Of Cravacoc and Kamar
May 28, 2016
Act One
Imagine a family of three in Nizhny Novgorod, a city situated along the Volga and divided in two by the Oka:
The mother, a model Russian woman: Still young, fit and dynamic, a workingwoman with a paying hobby on the side. She even spoke some kind of English. Her husband, older, probably unemployed, his skin marked by too much drinking and his belly by too much eating. However, to contradict the stereotypes, he was kind and giving, and seemed to take good care of the much loved little one. The latter was 5 years-old, a little blond streak of lightning feeding on an high-sugar diet of ice cream and apple juice. Flying behind her, in the wind of her race, were her two long braids as tradition, still applied in this modern family, requires of unmarried girls.
They lived in a small flat where parents slept in the living room while little girl and grandmother shared a bunk bed in the office/corridor leading to the kitchen. Grandmother being absent, I would take her place in the hallway. No need to say that their generosity struck me; I couldn’t understand their desire to crowd this little apartment and share their lack of privacy with yet another person - and a stranger at that.
On my first night among them, dad and daughter brought me to another part of town where we stood on a white pedestrian bridge over a green glen. From there, we could see both rivers framing the dusty industrial sector where was located the train station I came from on the very morning, by foot. Behind us lied the not-so-dust-free historical downtown, and their compact quarters.
This lovely vantage point turned out to be a perfect setting for a vodka and ice cream flavoured sunset; and as I was slowly helping on the task of emptying the fast dying bottle, the high voltage little one was busy running after mosquitoes, in an effort to either capture or kill (which will remain an enigma as Artemis’s help never materialized) while shouting “кровосос” [prononce kravassoss] over and over again.
All the while, her father kept looking at me at an angle, a wry smile on his face.
True, there were a lot of mosquitoes. One more word to my poor Russian vocabulary I suppose.
Act Two
From Nizhny Novgorod, I had embarked on the section of the Transsiberian which would bring me to Kazan; a city where Muslims and Christians seem to be peacefully living hand in hand; a city seeping in Tartar traditions and plunging into fast-paced globalisation.
In the train, Chance had decided to place a young Russian woman eager to help me on my travels. Mary had grown up in Tatarstan, and was a passionate urban architect in love with the outdoors.
The following day, once disembarked, we set out to drop our bags off at my future hostel, and visit this Muslim capital of the North in the very early hours of morning, enjoying empty city and still ponds.
On our tour, she introduced me to the sweet Chak Chak Museum where, the next afternoon, I was given a long-lasting, highly educative, private tour in English by a lovely Tartar young woman on her way to join me in the ranks of translators.
Mary recommended that I visit the Library and it’s strange grotto, where an elderly woman tried to barricade the entrance but was defeated by my dedication to viewing the beautiful floor to ceiling marquetry. She also called me on a random afternoon, telling me to meet her back at my hostel with a rental bike. I wasn’t aware of it yet, but the countryside was calling us.
A short train ride later, we had reached юдино [Yudino] where, between two pedal stokes, we visited an old train, explored lakes, got drenched by the rain, munched on yummy homemade окрошка [Okroshka] concocted by my new friend and her mom, struggled in sandy upslopes, and were finally mesmerized by the fading lights of day on the shores of ozero Glubokoye (Deep lake) and it’s hidden treasures, while the inevitable mosquitoes were having a feast on us.
There, I couldn’t help but show off my newly acquired Russian vocabulary. Thus, I pointed at a now dead insect, and proudly pronounced “кровосос”. Her look was one of surprise, but sadly not of approbation. In her broken English she endeavoured to explain that mosquitoes were called комар [prononce Kamar], and that кровосос was something like their function.
On our way back to the train we would end up missing, through the forest and into the growing twilight, I mused over Russian vocabulary, and came to the conclusion that if комар was for mosquitoes, then кровосос may well be for the verb “to bite.”
Act Three
This time, the train had brought me from Kazan to Perm, another dusty industrial city reminding me of Nizhny but much flatter. Lining the river, instead of a restored kremlin, were found messy construction zones prohibiting access to what I guessed would have been a much relaxing part of the city. However, to make up for it, this administrative center of Perm Krai was home to the interesting Perm State Art Gallery, renown for its particular Northwestern Urals wooden sculptures, dating form the 17th to the 19th centuries, a time for Christianisation of the Animistic population. At first I disregarded these, thinking them to be mere Christian representations, but on a closer look I was stuck by a comical pagan aura emanating from them: Greedy angels too fat to fly, or at a loss as of what to do with themselves, a crucified Christ seemingly shrugging on account of having done what he could, it was out of his hands if people were too stupid for words…
Looking at these, Christianity didn’t look menacing and self-righteous anymore, but kind and humorous. This religion I could almost have believed in.
This reconverted house of God also held a secret, a completely neglected feature I stumbled upon: One section of the cathedral floor had been preserved, and was covered in beautiful cast-iron tiles, measuring roughly a square meter. Under the astounded looks of the babushkas, I sat down to draw these impressive and massive pieces of art, completely oblivious to the icons surrounding me. I would later realize, upon visiting Ekaterinburg’s Museum of Fine Arts, that these were probably a fine example of Kasli mouldings, only more elegant and elaborate than the one exhibited in the latter.
But back to our original story:
On my second night in Perm, my hosts decided that the previous evening of live French Jazz had been too tame, and that I should be meeting their friends. As a consequence, we headed for the city center and its numerous parks, much more appealing by night than by day, as heat receded, crowd retreated, construction din faded, traffic died, and dust settled.
There, little by little, we were joined by many amusing fellows, many more bottles, and a horde of mosquitoes, making us jump with joy when one of the pals arrived, what seemed to be hours later, with highly reprimanded pipes and welcomed mosquito repellent. The ensuing chemical rain, on top of putting our lungs at risk of being in no better shape than our livers, had the desired effect of chasing most insects. Most but not all, and at the feeling of being beaten once again, forgetting my previous lesson, I uttered a “fucking кровосос!” making them roar with laughter.
As the witching hour sounded and most city lights were extinguished in order to save energy and allow crime to thrive, on my request for being let in on the joke I had made by inadvertence, my host set out to explain the true meaning of this word.
Epilogue
It now all made sense to me: The surprise, the laughter, the sardonic smile and the sideway glances I was given in Nizhny Novgorod, where a little girl erratically ran around, screaming at the top of her lungs “parasites… leeches…bloodsuckers…!”
