at six in the morning we had to get up and go out to cut hay. We wanted to sleep like crazy.
There was a blacksmith in Nanovka, name of Semyon. He died in the war. A jack-of-all-trades, he
was. He could shoe your horse or fix your cart, or even plate your pans with tin. The children
swarmed around him—they were amazed by his work. But today there’s no one left who can
forge a proper horseshoe-----------.

(Encounter of Ilya with his father Volkhov)
At first they talked in fits and starts, as both of them felt awkward. After a cup of tea, they took a
walk through a grove on the grounds and came to a cliff from where they could see the quietly
flowing Moskva River. The river made a sweeping curve to the right, its brown waters flowing
smoothly toward the distant fields. On the opposite bank, golden fields of wheat extended as far as
the eye could see, merging with a forest on the horizon. The scene reminded Ilya of the region
around Nanovka, and suddenly he felt pangs of longing.

Volkhov noticed Ilya’s reaction, but decided not to say anything. After he first met Ilya, Volkhov
asked someone reliable to carefully recheck the archival documents in Kabanii Roi’s registry
office. He was even more convinced that, as he had hoped, Ilya was his son. When Volkhov fell
seriously ill, he even considered calling Ilya, but he was embarrassed on account of his wife and
daughter. Even if I die now without recognizing my own son, it is simply my fate. Anyway there are many stories like mine in our country. Mine has not turned out so badly.

Ilya had a premonition that Volkhov had something to do with his birth. The two remained silent. A
light wind from the river rustled through the leaves and a few odd wisps of fluff from the poplar
trees sailed through the air. Taking out his guitar, Ilya started to sing a bylina that Agafya had
taught him. He began quietly at first and then sang with increasing intensity.
Volkhov closed his eyes and listens intently, as if recalling the past. It was the same bylina that
Frosya used to sing. Full of emotion, he questioned Ilya. “Ivan Ivanovich, did your grandmother also teach you this bylina? Please tell me exactly where in Ryazan province you were born.”
“Yes, my grandmother taught it to me, and I was born in Nanovka.”
“And may I ask your grandmother’s name?”
“Agafya. Agafya Makoshina.”
Volkhov’s heart nearly stopped beating, so great was his joy. Agafya was Frosya’s mother. He’s
my son. There’s no doubt that he’s my son.
“And what was your mother’s name?” Volkhov continued questioning Ilya like a prosecutor.
“My mother is dead. She died during my birth. Her name was Yefrosinya or Frosya.”
Volkhov slowly rose. He took a few uncertain steps and had trouble speaking.
“Frosya… I’ve found him. I finally found him. My son. Ilya, I’m your father!”
Ilya jumped to his feet as if he’d been struck by lightning. Feeling dizzy, he closed his eyes. Chao-
tic thoughts and fragments of the past rushed through his mind: his mother, childhood, how he’d
pestered his grandmother with questions about his father. Is it really true? Is this gray-haired,
esteemed man my father? He had to tell himself to calm down. With his eyes still closed, he
said, “P-please explain. Why? Tell me why?”
After getting a hold on himself, Volkhov spoke in a quiet voice about what had happened in the
past. The layers of darkness in Ilya’s mind were cast loose and tears flowed from his eyes.
“Father!”

(Ilya as Russian, was rejected to take part in the Chekoslovak “Velvet Revolution” in 1989)
A crowd of people was moving through Prague in the same direction Ilya and Jan were going. Soon
they could hear voices blaring from loudspeakers. Bright floodlights lit up Wenceslas Square. Ilya
stopped at one side of the square to watch, while Jan translated the slogans for him: “Our Time
Has Come,” “At Last the USSR Is An Example for Us,” “Open the Archives!”
The ringing of bells and jingling of keys continued, and countless candles flickered in the dark
night. The people were expressing a united, calm determination with great dignity. Ilya felt a lump
in his throat. He was also aware of a brutal energy similar to something he had once felt during his college days when he slammed the hockey puck with all his might and scored a goal. Why can’t we
live without suppressing other countries, without suppressing our own people? All people should
live free.
Suddenly he let out an unintelligible cry and involuntarily charged into the sea of people. “People,
brothers. I’m your friend!”
Jan rushed after him shouting, “Stop! You can’t do that! You’re not one of us. You’re a
Russian!”
Just then a wave of intense excitement surged through the crowd. Yakesh was gone. The wheel of
history had turned, and it was irreversible.

