|
an episode
from Password,
a novel in progress by Karen Karslyan
_______________________________________________
All Power To Capitalists
- Fuck!
This
was the first word I heard in the post-Soviet era. It burst
out of my dad’s mouth a second after the official announcement
of the collapse of the USSR broadcast throughout entire former
Soviet Union during the “Vremya” newscast. The complete package
of my family – dad, mom, my sister and me – was staring in one
direction, at the red birthmark on Gorbachev’s forehead (which
in the first years of his office was carefully being retouched
in his photos).
You may ask “and what was the first thing i saw in the
post-Soviet era?” The instantaneous replacement of Gorbachev’s
birthmark hiding behind the screen of our junk Soviet TV set “Chayka”
with one with one of my dad’s slippers.
The third second: My mom unnoticeably snatched the other slipper
from under my dad’s foot so he doesn’t destroy our frail TV set.
The fourth second: His eyes glued to the screen, my dad reached
his hand for the other slipper. Guessing why it’s not there he cast an outrageous
look at my mom and tried to swiftly snatch the slipper from her hands.
The fifth second: Mom ducked her hand. In my direciton. I
snatched the slipper and threw it at the “Chayka.” I missed the screen and
it pressed one of the channel buttons. The channel changed but the image was
the same. “Vremya” was broadcast in Russian on all of the TV channels of all
15 republics simultaneously... and the last time.
The Battleship, The Eagle’s Nest, The Slipper
And The Bath Water
By the time my dad’s slipper retouched the birthmark of Gorbachev,
the latter had managed to reconstruct the Soviet economic-political
system and unchain the mass media at such a mind-blowing speed
that, as a result, he became the last head of the 7-headed USSR.
Within the time interval between the destruction of Pucho’s battleship
in Moscow and the eagle’s nest built by Agnes in Yerevan, the food
migrated from stores into the Red Book of Endangered species, the
Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant exploded, several Soviet nations
began sucking each other’s blood, the Berlin wall fell, my mom
fell and broke her leg and, finally, so did the iron curtain.
It’s been almost 15 years now but the echo of the dull rumble of
the falling curtain is still in my ears. The terrific speed
is always fraught with dangerous outcomes not only when igniting
events such as these but also enumerating them. Patience, ladies
and gentlemen, patience, otherwise, like the USSR, my book,too, will
collapse. And if I rush to skip to the narration of the horrendous
and lasting aftermath in the tiniest of the Soviet republics,
I may as well throw my baby book out with the bath
water like I was thrown out with the sediment of communism right
into the throat of giggling capitalists. Not to mention
that my memory is running out like the sand in the hour-glass
(Thanks for the metaphor, unknown girl with an hour-glass shape,
walking on a podium on Fashion TV at this moment.) I should turn
off the TV and hurry… er… take my time. If I forget and don’t
go where, as my mom ascertains, the my memory disorder has its
roots, there will be no forgiveness, and the next time instead
of hitting my glasses off my head, I’ll hit my head off my glasses.
And I’ll make sure I do that in the same bathroom.
The Baton
Since there was absolutely no alternative to watch other TV shows
during the “Vremya” newscast on any channel, I would usually retreat
to my bedroom and resume my favorite endless game.
My utmost entertainment was to stage the World War II and the glorious
victory of the Red Army over the Nazi Germans over and over again.
Almost every day and wherever my parents took me, I would embark
on the relentless war. It appears I was never getting tried of
celebrating a victory. If there wasn’t enough space for me to run
around chasing a Nazi or running away from one, I would employ
my fingers hightailing it on my legs or somebody else’s sitting
next to me, and trying to dodge the horrifying gunshot sounds fired
from my mouth.
To make my enthusiasm more understandable for my capitalist brothers
and sisters, the Soviet victory was my Coca Cola. I was addicted
to that bloody victory as madly as my contemporaries were craving
for the blood-colored Coke and junk food on the other side of the
planet. But since the Soviet victory was not in mass production,
I had to produce it by myself and with the only ingredient being
patriotism (the equivalent of the sickening chemicals in Coke).
The lot of the Soviet Army was incomparably lighter than mine.
