One Russia, Two Chinas. George Fetherling

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СКАЧАТЬ manifestation, as the Soviets said—to be held around the corner, so to speak, in Revolution Square. I couldn’t find anyone who knew for certain whether Gorbachev himself would turn up. In Leningrad and other cities the holiday would be marked in similarly radical ways; in Kiev local people did without government representation in the reviewing stand altogether.

      By 9:30 or so the area around the Kremlin was filling up with humanity. I heard the size of the crowd estimated variously at 100,000 and 300,000—the latter seemed too high to me, but it made no difference really. I kept track of the number of times my papers were scrutinized at different checkpoints as I got closer to Lenin’s tomb; the final tally was nine. The soldiers were equally careful with diplomats, I noticed. From the concrete steps where I perched, closer to the reviewing stand, downwind, than to the Historical Museum to my left, where the marchers would proceed from, I had a fine view of the goings-on. I could see columns mustering, banners being unfurled and tested, brightly coloured groups of walkers pacing like horses impatient for the race to begin. To the right, TV camera crews on an unstable-looking scaffold were training their equipment on the top of the mausoleum, where the new extra-military dignitaries would stand. Soldiers were everywhere. There were also many security men in black leather trench coats with walkie-talkies. Through the long lens of my camera I could see others directly ahead, across the great cobblestone square, positioned along the rooftops.

      I moved my gaze downward and began scanning faces in the crowd through my viewfinder. During one pan, I stopped with a jolt of recognition. The face was unmistakable. Yes, it was Honest Ed Mirvish, the zillionaire proprietor of Toronto’s oldest, largest, and altogether most garish discount store, a man who had parlayed the nine-cent light bulb and the job lot of slightly imperfect ladies’ ready-to-wear into a famous dynastic fortune. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark blue wool suit and handmade Italian shoes that shone like obsidian. He seemed to be giving some people his business card. For just a moment, before he was swallowed by the crowd, I saw him framed against the GUM Department Store and could imagine it as perhaps he might hope to see it, its 2.4 kilometres of counter space brimming with toilet rolls and polyester tank tops, its long facade plastered in neon and witty sayings and blow-ups of articles from the Toronto Telegram extolling the legend of Honest Ed (boy, what a card). I couldn’t help but wonder whether he knew the significance of what he was about to see or whether it reminded him of the Eaton’s Santa Claus parade when he was a kid.

      At the stroke of 10:00 band music came over the public-address system, followed by short speeches from a series of sonorous disembodied voices. The first speech was booed but not consistently or with real persistence. By now I could see the thin line of figures on the reviewing stand. The pent-up marchers were released, and there was another flurry of brass and drums, but live this time, from somewhere within the multitude. The participants lunged forward, men in suits, women in dresses, lots of children, some holding red flowers straight out in front of them like votive offerings. Suddenly I realized what a sea of colour it was, how surprised I was to see all the bright fabrics together, for after even so short a time in the country my eyes had become accustomed to the more limited spectrum that was certainly one of the features of existence there, quite apart from any quality-of-life considerations.

      The parade went on. Then it went on some more, and some more. My vantage point was privileged, but I realized that it was also constricted. I couldn’t see Gorbachev from where I was; I couldn’t even see whether he had turned up. There were gasps now at the wording on some of the placards and banners bobbing over the heads of the crowd. I asked someone to translate. One read THE COMMUNIST PARTY OF THE SOVIET UNION EXPLOITS US. Another ran: GET OUT OF OUR POCKETS NOW! I felt compelled to see how the fellows on the reviewing stand were reacting. I needed to move to the east, but whenever I tried I was stopped by the militia police or by the plainclothes security. For the same reasons it seemed hopeless to try to make a circuitous route, westward to the museum at the edge of the square and then along 25th October Street, through the back door, as it were; that would have put the whole crowd between me and the mausoleum and I wasn’t certain I would find a sufficiently elevated spot there such as the one I already enjoyed where I was. The only thing to do was to join the parade and become one of the marchers myself. If anyone tried to prevent me from doing so, I would make a fuss and insist I was one of the cultural workers (for such is how my editor must think of me, I said to myself).

      An organization of machinists was going past. I could identify them by the logotype of meshing gears on their signboards. I stepped down and slipped sideways between the guards and was swept up in the marchers before anyone could stop me. We hadn’t gone many metres before I caught sight of Gorbachev. He was the 12th from the right, in his trademark top-coat and little grey hat. His wool scarf had an irregular pattern of red in it, no doubt to honour the occasion. He was looking impassive and occasionally he waved in somewhat the same way we associate with the Queen. I got to look at him only for half a minute before the momentum of the crowd pushed me and my fellow machinists along. I didn’t see any obvious concern on his face, but my intuition, I believe, was correct. Shortly afterwards, thanks partly to an administrative mix-up, the demonstration in Revolution Square was permitted to tag on to the end of our parade, not far behind me, and when these other marchers reached the vicinity of the reviewing stand, they produced loud-hailers and began shouting personal insults at the president, who lost his patience and walked off.

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