(The first night of Roman and Yuliya)
Yuliya sat off to one side, forlorn. She could hardly breathe and her heart was beating furiously.
Neither she nor he could speak, realizing that just one word spoken in a faltering voice would give
them away. The minutes passed slowly, and they sat without moving. Yuliya was the first to lose
control. She rose and picked up Roman’s teacup in order to take it to the kitchen, but he grabbed
her arm and pulled her back. Yuliya cried out and fell on top of him, the teacup still in her hand. He
held her and pushed her down on the sofa, pressing her with his whole body. Quickly and clumsily
pulling up her blouse, he bared her smooth, firm breasts. Quietly Yuliya cried out again and covered
both of her breasts with her hands, but she soon gave in to Roman’s passionate caresses and
lowered her hands to the side, resigning herself to the inevitable. Firmly holding her slender waist,
Roman reached for the zipper on her jeans. Yuliya started to protest, “No, no. Don’t.”
The sound of boiling water could be heard from the kitchen and the TV announcer was shouting
that the gates on the Berlin wall were finally open, but the lovers didn’t hear or see any of that.
They stayed awake the whole night. The city quieted down and only rarely did the noise of cars
drift into the room. Fate. Their fate was decided.
All night long Roman and Yuliya shyly and tenderly examined each other’s body. They asked each
other why they’d behaved in certain ways during the past year and when all their misunderstanding
s were cleared up, they laughed with abandon. They made love again, this time slowly and gently.
Roman became a man, and Yuliya, a woman.

(Ilya’s night with the KGB agent Aurora in Madrid)
The intensity of the Flamenco music increased and the dancer began to tap with her feet. Ta-ta-
ta, ta-ta-tatta, ta-ta-tatta, ta-ta-ta-tatta. The young men clapped faster and faster and the
dancer wildly tossed her hair while tapping with her heels. As her performance came to its climax,
she threw back her head, raised her arms into the air, and on the last note stamped one foot onto
the floor. She stayed in that pose for some time, breathing heavily. The audience applauded en-
thusiastically, though compared to the clapping of the gypsies, it sounded chaotic and weak.

As soon as they entered the room, Ilya threw Aurora on the bed, tore off her scarlet blouse, and
pulled off the white shorts and back lace panties. Naked, she lay complaisantly on the bed, giving
Ilya a provocative look. He quickly took off his clothes and in a frenzy began caressing her body.
Aurora stretched her hand below his stomach and stroked him. He immediately thought of how she had put her hand on his thigh at the restaurant, awakening his desire.
Kissing passionately, they tossed and turned on the bed. Her skin was cool to the touch, but she
was warm and wet inside. He drew her legs apart roughly and penetrated her with all his might.
Aurora cried out and tried to move back toward the head of the bed, but he wouldn’t let her, and
then she clung to him tightly, making heart-rending moans. Covered with sweat, they came to a
climax. Ilya felt the rhythm of the flamenco music and heard the sound of heels tapping faster and
faster. From Aurora’s throat came a long, high cry.

Exhausted, she lay still for some time. Slowly her expression softened and she turned to Ilya with a
smile.
“Ah, Ilyusha, that was wonderful. Thank you.”
Ilya got up and lit a cigarette. He walked over to the window and looked at nighttime Madrid spread
out below. Good, Lord, am I really going to spend the night with this woman? A man only becomes
human in the circles of family and friends. He was tormented by guilt. He’d acted impulsively, as he often did. But all right, it’s too late. Whatever will be, will be.

