A day out in Kiev

Philip Norman

I was standing on the Paton Bridge, one of the several causeways which cross the 13.nieper into Kiev. I had been admiring the view over the broad waterway with its several islands, the forests banked softly beYond, and the gold domes of St Sophia like bulrushes, gleaming in the sun. It is said that none ought not to linger around bridges in the oviet Union, but the grey-coated militimen, stationed at either end of the bridge, had Offered no objection. It is somehow fascinating to watch even heavy traffic in Russia— the lorries, the pale green taxis marked with T, the numerous motorcycle combinations. In a land where enterprise has been abolished, one wonders where all of them can be going in such a hurry. It was then that I noticed a street-washing tnachine making its way across the bridge, alcing the side of the footway behind me. I was familiar with this large municipal object Which is often seen at work in the Kiev streets. It resembles in size and slowness an English dust-cart, with the addition of a thick hose at the side which emits a vertical ePlumn of white water upon the road, the Pavement, parked cars, and any people hich it happens to encounter on its course. In Russia they do not yet embrace the principle of pedestrian right-of-way. A Russian cnnsiders himself fortunate that cars stay out of the subways.

began to walk, quite rapidly, across the 'ridge, away from the street-washing machine. As I walked, I could hear it growing gradually in volume behind me, the throaty eihng of its dynamo, the rhythmic woofas sec9n after section of the footway received its ulseharge from the hose. I could not get r°ound it owing to the presence of a rail, 1w-slung but emphatic, beyond which the °I-ries and sidecars lashed up and down. To va.11( in front of the street-washing machine seemed preferable to walking behind it, for hIle shoes

[was wearing had been bought in

f 80 I walked, now a little more rapidly, in ront of the street-washing machine, across Ih,e Paton Bridge towards Kiev, across the ide river shaded-by white sand-flats, fished °Y earnest white dots, parted by the barges fan.d cut by the nippy hydrofoil ; all shining aintlY silver in the tentative sun.

l'he Hotel Dniepro stands in the cobbled, nhewlY-washed square near the amusement rlark• One can be comfortable in a Russian (Mel, so long as one is willing to absorb an entirely new set of rules. There is a total lack Public rooms and of the casual comfortseats so promiscuously offered by capitalist establishments. The foyer rings with echoes rebounding from the concrete of which it is largely composed; the only decoration is vast, insular deposits of American wet-look luggage. Old women in headscarves move with mops across the concrete or the carpet. You obtain your room-key, not from the reception-desk but from a lady on your own floor, seated gravely at a bureau beneath an ornamental lamp. The lady at the bureau draws open a tray of keys, attached to large, transparent ping-pong balls with the room-number floating within ; she hands you your ping-pong ball with a murmured Pozhalsto'. Late at night, in smaller hotels, she will hand you your key lying prone on a little bed made up beside the desk.

In the dining-room, the tablecloths are adorned with the flags of several nations. Ours has an American flag. The Americans next to us have been given a Greek flag. Lunch, in Russia, is the major meal of the day, which may account for the heavy incidence of 'Nye at official counters during the afternoon. Soup is served as the second course. Our Intourist courier arrives at the table, bringing with her a large tomato, acquired in Samarkand. She is a chubby girl with humorous eyes, full lips, poor skin, a red shirt and sky-blue dungarees cut, in the Russian manner, rather loosely at the back. Her blonde hair presents one with a constant dilemma. Is it worn up, but trying to get down, or down but trying to getup?

After lunch, I must go shopping. The zipfastener of my boot broke in Samarkand; the blue-enamelled splendour of that city was slowly poisoned by the soreness in my right index finger as I strove to haul the parted zip back to its origin. As soon as [had zipped it up, it began to unzip itself from the bottom. In that gentle but inexorable fissure, my entire personality felt undermined. I further had a quirk of fancy to possess a pair of Russian Army boots. The brain, in the isolation of travel, can often grow feverish.

At the military department store, I discover Russian army boots to be unsuitable. They are grey in colour and smell pungently of tar. At the entrance to the ordinary shoedepartment (behind the headscarf department), a lady with her hair up—or down— supervises the queue: I am allowed to go in only when someone at the other end has gone out. Russian shoes can range in price from £15 to £30 while ladies' fur-lined boots may be had for as little as £50. [try on a pair of ladies' boots, then a pair of child's. They are laced together, and one is not allowed to undo the laces. I discover quite a nice black lace-up brogue by itself on a plinth. I try it on. I think it will do. I ask the assistant in sing language it' she will fetch me the other shoe in the pair. She shakes her head and

answers 'Nye'. A number of saleswomen convey to me in sign language that one shoe is all they have in that line. In desperation, I seize another pair—E19—and go to the cash counter.

That night, we try to escape from the 'international' menu at the Hotel Dniepro ; the fried meat, cold chips and clotted carrot. We obtain a reservation at the Vitryak, a Ukrainian restaurant at the edge of the city, to which our Intourist guide accompanies us. We are seated at a wooden table in a whitewashed room, at one end of which a band with elaborate rock and roll instruments is playing a sentimental tango. Our welcome at the Vitryak is slightly qualified, for reasons of bureaucracy. We have paid for the meal in advance, but neglected to bring the receipt with us. A long argument begins as we sit at our unprepared wooden table. Though it is only eight o'clock, the room is smoke-filled.

Our dinner, eventually, consists of fried meat, cold chips and carrots which stick together; a bottle of wine and , a bottle of vodka; a little caviare inside a butter-pat. The restaurant is very noisy. At one end, near the band, there is a wedding party.

We ourselves are approached by a thickset man, wearing a very slim tie, who bows elaborately to our Intourist guide. Because of her painted eyes and her sky blue dungarees, he has mistaken her for a foreigner. He has, further, mistaken me for her husband. He places his hands together and bows to me. He leads her out in front of the band where, to her ill-marked disgust, they foxtrot the night away.

He returns to us after the last dance, carrying a small saucer. On the saucer, in a shallow pool of water, is a crayfish. It is dull in colour, and it is still alive. He places it in front of us with a flourish, and exclaims 'Souvenir.'

Presently, the crayfish moves off the saucer and begins to crawl about the table.

Late on Saturday night in Kiev, the streets and squares are still full of activity. People sit on rows of benches around the memorials or in front of the shop-windows. In the amusement park, under the illuminated ferris-wheel, some boys use the swingboats as an old woman at the turnstile watches sceptically. The sound of conversation can be heard from the ascending cars of the wheel. People sit on benches in the amusement park and in the public gardens. Some of them appear rather tipsy. A militia van passes casually along up and down, snapping them up in pairs and fours. At the subway-entrance, a group of men and women, bundled up against the east wind, sing community songs, stamping their feet on-the pavement. A boy stands with a girl in the recesses of the colonnade. The boy glowers from a turned-up collar, with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The girl holds a little bunch of red carnations.

At midnight, a master-switch is thrown. The city is empty. A machine moves slowly along the kerb, discharging water upon the pavement from a hose.