DIARY
Arive for Aeroflot flight to Moscow Clutching a newspaper announcing that my dear, gentle brother is the United King- dom's `Spymaster'. Can't say I believe any- thing I read in the papers but, I suppose, if true, it could be useful should Putin turn nasty. I'm going for the PEN International Writers' Congress, as president of English PEN. Given the unspeakable things the Russians have done to their writers over the last century, it's not surprising that this is the first congress ever held there. A his- toric occasion, and brave of Russian PEN. The huge new Aeroflot 777 is almost entirely empty. I reflect that having a repu- tation for killing your passengers can lead to their greater comfort. I take a taxi with cheery English companions for midnight in Red Square. In the darkness and rain, we admire and recoil at this great memorial to communist might and eventually spot Lenin's tomb, although it is less impressive than expected. The following day I discover that it was not Lenin's tomb at all, but an air vent. In fact, it wasn't even Red Square.
At the assembly of delegates England's neighbouring `E' is usually Esperanto who is very talkative in French, but this year I've got Egypt instead. She turns out to be the mother of last year's Booker Prize short- listed novelist, Ahdaf Soueif, who is repre- sented by my literary-agent daughter. It's a small writer's world. We are a serious lot, 70 countries represented, passing resolu- tions on breaches of freedom of expression Which then are passed to the relevant gov- ernments. Since 1921, we've been electing honorary members who are in prison because of their writing. For the first time in ten years we have a Chinese delegate. In the interest of 'dialogue' this is considered good news since we have many uncon- tactable honorary members in China. The delegate reads a paper pleading that 'feed- ing the poor' comes before freedom of expression. We are not impressed. The Danish delegate points out that his view contradicts the PEN charter. We vote a ringing anti-Chinese resolution, plus a sec- ond one on Tibet he Bolshoi is featuring The Tsar's Bride by Rimsky-Korsakov. On stage Ivan the Terrible terrifies our heroine to death, While off-stage, up in the imperial box, the Patriarch of all Russia, complete with white and silver robes, crown and long white beard, is heralded by clashing cymbals at Which we all stand and clap. I cannot imag- ine the same reaction if the Archbishop of Canterbury popped into Covent Garden. The Russian Orthodox Church is very rich, a wealth reputedly based on its licence to RACHEL BILLINGTON import Communion wine untaxed — Com- munion wine being freely interpreted to include Chablis and Sancerre, Back at the assembly, the Senegal dele- gate, strikingly attired in toque and robe, announces that her centre has been 'drum- ming for peace' and a Chechen journalist speaks with passion. I talk to the Ghanaian delegate whose centre, despite having virtu- ally no money, supports exiled writers from other African countries. He is also running a literacy programme for 14-year-olds and I enthusiastically commit English PEN to providing books.
Review the very modern, just opened British embassy and am charmed by its glassy glasnost, its many gardens and views across the river. Surprised and pleased to see the outside wall decorated with quota- tions from English and Russian poets. We value our writers after all — or at least when we want to impress foreigners. Din- ner at the most fashionable Georgian restaurant in town overlooking the fairytale Novodevichiy Convent with its pinnacles reflected in the surrounding lake. As we arrive a dark-suited older man goes into a heavy clinch with his blonde-maned com- panion before falling together into a black car with a blue light on the roof. Old Soviet 'It's a football injury. I fell off the sofa.' habits die hard. My companions, who have lived in Moscow in each of the last three decades, give their view of the worst human-rights abuses — which no longer include freedom of expression. Top abuse: treatment of army conscripts. There are two ways desperate mothers can get their sons exempted: bribery or further educa- tion. For the poor and ill-educated, neither is an option.
Final evening, and a PEN outing to Peredelkino, where Pasternak lived after 1953 when he was refused permission to accept the Nobel Prize for Dr Zhivago. His home is in a sylvan glade and I am quite moved until I read my predecessor's offer- ing in the visitor's book: 'So, pilgrims to greatness, what can we do but listen.. . ? ' Resist the temptation to inscribe: 'I liked the film.' We eat fried potatoes, drink vodka and dance to the singing and music of ladies who look as if they've come off the set of The Tsar's Bride. Giinter Grass, our keynote speaker, whirls around the youngest and prettiest Russian; I dance with the Czech delegate who was born in Sunbury-on-Thames and, moreover, shows an extraordinary knowledge of Irish bal- lads. He is wearing a wreath of wild flow- ers, which makes up for not being a Nobel Prize-winner.
Iam rather surprised to be approached by an increasing number of East Europeans and some Balkan delegates who kiss my hand before standing nearby with a wor- shipping yet respectful mien. Possibly, it is a tribute to my impassioned dancing. Even- tually an English-speaking Serb arrives, performs the same ritual obeisance, explaining that he had never dared hope to meet the wife of the world-renowned writ- er, Harold Pinter. I inform the (very hand- some) Serb that it is my sister who has that privilege and thereafter I am troubled with no more admirers. I must remember to ask my sister if people kiss her hand in London.
Fly home by dear old Aeroflot but this time am disconcerted to find the plane ancient and the seats filled with rich Rus- sian girls clutching Barbie dolls. Partake sparingly of chicken that might be fish. Not sparingly enough. Ten days later am still in the grip of stomach pains devised by Ivan the Terrible. Instead of creative days paint- ing and writing in Tuscany, I lie in a dark- ened room writing an 'Ode to My Blessed Companion', which, in case it isn't obvious, is my hot-water bottle. Still, you can't keep a writer down, even if she can't keep any- thing down herself.
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