Notes of a Muscovite

My classmate Zhenya loved Hemingway. Among other things, he was fascinated by that incomprehensible and infinitely distant reality from Moscow in the 70s, in which the hero sipped the contents of a cup or glass, exchanging phlegmatic remarks with the bartender and visitors. The situation of semi-acquaintance, the poor language of practically passwords and reviews. How are you? – Fine.

Meanwhile, we, high school students from a good school, guys with good brains, long tongues and similar interests, communicated a lot, frankly and deeply. We plunged into certain ideological abysses, which, of course, the bartender did not dream of. But for some reason we well understood the longing of our classmate. It was by no means a lack of communication. It was about the human environment.

In the 70s, many of us (in particular, my mother and I) moved from communal apartments to separate apartments. The communal apartment – for those who did not find them – was something of the opposite of Hemingway’s dimly lit bar. As you know, life burdens close relationships, but here there was a burden in its purest form, without voluntary intimacy. In short, the communal apartment brought heaviness to the range of human relations.

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We ended up in separate apartments, tired of the intrusive and inevitable neighborhood. Having got rid of the need to share a kitchen, shower and toilet with anyone, people enjoyed autonomy. As a result, for example, from a 14-story tower in 20 years we recognized only three families – neighbors on the site.

Megapolis – supermarkets, service and catering plants, taxi companies and trolleybus parks. It is difficult to know the face of the subway driver. Tiny shops and cafes within walking distance usually live a little. In networks – staff turnover. As a result, I do not distinguish between the “Shokoladnitsa” closest to the house and the “Shokoladnitsa” in St. Petersburg, because they do not distinguish me in the nearest one. My classmate’s dream remains a dream.

Once in my thirties in the village for several long summer seasons in a row, I observed what it was like to know by sight and by name about everyone: a salesman, a paramedic, a bus driver, a postman. Yes, even a couple of generations deep, including the dead. Gradually, far from the first year, I turned from an observer into a timid participant in village life. But, hand on heart, it is unlikely that my classmate and Hemingway would have liked it so much. It still has more of a communal apartment.

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In short, Ivan got up no, disheveled, swollen. In his underpants, he went to the tap, washed himself, and drank some water. Well, if alone. Worse, if under the condemning gaze of Sophia Gennadievna, although you gradually get used to it. This is a communal apartment – it is also a village. And here is another situation.

John stood up – no, disheveled, swollen. He went to the mirror, assessed the damage. Disappeared for ten minutes in the bathroom – came out already decent. And ten minutes later he appeared on the porch of his own house in a suit, a hat, with a case in his hand and a straight back.

How are you, John? – does not ask, but greets him, Mr. Brown, watering the lawn.

– Fine, – John does not lie in response, but signals that the situation is under control.

Hemingway.

Obviously, even trite, but it is included in the package. Familiar landscapes, familiar faces. The leg remembers the cracks in the pavement – the ear remembers the voices. You come back here with pleasure after an interesting and meaningful trip.

Probably, it can be summarized as follows: there are quite their own who saw you as everyone. They can no longer be shy, because why would all of a sudden. There are, on the other hand, completely strangers who obviously do not care. For example, residents of another city – well, you should not fall out of the frame so much as to attract everyone’s attention, and swelling and disheveledness fit well into a wide framework. In this sense, the impersonal metropolis is a classic other city; you are one of 10 million, and the people around you change like pictures in a kaleidoscope. And there is (if and when there is) a thin layer of semi-familiar people who have seen you a hundred times and completely distinguish you from the background, but have never seen you pitifully crying, crippled, dead drunk. But only with a straight back.

– How are you?

– Fine.

I have been living in the same place for many years, and here, if I may say so, the shoots of Hemingway are breaking through. In one cafe, I greet the waiters. In one store, I exchange nods with the cashier. Crossing the yard, I say hello two to five times.

– How are you?

– Thank you, it’s fine.

At first glance, this thin layer requires you to have a straight back – and, therefore, something must give in return. And it doesn’t take long for you to realize what it is. Straight back.

Thanks Hemingway.