They spent the next day in Retiro Park. In the morning Aurora was calm. She had dropped all her
affectations and was as playful as a little girl.
“Look, Ilyusha. What beautiful flowers. What are they called? Oh, but why would you know the name
s of foreign flowers, my Russian warrior?” Aurora laughed and put her head on Ilya’s shoulder,
taking a deep breath.
“Ilyusha, I haven’t felt so well for ages. Since childhood. Since my father was still alive…” Her
voice broke off and her eyes, gazing far away, filled with tears.

(Amidst the turmoil of the coup-d’etat Ilya sees Aurora)
After leaving Sofronchuk’s office at Parliament building, Ilya went to look for the exit. From the
opposite end of the dreary, dark hall a figure appeared. A slender, young woman in a raincoat and a
hat that covered only part of her long golden hair. Aurora! She came to a stop when she saw Ilya.
Then with tears in her eyes she ran to him and threw her arms around him.
“Ilya, Ilyushenka. My sun, my love, my warrior. I’ve longed to see you again. To see you one more
time. For the last time! Forgive me, Ilyushenka. For the sake of our child, forgive me.”
“Our child? I’m the father?”
Unintentionally Ilya raised his voice. Aurora didn’t answer. Still crying, she pressed her lips to his.
As they lost themselves in a long kiss, armed soldiers and bureaucrats carrying out documents
rushed past them.
“We are expecting an attack by the enemy at any moment. We are expecting an attack by the
enemy. All women must leave the building immediately. Men will be given gas masks. Please report
to the person in charge on your floor.”
Neither Aurora nor Ilya heard the warning. And now, frozen in shock, Lyuba stood beside them,
staring in disbelief. She hadn’t been able to make herself stay at the dacha and had come to Sof-
ronchuk’s office in order to find Ilya. As soon as she came to her senses, she quietly headed for
the exit.
Ilya caught sight of Lyuba and rushed after her. Aurora remained standing there, in despair, tears
streaming down her face.
Ilya lost Lyuba in the vast crowd in front of the White House. She was practically racing, trying to
get far away from such an abomination as fast as possible. From somewhere in the direction of the
Kiev train station came the crisp crackle of gunshots. Ilya was running at full speed to get to the
subway station before Lyuba. He didn’t even hear the growing ominous roar of armored cars and
the clank of caterpillar tractors. He knew if he didn’t catch up to Lyuba now, it would be all over. It
was a misunderstanding, such a horrible misunderstanding. “Lyuba!”
The bridge at the intersection of Kalinin Avenue and the Sadovoye Ring road was filled with people
who had chosen to ignore the curfew. Ilya took a right turn and pushed his way through the crowd. He could hear the deafening roar of engines and a burst of gunfire. Then an armored car shot out
of the tunnel and came to a sudden stop.
“Watch out! Get off the road! What happened? They killed someone. They killed a man!” A series
of heart-rending cries came from the crowd. In front of the armored car lay the bloodied body of a
young man. The pressure of the crowd forced Ilya into the street. Near the body on the ground
stood a young man with a bloody rag in one hand. The color had drained from his face. He was
gripping one shoulder and staggering in the street. Ilya thought his face was familiar. Could it really
be Roman? His son-in-law had disappeared without a trace. And to find him here!
“Roman, what happened?”
“Ilya Ivanovich.” Roman was stunned. “Ilya Ivanovich, I’ve been hit.”

(Aurora commits suicide in the wake of the failed coup, jumping into Moscow River)
The city of Moscow, still asleep, stretched out below them. In the east the sky was gradually tur-
ning red as the sun of a new era rose.
The Wolves tooted their horns in farewell to their leader.
“Take care of yourselves, guys! Good-bye!” Aurora yelled as she stepped on the gas. Her red BMW flew like an arrow out of the deep forest of Lenin Hills and shot high into the air.
On the other side of the river Moscow still slept, harboring her eternal desires, despair, and
dreams. Beyond the city the green meadows and fields of Russia extended far into the distance.
Aurora and her red bike plunged into the Moskva River, her golden hair sparkling in the sun for the
last time.