While they had Ally forces lending a helping hand, I had a bone
to pick with Nazis all by myself. I would refuse to share this
sacred war with any playmate like I would never share a red cotton
candy with my sister. I was being unreasonably greedy since my
plan was to fight the war from the perspective of one soldier (Soviet
or German) per day. Now, as depressing as it may sound, I hardly
have 55,000 days to go but back then my life span was infinite,
so it wasn’t a big deal to allot as infinitesimal as some 55,000,000
million days to experience the lives of each Soviet and German
soldiers. Speaking of time; if it took 4 years for the Soviet Army
to defeat the Nazi Germans, it would usually take me 4 hours, give
or take. I was well informed on the course of the war with millions
of details I had absorbed from my dad, my granny, TV, patriotic
movies, postcards and posters... But wait, I can’t help but confess
that once, only once, dear reader, did I betray my one-soldier-per-day
principle. It happened when I was organizing the defense of
the blockaded Leningrad. I was starving along with the civilians
and turning a deaf ear to my mom’s constant admonitions to
eat something. I was absolutely unwilling to distort the historical
reality. But the moment I could no longer resist the cruel
starvation when, according to the “scenario,” it was time to
eat rats, I would make a wry face. Without thinking too long,
I would instantly transforming into some Herr Fressenkopf,
an imaginary German officer, organizing the cruel siege of
Leningrad, and rush to the fragrant kitchen with shouts of
“Ja wohl!”
It was an imaginary adventurous trip around the world. And I still
remember one of my staged outsets of the warfare. I was sitting
in the armchair, pretending to smoke a pipe like my 20-year-old
granny in a god-forsaken Armenian village in Georgia when he heard
Levitan’s flabbergasting voice over the radio at a mid-summer night
of 1941: “Moscow speaks. Today in the morning of the 22nd of June,
the Fascist German invaders traitorously attacked the Soviet Union…”
Here falls the pipe off my mouth. Oh, powerful voice! Hitler was
allegedly ready to exchange a whole division of his army for Levitan.
I hastily wear my granny’s uniform cap which resembled a Mexican
sombrero on my tiny head and run to war. And have YOU registered
a volunteer?
Even illness was unable to stop me. When having buried my body
under a dozen blankets so my high temperature falls through perspiration
my mom would leave the bedroom, I, some Ukrainian private Sasha,
would hide in my bed and try to stifle my dry coughs so I, the
very Herr Himmler, can’t discover myself in the basement during
the search of houses followed by the fall of Kiev.
Metamorphosing into Marshal Zhukov or Marshal Baghramian, I would
assign myself the dangerous task of removing mines maliciously
buried under my pillow and under the carpets as hairy as dad’s
chest, in the teapots as round as mom’s breast, kettles and even
in the coffee ground at the bottom of the cups crowding the sink.
Then, finally, I would employ the second deadliest weapon of the
Red Army (the first being Levitan’s voice), the song “Arise, country
humongous,” which had inspired millions to the unquestionable self-sacrifice
for the sake of the glorious fatherland of the Soviet people. Singing
the mighty song, I would dash to Berlin (my parents’ bedroom).
My granny’s Soviet sombrero in one hand and a plastic gun in the
other, I would arise and run to revenge on the grey Nazis for one
of the legs my granny lost on the battlefield of Stalingrad. Revenge!
No mercy for the enemy whatsoever, even though it’s thanks to my
granny’s missing leg that I’ve been able to differentiate the right
and left so far. I had barely started shrieking the Russian “Hooray!”
on my way to Berlin when my dad brought me to senses with his short
violent scream. I had completely forgotten that my dad was watching
Vremya at the moment.
The thing is that my dad would always warn us to keep still during
the only Soviet newscast. Any slightest sound might enrage him
and he would utter a short scream, so short lest he should miss
a single syllable from an ongoing report. But that short and loud
scream of my dad was enough for my mom, my sister and me to regret
for a moment that we had been granted the gift of speech. The alarm
that could be noticed in his screams would sometimes allure me
to watching what’s going on behind the TV screen. One of such cases
won’t slip my mind. I remember a short video clip where several
people in decent black suits were holding 74-year-old Chernenko,
the penultimate head of the USSR, from all sides and carefully
and slowly carrying him to a lone chair in a luxurious hall. For
a minute or two, in tense silence, they were trying to seat the
head of the gigantic empire like a little child.
It might be my dad’s comment on the scene that the latter has remained
fresh in my memory since I was 5 years old. “The Soviet can hardly
move,” he said. It was common back then to identify the General
Secretary of the USSR with the country itself. I was very much
affected by the scene. I had a completely different notion of the
USSR. Yes, my humongous fatherland had arisen. But now can’t take
a seat. I sympathized with the fatherland and loved it even stronger.
Several days later Chernenko was followed to his grave. And the
next day Gorbachev was followed to the chair.
To Be Or Not To Be
Glasnost? Publicity? Freedom of speech? That step of Gorbachev
astonished the Soviet peoples as much as God’s permission to gobble
up the fruits from the tree of knowledge would astound Adam and
Eve. Many believed that the opportunity the Glasnost granted was
just another hoax the KGB was playing on the Soviet people to unmask
the enemies of the glorious Soviet Union and give them a free ticket
to Siberia or, if they’re lucky, to Hell.
