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Table of contents
- Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror
- SPECIMEN DAYS.
- Walt Whitman Archive - Complete Prose Works - The Walt Whitman Archive
- [B.J._Holmes]_Pocket_crossword_dictionary(z-lib.org).pdf
Everywhere, like darting blackbirds, dark-furred school children skated on the ice-coated sidewalks. Two of these children stopped to inspect us. They were twins, girls of nine or ten, and they wore gray rabbit-fur coats and blue velvet bonnets.
Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror
They were sharing a single pair of skates, and by holding hands and pushing together they managed very well on one skate apiece. They looked at us with pretty, puzzled brown eyes, as though wondering what made us different.
- An American opera travels from West Berlin to Leningrad..
- The Great War and Women’s Consciousness;
- The Human Touch.
Our clothes? The twins followed us onto a footbridge that crossed the canal, and watched while we paused to look at the view. The canal, no more than a snowy ditch, was a sporting ground for children, whose laughing shrillness combined with a ringing of some unidentifiable bells, both sounds carrying on the strong, shivery wind that blew from the Gulf of Finland.
SPECIMEN DAYS.
Skeleton trees, sheathed in ice, glittered against the austere fronts of the palaces that line the embankments all the way to the distant Nevsky Prospekt. Leningrad, which is at present a city of three million, was built to the taste of the Czars, and Czarist taste ran to French and Italian architecture, which accounts for not only the style but the colors of the palaces along the canal and in other old quarters. Parisian blacks and grays predominate, but suddenly, here and there, the hot Italian palette intervenes, with a palace of bitter green, of brilliant ochre, pale blue, orange.
A few of the palaces have been converted into apartments; most are used for offices. Peter the Great, who is given high marks by the current regime because he introduced the sciences to Russia, would probably have approved of the myriad television aerials that have settled like a swarm of metal insects on the roofs of his once imperial city. We crossed the bridge and wandered through open iron gates into the deserted courtyard of a blue palace.
It was the entrance to a labyrinth—an arctic casbah, where one courtyard led into another via arcades and tunnels and across narrow streets, snow-hushed and silent except for sleigh horses stamping their hoofs, a drifting sound of bells, and an occasional giggle from the twins, still trailing behind us. The cold was like an anesthetic; presently, I felt numb enough to undergo major surgery. I want to see as much as I can. Locked in a room typing a lot of nonsense.
Minutes later, feeling its first sting, she was ready to seek the Astoria. The trouble was we were lost. It amused the twins greatly to see us circling through the same streets and courtyards. None of them appeared to get the point, but they nevertheless beckoned us up another street. On the way, we were joined by a gangly boy carrying a violin case, and a woman who must have been a butcher, for over her coat she was wearing an apron splattered with blood. The Russians babbled and argued; we decided they were taking us to a police station, and neither of us cared, as long as it was heated.
By now, the moisture in my nose had frozen; my eyes were unfocussed by the cold. Still, I could see well enough to know when, abruptly, we were back at the Neva canal footbridge. But she felt that our entourage had been so faithful they deserved to see the mystery solved. While they surrounded one of several Intourist limousines that stay parked in front of the hotel, and began to question its chauffeur about us, we rushed inside, collapsed on a bench, and sucked in the warm air like divers who have been too long underwater.
A company bulletin board had by now been installed in the lobby. But at five that first evening I was too much enjoying a hot tub to bother about dinner.
Walt Whitman Archive - Complete Prose Works - The Walt Whitman Archive
The bathroom adjoining the third-floor room assigned to me had peeling sulphur-colored walls, a cold radiator, and a broken toilet that rumbled like a mountain brook. The tub itself, circa , was splotched with rust stains, and the water that poured from the taps was brown as iodine, but it was hot, it made a wonderful steam, and I basked in it, idly wondering if downstairs in the bleak dining room the others were at last being treated to caviar and vodka, shashlik , bliny , and sour cream.
Ironically, as I learned later, they were being offered the same menu that had been regularly served on the train to Leningrad: yoghurt and raspberry soda, broth, breaded veal cutlets, and peas. My waterlogged drowsing was interrupted when my telephone rang. I let it ring awhile, the way you might if you were sitting in a bath at home.
Naked and dripping, I picked up the receiver. It was Miss Ryan, reminding me that dinner was already being served, promptly , and that I was not present. The company was expected to attend the ballet that evening, and I started to get dressed for it. There was a problem here. I compromised by putting on a black tie with a gray flannel suit. As I moved around the room dressing, I straightened some of the fruit and flower paintings that clotted the walls. Downstairs, a row was in progress.
Savchenko was rosy with indignation, Miss Lydia white. Warner Watson and Miss Ryan hustled everyone else out of the lobby and into two buses that had been provided for the Leningrad stay. The ballet was at the Maryinsky Theatre, renamed the Kirov no one calls it that, though , after the old revolutionary and friend of Stalin who was assassinated in Despite the chilliness of the theatre, everyone, whether man or woman, was required to leave his coat in the cloakroom; in Russia it is thought uncultured— nyekulturny —to enter a theatre, restaurant, museum, or any such place wearing a coat or wrap.