The chain is broken. The dog bound to the Little Bear is free and the end of the earth is nigh.

Ilya, Ilya, long did I wait for you,
But our encounter came too late.
I have sinned and go to face God’s judgment.

O earth, you are mother and father to me!
I entrust my child to your care.
Though conceived in sin, of the Russian earth
He was born—for happiness and not for suffering-----------------------.

(Moscow scenes just after the fall of the Soviet Empire)
Deafening music, champagne, vodka, caviar, and game, waiters running back and forth in shiny,
threadbare tuxedos, casting furtive looks, like petty thieves. Their looks betrayed their anger at
being ordered about by guests who in the past would never have been able to visit such an expen-
sive restaurant. The alluring sound of trumpets, the coarse voices of men and the charming voices of women, the clinking of glasses to endless toasts.
Ilya took hold of himself and replied to Alliluyev.
“Well, if the city authorities permit it, then, of course.”
Alliluyev knocked back an ice-cold vodka, wiped his mouth with his fist, and in the same breath
said, “We’ve got everything under control in the city administration. There’s only one small pro-
blem left—to keep Popov from interfering. He always pretended to be reliable, but once he grabbed
power, he quickly took charge of everything in the city. He won’t give an inch, understand?”
“So you think that during the coming inflation Mayor Popov will hurry to sell municipal land?”

The light in the room dimmed. In the semi-darkness the aging artiste Rybakov appeared, beneath
the beams of spotlights. He began his dance slowly to the beat of the music. In the dark only the
graceful movements of his white gloves and cloak were visible.
A familiar tune from somewhere. The Soviet anthem in the form of a sentimental waltz, “A Remin-
der of Youth.”
The gaunt figure of the old performer resembled a ghost. Like an invisible shadow death always
stalks the joys of life. The customers in the bar grew silent. The gentle sounds of the waltz turned into a melancholy minor key, and then the tempo built, evoking remembrances of the empire’s
collapse. Rybakov started turning faster and faster until he finally fell and disappeared in the dark.
---------
Alliluyev involuntarily made a face. The musicians began singing loudly again.

It’s quiet at the hangout, only the whistling wind.
The thieves have gathered for a meeting.
Criminal gangsters and tough hooligans
Are picking a new committee.

Alliluyev silently finished up everything that was left on the table.
What an unreliable guy this Ilya is. Doesn’t he remember to whom he owes his position as head of
the newspaper? New times are here and he pretends not to understand a thing. Alliluyev casually
handed the waiter a hundred-dollar bill, signaled the bodyguard who’d been waiting for him in the
corner, and went outside.
Ilya also left the bar. In the dim light of the streetlamps he saw a wet snow falling. It was quiet.
Only from the direction of Taganskaya Square came the sounds of nighttime Moscow.
It’s the rumble of wheels, the wheels of history that turn slowly but surely and with no emotion.
Wheels that are utterly ruthless with life.
Ilya took a sidelong glance at Alliluyev’s black Mercedes as it quickly sped off. After his fifth
attempt he managed to start his old Zhiguli. His small car, which had nothing in common with the
warrior Ilya’s horse, made its way slowly down Sadovoye Ring Street, slicing like a boat through
the soggy snow.
Below, in the gloomy Moscow night were the dark waters of the Yauza River, where long ago Peter
the Great, when still a boy, conducted military exercises with his toy fleet. And on the hill above
the river shone the brightly illuminated white bell tower of Spaso Andronikov Monastery.