The Armenian underground artist by the name of Kh whose
most well-known artwork was his laughter exclusively composed of
the sound kh uttered at the speed of 35 kh/second, was eager to
taste the fruits of Glasnost. When the Perestroyka came into force,
Kh was the newly appointed designer of Garoun, then the
most significant Armenian literary-cultural journal. One day he
lay several large-size photos on the desk of the editor-in-chief.
Those were photos of huge bright red placards with communist slogans
so common in the streets of the Soviet Yerevan: “COMMUNISM WILL
WIN!”, “LONG LIVE THE COMMUNIST PARTY OF THE SOVIET UNION!” “WITH
FIRM STEPS TO THE BRIGHT COMMUNIST FUTURE!” and so on. Kh was offering
to include them in the upcoming issue of the journal. But the editor-in-chief
looked perplexed and remained still.
The thing is that in these black and white photos he had taken
about two years before Glasnost came into force, Kh had skilfully
transformed the exclamation marks into question marks. Kh had shown
these photos only to his close friends who were also underground
artists. And now, it had seemed to be the right time to publish
them. The editor-in-chief finally spoke up:
- Questions, questions, questions...- he murmured and indulged
back in his thoughts. – What if we present it as a quiz like
our usual ones on the last pages of the journal?
- Ok.
- And we’ll institute a prize for the right answers.
- Good idea.
The editor-in-chief hushed for a moment.
- “Will communism win?” “USSR was, is and will always be?” –
The editor-in-chief hushed for a moment again and, cautiously looking
around, whispered, - Do you know the answers?
- khkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkh.
- All right… Well, but what prize shall we offer for the right
answer?
- Up to you, boss.
- My mind can’t concentrate, Kh… The next day after we publish
it, the author’s head will fill its honorable space in the History
museum of the KGB.
- khkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkh.
- And then the head of the editor-in-chief.
- khkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkh
khkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkh.
- And then the head of the one who’ll give the right answer.
-khkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkh
khkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkh
khkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkhkh.
- It’s not funny!
After long discussions and heart-rending monologues, it was decided
“to be” and the offer was turned down.
Changes
Now imagine the air pollution in your mouth during an 8-hour sleep.
Is What Our Hearts Demand
Very good, now imagine the frowzy smell exuding from mouths slightly
ajar after having been locked for about 615,000 hours, roughly
around 70 years.
Glasnost finally shook the jaws of people. We’re allowed to say
the king is naked. Allowed! Hooray!!!!! We want to breakdance;
we want to wear adidas snickers; we want to enjoy life; we want
Coca Cola and Mcdonalds; we want to wear torn jeans; we want to
drag rock n’ roll out of the basements onto streets and listen
to the rebelious songs at a deafening volume in broad daylight;
wrap the red pioneer ties around your necks and go hang yourselves;
shove the Uch Kuduk and Alla Pugachova and ABBA into your ears,
we want the banned Beatles, Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin; Fuck
KGB; exile Ostrovski’s novel How the Steel was Tempered and
the Leninist deliriums of Bonch Bruevich to Siberia; Deliver us
Solzhenitsin’s Archipelago Gulag instead of the official
“Pravda” daily; Wipe your asses with the pages of Lenin’s 57 volumes,
let us read Orwell’s tiny “Animal farm”; to hell with the socialist
realism, resurrect the avant garde; stop making us inform on our
neighbors, it’s time to inform on KGB to our rusting conscience;
we are tired of Nu Pogodi, we want Tom and Jerry, Mickey Duck and
Donald Mouse; Stop censoring movies and books and songs and the
history; there’s alternative it can’t help being; sex is not only
for child-bearing; sex exists it can’t help existing; you won’t
satiate our natural greediness with the bright communist ideologies;
no more queus; we don’t want to stand in line for an hour to choose
the right kind of cheese, then stand in another line for 2 hours
to pay for the cheese and yet stand another 3 hours in line to
pick up the actual cheese; down with deficit of goods! Long live
the deficit of need! We want to drive Benz; ten BMWs per person,
100, as many as we wish; we want to become millionaires; we want
a personal yacht; we want to take a bath in champagne; keep rats
in apartment buildings; we want acres of THE MOST PRIVATEST property
fenced with barbed wires (Imagine no possesions I wonder if
you can); we want mansions; who is the communist? The one
who has nothing and wants to share it with everybody else; everybody
says that we are together, everybody says but only few know what we
are destined to gather; your promised bright life is not in remote
future but in remote countries and right now where we are not allowed
to go; Smelt that bloody iron curtain, build ships and airplanes;
take us on a tour around the world; We gasp for western Europe;
We long to fly to America; we’ll swim, we’ll walk across the water;
get away and never get back.
And those who never miss the chance of going to places that nobody
misses the chance to abandon, I welcome in my team.
2003 -
Karen Karslyan
Yerevan - Los Angeles, CA |