We have a rest day in Moscow, one which I expect to spend as usual, getting oil on the soles of my shoes and lending moral support to Bernard in the begrimed bay of another repair shop. Much to our surprise and my personal joy, the mechanic and the shop owner where Roxanne will undergo major suspension surgery refuse to let us do any of the work. “No, no, you go rest, enjoy Moscow,” they say. Like fussing babushkas, they hustle us out of the shop with promises to call if they have questions. That’s how, on Day 23, having driven through China, Mongolia, and all of Siberia, a miracle occurs. We finally have a day together to wander around.
It feels like a first date. We amble through Red Square arm in arm, admiring the jewel-like onion domes of Vasily Cathedral, now so garishly painted it reminds me of its copy at Disneyland. We stand rapt inside a Russian Orthodox church listening to a mass sung in rich, ancient harmonies. Overcome with the beauty of the singing, I succumb to one of my spiritual moments, lighting slender beeswax tapers for each member of my family. Since I don’t pray, I make a wish that each should get whatever his or her heart desires, and hope that will suffice. I also make a wish for Bernard and me, that this new level of trust and companionship we’re finding in each other will continue to grow. That seems a worthy outcome for this deeply exhausting, difficult journey.
“We’re in Moscow, Bernard, home of the Bolshoi Ballet! I can hardly believe it,” I exclaim. “Let’s see if they’re performing.” Bernard isn’t into cultural performances. He didn’t grow up going to ballet, concerts, and theatre the way I did. In all our years of marriage, I don’t even need one finger to count the number of times he’s suggested we go to a play or concert, though he’s usually agreed to accompany me when I’ve bought tickets for an event. We’ve developed an unspoken agreement that we each get to have our likes and dislikes, and that feels mature and proper to me. This is an unusual circumstance, though: a day free in Moscow in the middle of an epic trip. More than ever I want to go out. I imagine that more than ever Bernard will want to stay in and be peaceful. My glimmer of hope fades almost as soon as it appears. What am I thinking? This is the Rally, where magic does not happen. Just as I know that he will say no, I also know I am too fatigued to put up an argument. I sigh to myself at the inevitable, just as he says, “Of course, ma cherie, if it’ll make you happy.”
I hadn’t realized candle lighting would work so fast.
In further tribute to the power of candles, our hotel concierge secures us two tickets for the ballet. Realizing we will be exposing ourselves to a world beyond similarly dirty Rally crews, we both go through some ugly duckling moments, clawing through our duffels for something proper to wear for the occasion. I wish I had a dress and high heels with me, something appropriate for a hall as storied as the Bolshoi Theatre. There’s a limit to what candles can do though, so I settle for one of my least wrinkled slacks and a reasonably clean shirt. The bathroom washcloth serves to push the dust back into the crevices of my walking shoes, but not even a magic wand can transform them into Manolo Blahniks. It’ll have to suffice.
On our way to the Bolshoi, we stop for a drink and pre-ballet snack at a small, elegant hotel. We’re feeling special, giddy about finding a place where the two of us can be alone. Just as our bill is brought to us, we hear a man’s voice calling “Bernard.” It’s James, who bounds up the steps to where we’re sitting, seeming uncommonly pleased to see us. “Have a drink with me,” he enthuses.
“Yes,” Bernard says. “Yes, we’d love to. Come, join me. Tell us, what are you doing here?”
“I’m staying here.”
“You mean you’re not at the Rally hotel?” I blurt, as nonplussed as I was when I heard his plane was bringing in spare parts. In thinking about it, I realize there’s no rule that states it’s a requirement to stay in Rally organized lodging. It’s just simpler that way. Our hotel in Moscow is a relic from the Intourist age, that travel agency founded in 1929 by Stalin and staffed by KGB agents. It’s designed to house 3,000 guests a night and is so faded it clearly accomplished that mission for decades without respite or renovation. Though the KGB provenance makes bugs in the phone a possibility, the place is such that it feels more probable we’d find bugs—the biting sort—in the mattress.
“No,” James says. “Those hotels are fine. I just prefer this one. Why don’t you stay here, too?” It’s easy to see why James has chosen this place. A clue to its exclusivity are the Maybachs and Maseratis parked in front, half-million dollar cars that are the property of oligarchs who exit the hotel wearing Raybans, regardless that it’s nighttime. Every one of them sports an oligarchess on his arm, slim, strikingly beautiful, and fabulously dressed. The staff here is discreet, polite, there when you need them, vanished when you don’t. At the Rally hotel, the laundry operation is so inefficient that, when garments haven’t been returned the night before our departure, security guards break into the room of one team and yank the driver out of his bed, enraged by his earlier demands for his clothes. They then slam him up against the wall and, while he’s dangling from the fist encircling his neck, explain to him the niceties of Russian laundry. Other teams on that floor, hearing the commotion, stage a protest in the lobby in the wee hours of the morning, with one Rally driver stripping naked and parading around the lobby to emphasize the need for clean clothing and its speedy return.
I’m dazzled at the plethora of good things coming my way. First, ballet tickets. Now an invitation from James. It hasn’t escaped me that, ever since Novosibirsk, James has been seeking out Bernard’s company. I’ve seen the two of them together many evenings, engrossed in conversation. When I join them I wind up talking to one of James’s teammates, but I can still overhear smatterings of politics, helicopters, airplanes, wine, and cars coming from their direction. Bernard and I are now torn as to which group to sit with: the first group of Robert, Maddy, Sybil, and the rest with whom we’re comfortable, or the second group of James, Matthieu, and cohorts, whom we’re just getting to know. It’s a dilemma I never expected to find myself in.
Explaining to James that we have ballet tickets, we stroll to the famous hall through a cold drizzle, the bubbling murmur of voices from an excited crowd crescendoing as we approach. Entering the warm glow of lobby lights, I see a delicate misty shawl of water droplets spread over my shoulders, sparkling like diamonds.
Russia is all about officialdom, and at the Bolshoi the aisle ushers take their jobs seriously. One of these stout ladies scrutinizes our ticket as if it’s a counterfeit hundred dollar bill, wrinkles her nose at it and at us, and escorts us to our perfect seats in a dress circle box.
The lights have dimmed and the orchestra taken up the first few notes of the overture to the first ballet, Carmen, when the usher brings in two more people. The first is a portly matron in a dress meant for someone half her size. The other seems to be her daughter, who, coincidentally enough, is half her size. The box, though, is already full. As they look around for somewhere to sit, others in the box seem to recognize them and a polite whisper rustles behind us, like dry leaves in the fall wind.
Bernard, gentleman that he is, immediately offers the matron his seat. She misunderstands his gesture and stands like a stout tree, rooted in place. He then misunderstands her stolid refusal as a preference to stand. Only after he sits again does she make herself comfy—on his lap. There she nestles for the entire performance, her massive bosom obscuring most of the ballet, unless Bernard wishes to lean his cheek against the sofa cushion of her left breast. Not to be outdone, I offer the half-size woman a corner of my seat, which she is small enough to squeeze into without overwhelming me.
After the last curtain call, everyone stands, including Bernard, much to my relief. Toward the end I’d been fearing that two hours of unbudging Russian heft might have flattened him like Road Runner on a bad day. Handshakes and hugs all around, and the two women depart. Only then does my seat neighbor explain they are the mother and daughter of the orchestra conductor, and they’re off to congratulate him backstage. Everyone around us exudes pleasure that we behaved so well with two such honored guests. Bernard is relieved not to have any pressure from me to discuss the performance. After all, he really couldn’t see a thing.