O Russia! The Russia we have lost! Russia—how beautiful the word sounds, how poetic and majes-
tic! Asia and Europe have fought one another on her endless expanses; human passions have
collided here. Russia. Infinitely sinful and infinitely holy.

It’s not the first time Russia is being baptized. In the days of old it became Christian under Grand
Prince Vladimir; today under the firm hand of Boris Yeltsin it is accepting democracy and a market
economy.

Ilya mumbled some words from Shakespeare, which had become his habit of late. “ ‘Fair is foul,
and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air.’”
---------
The sad fate of a Russian woman. In the past she was forced to give herself to one of the bosses
in order to get a pass to a health resort, or to get a book of her poems published, or to get on the
waiting list for an apartment. Today she has to sell herself to the rich. And women are often
murdered. The more popular or pretty they are, the higher the risk of being killed. Recently people
found the naked body of a woman in a subway tunnel. The once beautiful body she boasted of had
become a simple, blue, swollen object in the dark, damp tunnel.

Life and Sorrow

A cluster of neon lights,
A heap of flowers.
Moscow at the century’s turn?
Sodom? Gomorrah?
A beautiful woman casts a long glance
From the crystal darkness.
Wild Harlequin and sad Pierrot
Rush through the motley cycle
Of days and nights.
Somewhere nearby the demon of death
Sharpens a blade.
That’s how carefree Weimar
Once made merry.

In Berlin pickpockets and thieves
Sat alongside revolutionaries.
Blondes became sweethearts of gangsters,
Throwing their lives away for drink and drugs.
In hard times the flowers of vice bloom,
But after a night of joy comes sorrow.
Scoundrels play out their parts,
Then perish without a clue,
As if fulfilling the will of God.

Weimar, Berlin—Weimar, Moscow

(Ilya’s niece Olga’s birthday party. A vanity fair of Moscow elites.)
A crazy ball in nighttime Moscow. Over there, smiling triumphantly, the frail but eminent host of a
political TV program was dancing with a middle-aged beauty, who, judging by her expression, had
accepted his invitation only out of politeness. And here a former high-ranking KGB officer gaily
danced the jitterbug with a TV star. No authority existed in this country now, everything was per-
mitted, and there was a complete lack of discipline. Politicians, entrepreneurs, journalists, lobbyist
s, and officials from the “power ministries”—the security services and military… During the day
they got into fights, sorted things out, made trouble, and argued furiously with one another. But
life is life and one had to live according to the principle, “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”
The new ruling class that had surfaced like soapsuds on the water of chaos was dancing up a storm.
There was a terrible emptiness inside Olga, however. The higher you rise in society, the more
boring and empty your life becomes due to the fact that the people around you, the ones you
have to see and deal with, are totally insincere. Yes, it was simply an illusion. Oh, if only Ilyusha had
come. I invited him but he declined. He said there’s nothing for him to do in places like this now.
What a shame. With his songs and his gift for persuasion he would have fired up everyone here.
Her business partner, Alliluyev, approached Olga and asked her to dance again.
Firmly holding on to her slender body with his thick fingers, he whispered, “Olya, you’ve really
gone to extremes. How much did all of this cost? So you’re going to squander everything I earn
on a political party?”

(The night of Ivan Kupalo, a pagan ritual)
Ivan Kupalo, the ancient holiday, was a festival of life. On this night springs and streams flow with
gold and silver. In the forest a holy fern blooms with a miraculous flower that radiates a brilliant,
enchanting light. Whoever finds and picks this flower gains the power to subjugate both the tsar
and the devil. On the night of Ivan Kupalo in quiet whispers the trees and grasses and flowers dis-
close the secrets of the universe. They reveal where treasures are buried in the earth.
A blazing fire—was it the summer sun or a flash of lightning hurled by the god Perun? Joining hand
s, half in jest and half-seriously, young couples jumped across the burning bonfire. If they managed
to jump through the flames without losing grip of each other’s hands, it meant they would stay
together all their lives.

