The high-pitched sound of the improvised and obviously homemade karaoke device pierces every thought that passes. It is like a flashback from Paris’ subway, but unlike the Latino grooves, an elaborate overwhelming wave of puzzling Russian words crashes against the passengers’ indifference.
That is Nadejda. Looking at her you see a quintessential rustic woman, whose ruddy cheeks are fringed by a layer of gilded silk, like a Malyavin painting that came to life. She is one of the many fare-dodging salespeople on intercity trains who boldly try to sell a pair of socks or a hairpin to make ends meet, despite the control officers. This and the idyllic snow-covered cottages are just another reminder that urban Moscow is far behind.
Upon reaching destination ‘Leninville’-- a welcome party of anxious Istrians trying to make it to the big city, with their eyes wildly wandering back and forth from their wrist watches to the timetable, and a couple of middle-aged men, with disheveled gray hair and beards, noses red from the chill in the air, sipping from their thermos’ cups what must be tea or vodka, enveloped in laughter of soothing baritones.
An even further bus ride into the outskirts of Moscow and I reach Ognikovo, a former ranch of a Pushkin’s ancestor, a sleepy hollow bathing in the crimson sunset of late winter; rays crushing on the rooftop of a green-topped Orthodox church.
I enter a building and it is a vortex to art-central. A performance starts with a shrill sound which transports the audience to an alternative reality of sheer sensory pleasure: the bodies on stage start moving, gliding through the air to the softest of lyrical sounds. The audience fails to distinguish gender in the intricate mixture of bodies, it just ingests the passion transforming from scary to wonderful at the turn of the second. As my wall of condescension falls in front of the magnificence of the performance, I realize that at times you may set out for nowhere and come across a Bolshoy.