At the moment, the principal sufferer from the ruling was Miss Ryan. A tall, striking blonde, she was wearing a low-cut strapless dress, and as she walked down the aisle masculine eyes swerved in her direction like flowers turning toward the sun For that matter the entrance of the entire company was creating a stir in the crowded auditorium. People were standing up to get a better view of the Americans and their black ties, silks, and sparkles.
[B.J._Holmes]_Pocket_crossword_dictionary(z-lib.org).pdf
Well, darling, never again. But, really, what should we wear? The chandeliers dimmed and the orchestra conductor raised his baton. Jackson announced that he was starving. Most of the Russian customers jammed into the salon were spooning it out of paper cups as they watched the Americans pose for informal news photographs—balancing beer bottles on their foreheads, demonstrating the shimmy, doing imitations of Louis Armstrong.
During the second intermission, I looked for Miss Ryan and found her backed into a corner, haughtily smoking a cigarette in a long Russian holder and trying to pretend she was not the cynosure of a circle of puffy girls and leaden-faced women, gathered to giggle and comment on her clinging gown and bare shoulders.
Would she ever be a wow here! She ought to get a visa. Some of us have obtained tickets for the first night. I am among the fortunate. Arrangements had been made for the company to go backstage at the end of the performance and meet the ballet artists. Your thrilling artistry has produced an evening none of us will ever forget, and we only hope on Monday evening we can a little repay you for the pleasure you have given us. One of them reached out and put her arm around a member of the cast named Georgia Burke.
The buses, rolling refrigerators, had the same seat plan as those that operate on Madison Avenue. I sat on the long back seat between Miss Ryan and Miss Lydia. This was sound thinking as far as it went, for if such an item existed, then a Commission Shop, a state-controlled brokerage where a Comrade can turn the last of his hidden heirlooms into spot cash, is probably the only place you would discover it. We visited several of these shops—drafty establishments with the going-gone sadness of auction rooms. In the largest, a glass cabinet ran the length of the shop, and the spectacle its contents presented, the conglomeration of spookily diverse objects, was like a Dadaist experiment.
All these articles, and yards more, were placed and numbered with a care that suggested an exhibition of mementos, the possessions of some beloved person now dead, and it was this—the reverence with which the things were displayed—that made them poignant. But the price, eighty thousand dollars, was more than the customer had in mind. And so, struggling through the Nevsky crowds, we visited a furrier, where the cheapest sable was a short jacket selling—or, rather, not selling—for eleven thousand dollars.
This was in a dungeon cellar, where waitresses, wearing knee boots and tiaras made of doily paper, waded across slush-flooded floors carrying trays of ice cream and improbable pastry to gloomy groups of middle-aged women.
But Mrs. Gershwin had to do without her tea, for there were no tables available, nor was there even space to stand and wait for one. So far, none of us had made a single purchase. Gershwin decided to try a department store. On the way, Lyons, who had brought a camera, often paused to take photographs—of match women and cherry-cheeked girls dragging Christmas trees, of street-corner flower stalls selling artificial roses and paper tulips stuck in flowerpots as though they were real. Each of his photographic forays created a pedestrian traffic jam, a gallery of silent spectators, who smiled, or sometimes scowled, when he took their pictures too.
Presently, I noticed that there was one man who showed up every time among the onlookers, yet did not seem one of them. He always stood at the rear—a chunky man with a crooked nose, bundled in a black coat and astrakhan cap, with half his face hidden behind the kind of windshield dark glasses that skiers wear. I lost track of him before we reached the department store. The store was reminiscent of a carnival alley, consisting of counters with alcoves behind them whose shelves seemed stocked mostly with shooting-gallery prizes—the familiar cheap dolls, ugly urns, plaster animals, toilet sets bedded in a crumpling of white casket silk.
Gershwin, overcome by an odor of rancid glue, felt a swift necessity to leave the leather-goods department, and a moment later she felt a swifter one to flee the perfume counter.
- Full text of "Intimate Matters: A History Of Sexuality In America".
- BEYOND THE STILL.
- The Fishermans Wife.
A crowd began trailing us through the store, and when, at a counter before an alcove devoted to hats, I started trying on caps of ersatz Persian lamb, a good thirty grinning, jostling Russians ganged around demanding that I buy this one, that one, themselves whisking models on and off my head and ordering the clerk to bring more, more, until hats were toppling off the counter. Someone bent to retrieve one from the floor; it was the man wearing ski glasses. The hat I bought, chosen at desperate random, proved later not to fit. A fake astrakhan, it cost forty-five dollars, and because of the complicated system of payment that operates in all Soviet stores, forty minutes more was required to complete the transaction.
When you have paid your money, the cashier stamps the sales slip, and this you take back to the clerk, who by now is attending five other people; eventually, though, the clerk will accept the slip, usually go to check it with the cashier, come back, hand over your purchase, and direct you to a wrapping department, where you join another queue.