(Ilya’s last concert)
Ilya took the microphone in one hand and raised the other in order to quiet the audience. He
spoke in a soft voice.
“Thank you, thank you. Today is the best of all days for me. Here in your midst I understand. I
understand what kind of person I am, what it means to be a Russian, and, finally, where Russia is
heading. Thanks to all of you. Thank you for this wonderful gift. As a sign of my gratitude permit
me to sing you one more song.
The stirred-up audience began to make noise. Ilya took out a handkerchief, wiped the sweat off his
face, thought for a moment, and then improvised a song.

Whoever thinks money will bring freedom,
Money will deprive of freedom.
“Mercedeses,” “Cadillacs,” “Sonys”—
You can’t resist their appeal!
They bind you hand and foot,
Surround you with an iron wall—
And from that time on you’ll no longer know
Simple human joys!

Whoever thinks the market will bring wealth,
The market will deprive of wealth.
“Chanel,” “Cardin,” “Shiseido”—
You can’t resist their appeal!
Money, stocks, and transactions
Are utterly drab routines.
And from that time on you’ll no longer see
Your real friends at your side!

Whoever thinks revolution will bring freedom,
The revolution will deprive of freedom.
Rich men, bureaucrats, and mafia—
You can’t resist their power!
Oh, how you really want to give
All this up as a hopeless cause,
To become free and independent,
To be free from it all!
The audience was in a frenzy. There was a burst of applause. There were whistles and loud
shouts. “You said it, Ilya. Encore!”
And then Ilya’s face suddenly became distorted. He grabbed the microphone and fell down on the
stage, still holding on to it. Dark blood flowed from his chest. Everyone nearby rushed to help.
Lyuba screamed and ran to her husband’s side. The audience was in a panic.
“What happened? What’s the matter?”
“A heart attack!”
“No, someone tried to kill him! With a rifle! Be careful!”
A bright light appeared in Ilya’s slowly fading consciousness. Almost dissolving into blueness, a
blinding white seagull made sad circles in an azure sky. “Ilya, Ilya, I am leaving your child.”
Numerous streams hidden below the surface of Moscow overflowed and their swelling waves
swallowed the bell tower of Ivan the Great and the cupola of Novodevichy Convent. And above the waves rose a green field, a dense forest, and a clear brook with spring water. Now there were birch trees and a cemetery overgrown with weeds. Lyuba, merging with the image of Aurora, smiled
sadly. “You are my land, my father and my mother. I am leaving your child.”
“Hey, hey! Ilya Muromets, Ilya Muromets on his horse.”
The voice over the rye field sounded loud at first and then grew increasingly soft until at last it
dissolved into the blue expanse of the sky.

