Excerpt
switched to Russian. “Gennadi is crazy about music. He wants to talk to you about American rock bands. Dmitri doesn’t like music. He likes nothing but his dinner—and his vodka.” The young men laughed loudly. “I like jazz music,” he went on switching easily to English. “May I ask you something most wonderful?”
“Yes, you may,” she said, laughing. She was prepared for the usual questions that, to date, all the Soviets had asked: Where did you learn Russian? Do you have children? Where do you work? How much do you earn? But Volodya surprised her. As they passed a stone bench, he stopped, sat down and pulled something from his pocket. The other two men came closer to see, smiling at Jennifer and suddenly shy. Volodya flipped open a wallet and pulled out a photograph.
“Look here. Do you know who that is?”
Jennifer took the photo and examined it. It had been clipped from a magazine and had obviously been folded and re-folded before finding its present home. The wide flat nose and plain features were unmistakable. “It’s Ella Fitzgerald, the jazz singer.”
“Yes, yes, Ella Feetzgerald.” Volodya sucked in his breath dramatically. “Some day I will go to America and meet Ella Feetzgerald.”
“Why her?” Jennifer asked. “Do you like her music?”
“Yes, I am jazz musician. Of course, I don’t play all the time. The great Soviet state in its glory has given me another profession.…”
Gennadi broke into the conversation after picking up the one word of interest—music. He looked Jennifer in the eyes and asked earnestly, “Maybe you can send me rock records when you return. Please, do you know any of these bands?” And he began to reel off names that he had memorized in English: Deep Purple, Blood Sweat and Tears, 1910 Fruitgum Company. Jennifer recognized them as pop groups and not her thing, but she promised to look into it.
Bored with this conversation, Volodya got up from his stone bench to walk again, and the little group immediately moved with him. Just as if they had not been interrupted, he began to tell her about how he made his living—though he dismissed the employment as contemptible. He had once worked for Intourist, he said proudly, spoke English and Japanese fluently, and had spent two years during the height of the cold war escorting elderly American tourists, handing out badly written pamphlets praising Lenin and explaining how communism had helped build art galleries and museums. Until, disgusted with himself …
Libros Libertad 