MOSCOW NOTES

N, instructively: the main thing is to not read any newspapers before or after lunch. What do you need the news for? The forecasts are all bad, only in different ways and with varying timeframes. On social media the mildest and most decent of people do nothing but wish death to the head of state. What kind of a state is it where cultured people dream of the death of a tyrant, and where things can only change with the occurrence thereof? Some, I say, don’t make wishes, some just leave. And why do you need to know, asks N. The examples of others only spread panic that everyone is leaving while you’re still sitting around. I’ve been reading a lot lately about the 30s, about Germany, France. There are a lot of cases where whole families died with one survivor. Because that survivor managed to leave in time. The others, as always, were not ready: a new job, the final year of university, elderly relatives. Well, there’s always something. As such, I wondered what kind of person I was: the kind who would leave their family and survive—or the kind who would perish along with everyone else. Yes, I say, it’s certainly a much more comforting read.

W says: I feel as if there’s a black mark on me and my children in this country. They can smell us. Like the Nazgûls.

X, looking in the corner and drumming his fingers on a cup: two reasons to panic. A fear of this state (it has been there for the past ten years but to a lesser extent). A fear of emigration (this has always been there too). And also, it seems, a fear at the prospect of self-destruction through reappraisal. You realise that everything hard-earned is about to go up in smoke, and that the most important things are not earned. It is not good to be a man without a wife. It’s wrong for a man to be alone. Everything around us is falling apart, people are leaving, and it’s every man for himself. Lots of people had everything ready: a job, a residence permit, a house by the sea. They have not decided yet, they are still in turmoil, talking it over. When they decide, they leave without saying goodbye. So, is that it? So, they’re not real friends.

Y speaks with pride: for two days, I’ve been persuading my son to leave. I said a curtain is about to fall, and it’ll be another 70 years of Soviet power. You’ll be 90 when it’s over. Do you want that? And he goes: well, I can’t, they need me at work. Then: well, I haven’t tidied up the flat. I go: come on, pack your rucksack and go. I’ll come and tidy up your flat.

Everyone works hard for their moral capital. Those who leave, leave wordily. Pleasant X set his departure to a lengthy declaration of love for his homeland—for that Russia which is friends, culture, and everything good. He expressed hope for a brighter future and promised to return as soon as possible—most likely when he could be sure that such a future was imminent. It’s not as though he’s abandoning his friends in distress, rather he’s distressed that he’s leaving, but what else can he do.

With his daily tirades comprising a gentlemanly set of Mordor-orсs-die-khuylo, the clever and subtle philosopher Y seems to be cleansing himself of collective guilt. He lumps his imaginary blame onto those Russians who haven’t left and now can’t indulge in such tirades. He doubles their share of guilt. Now N, who did not leave, is guilty both for himself and for Y who did leave. V can be heard everywhere. He’s one of those who left eight or so years ago. He’s clearly annoyed that others are in the picture now, but he too had it hard in his time. And what’s more, he outdoes those who have recently left in both foresight and civic conscience: even back then everything was very clear to him and made him unbearably ashamed. But it’s ok, he never tires of reminding us of all this.

Some of those who remain also have manifestos. As I have taught students, writes R—prone to narcissism—so I will teach. All my life I have tried to make Russia a part of Europe—and I will continue no matter what. And a day later, R’s wife is in a thematic group animatedly discussing how to take, say, a cat to Berlin, where they are soon to arrive.

Many resent how Russians, seeing as there is nothing they can do, instead of sympathising with those who are fleeing from bombs, or not fleeing, go on and on about their suffering: guilt and shame, fear, despair, police cars and fines, sanctions and inflation, “regime hostages” and “sliding towards North Korea.” But then professor L calls from the States and complains that he doesn’t feel safe in New York in light of nuclear threats; gasoline prices have doubled, and the cost of food is going up; he can’t rent out his flat in Russia and can’t sell it, and now he’s being threatened with nationalisation. It looks better if you consider yourself a victim of circumstance rather than a well-to-do bystander.

The first few days, weeks even, we shared anger, indignation, guilt, and shame, intentions and irrational, purely emotional expectations that surely it would be possible to change something: now we sign our names, sign again, and again, go out, hold it up, stick it on—and they will finally understand. Then we no longer shared, but were tormented by fear, dread, and regret: why did we sign, why did we write: obviously there was no benefit, but the danger was there for all to see. Then we lost ourselves in everyday challenges: buying a couple of bags of buckwheat and sugar; tracking down the disappearing medicines—the queues carrying stacks of goods out of pharmacies; online orders being cancelled one after another; goods disappearing from shop websites before our eyes; it’s a “market frenzy,” the helpdesk reports, like a New Year of sorts. My legs race to the pharmacy, says S, the routine takes over, though the disgust and fear is still there. The intensity of the disgust and fear seems to be diminished by domestic operations. Preventing momentary threats obscures the long-term ones.

Shop assistant in a DIY shop: “We don’t have those flowerpots here, you need to go to Leroy Merlin. There are loads of them there.” “Are they open?” “Why wouldn’t they be? They got scared. (In a triumphant tone) They wanted to leave, but they were told that if they left, they wouldn’t be taken back. That’s how they got scared and stayed.”

Outside the courthouse, a policeman is furious with a young man antagonistically filming him point-blank on his phone: “As a citizen of the Russian Federation I don’t want my face on the internet.” How can you not understand this.