(Madame Miller’s letter from California)
At first I was a little lost here. Not because of the different language and customs. I felt powerless,
as if I was out of my element, as if I’d become blind and had disappeared into some obscure place.
And it was all because of the celebrated American freedom. Here you can say whatever you want
and do whatever you want. But the downside is that you have to deal with your problems by your-
self. As if you’re in a vacuum. That is very frightening. The freedom we shouted about during the
perestroika years has proven to be like bourgeois ornaments and sweet fairy tales that are like
pleasant conversations in a café.
Arriving in America, we Russians suppose that the whites are the ruling class in this rich country
and we do whatever we want—even break the traffic rules. We think that this society, like the
whole world, is based on the work of Asians and blacks who are its slaves. We’ve become accus-
tomed to thinking that social and world problems are decided in accordance with the wishes of the
ruling class, and that’s why we blame politics for everything. If a company called “Mac” doesn’t
merge with a company called “Donald’s,” it means the politicians lack resolve; if pensions are too
low, it means more political resolve is needed. How many times since I arrived have Americans
laughed at my opinions!
Ilyusha, today Russia is getting what it deserves for having turned its own people into serfs and
slaves over the course of several centuries. We have no concept of what real freedom is. The
spirit of slavery has saturated our pores. We’ve become used to resigning ourselves in silence to
brutal violence, groveling before it shamelessly, and becoming subservient to it. The Americans
have none of this. While we wait for orders and anxiously ponder whether something can be done
or not, they immediately get down to whatever business they have and calmly get it done.
How splendid that is. Half a year after my arrival I finally began to feel at home, too, and then things
here immediately began to seem boring. And do you know why? Because of the dreariness of daily
life, as if you were being forced to eat hamburgers all the time. A human being is a demanding
creature. He or she is always dissatisfied with something. The aisles in the store are the same
everywhere; the piles of merchandise are the same; the smell of perfume is the same in all the
malls. You go to a movie theater and the smell of popcorn hovers over the blue carpet every-
where; you go out on the street and you hear the noise of coins rattling in metal cans held by
people asking for money.
At first I thought I was in seventh heaven, and then I began to suffocate. I wanted to run away.
Here there’s not even a trace of that European intellectual atmosphere that has a light touch of
decadence. Here everything is simply cheerful, and there are so many different races that you
can’t figure out who’s who.
Americans consider themselves to be a multinational society. In reality they literally strip the
immigrants’ native culture from them and package it in the wrapping paper of their own history,
which is only some two hundred years old. When I tell people that I am a poet from Russia, they
are completely uninterested. They only things they know about Russia are vodka and Cossack
dances.

Ilyusha, it’s terrible. I have stopped being myself. Did you happen to see the American film version
of War and Peace? Yes, that one. They presented the Russians so reasonably that not a trace was
left of the Slavic spirit, which is a mixture of irrationality, deep spirituality, suffering, and disorder-
liness. Chaos, unruliness, licentiousness—that’s what Russia is. It is the substantiation of man in
his original essence. A beautiful country where someone is lugging stolen goods next to the
holiest of churches… Russia is holy to an extreme and sinful to an extreme.
-------
The greed is what will destroy Russia. Even those who pretend to care about world and
cosmic problems are in fact thinking about how to grab a bigger piece for themselves. Just lure
those people with some bait like power and fame and they will start grabbing like madmen.
Our greed leads to the breakdown of both communism and capitalism. People have gotten used to
treating themselves to sprouts that haven’t even developed yet. America has such people, too,
and perhaps it’s precisely for that reason that America has achieved such growth. In Russia such a thing is impossible because we have a shortage of everything.

All the same, Ilyusha, I am a Russian. It’s enough for me to hear the balalaika and my soul begins
rushing into Russian spaces, returning to the Russian forests. Tears appear almost involuntarily.
Near the train station in the distant suburb where we live there are rows of yellow wooden houses
on a road covered with reddish-brown dust. There are also several mobile homes, just as during
the time the West was being settled. It’s as if the people living here aren’t able to get rid of the
anxious feeling that they are only temporary inhabitants of this world.
To be honest, my husband and I would be ready to return to Russia even today. To the land where
nature sings and humans are part of it. Here there are only heavy sighs of the loneliness that comes from being squeezed into a megapolis—and cowboy songs from the prairies. And always there’s
the same, constant “I, I, I, mine.”
Even so, we’re persevering here. I’ve even started to like cowboy songs. Prairies that vanish into
the horizon, tall blue skies, and confidence in the future—the essence of the American spirit is in
these things. And is the Russian spirit really so different? For this reason we’ll hold out here to
the end. Hold out for little Ilya’s sake.
It seems that this boy has a broad nature. Whether in America or in Russia this child is capable of
mounting on a cloud and soaring into the sky. He is truly your child.
Ilyusha, you absolutely must try to visit us here some time and disclose that you are his father.
The way your father, Academician Volkhov, did. Such is the will of fate, Ilyusha. Russians are
doomed by fate to be fatherless. It seems that it’s their lot to grow in the gentle embraces of a
land that does not know its real master.