Muscovite rapture
May 15, 2016
Everyone had told me I would dislike, if not hate, Moscow.
It may have been what prompted me to wipe the slate clean, and get off the night train with an open (even if tired) mind. Or it may have been Moscow’s scotching heat in spring, its fake flowers on busy dusty pedestrian streets, its sweet bloom in green parks all over the city, its river flowing and sputtering in fancy fountains, its orange and black ribbons flying in the refreshing breeze, in commemoration of the fallen, and in celebration of military power. It may have been tanks sightseeing, or helicopters flying low, their vibrations like a Valkyrie ride deep in your veins. It must have been this empty building, somewhere in the city; this tagged, burnt and abandoned haven I have come to call home.
My first few nights were spent in the Northern blooming suburbs with an unusual family of young parents and teenage children, of a snake (small and in a vivarium, to my relief), of a black cat and of a starving Sphynx who will befriend you only to betray you better, his sharp little teeth like needles capable of digging in your finger until it draws blood in order to get to the food you where holding. An unpleasant experience to say the least.
Even if I didn't feel at home in their humble abode, even if something about them didn't compute in my brains, even if I came to hate the naked gremlin, it is thanks to them that I have come to love Moscow. They brought me to the most unlikely places, the ones I could hardly discover by myself: Dives, staircases whose original paint was no longer visible under layers of sketches, paintings and signatures left behind by a mob of strangers, and especially a deserted building.
We went to the latter on my first day, in the late afternoon, after having crisscrossed the entire city on pushbikes for hours, stopping at view points and parks, munching on yummy soviet drunkard food, and drinking vodka in subterranean holes. I fell in love with it even before knowing I would have the privilege to enter its rotting entrails. It was large, high, and of a faded green color detaching itself in sharp contrast from the brightness of budding spring leaves. Windows were broken, the facade tagged in places, its submit adorned with a monstrous “цст” whose painted outlines almost elegantly reminded us of the puffy white clouds floating in the deep blue sky.
Its curious ascension started out on the dry lawn by overtaking three steps formed by an overturned pallet steeply pushed against some sort of separation wall, giving access to a raised field of broken glass, shredded plastic, splintered wood, and torn fabric. This state of disarray continued on what might have been the porch, and entrance to the building was granted by walking over a wooden plank comparable to the one propped against a ship’s deck for the pirates’ final plunge, or used as a bridge to pass the moat and enter the castle where a dragon was to be slain.
Once in, pitch dark surrounded us. Flashlights had to be used to conquer the first flight of stairs and its only half-avoided worm-eaten obstacle. Then, a sturdy rusted iron gate stood, patiently waiting to be defied or dodged. We opted for the second option, straddled the handrail, balanced over emptiness, tried to avoid corroded nails and timber shards, juggled between making light and holding on, and finally mastered this keeper of the great beyond.
On the other side, light started filtrating through little round windows, illuminating the walls of the same pale green color we had seen on the outside, to then inundate the steps with sunshine when whole sections of the facade went missing. The landings were covered in colorful drawings, purplish pink sugar-skulls and rainbow screaming woman. The crunching we heard at every step was now fading, as few would pass the metallic guardian of the second floor, and fewer still ventured all the way to the top. From charcoaled passages to artful tags over collapsing plaster, from broken windows, framing the gold sacred spires of surrounding churches and temples, to ceilings bared to their reinforced concrete thread, each floor held a new secret.
When our knees felt weak from the many steps, when I thought I had seen the best this place had to offer, we exited onto the last floor, strewn with burnt debris from the now non-existent ceiling, through a decrepit brick archway. Walking over wooden beams, carefully stepping over protruding blocs from what remained of the last wall, clenching iron rods, we finally rose to the rooftop. There, amidst many empty bottles, we stood and embraced the magnificent view. Moscow was extending all around us, like a grey sea sprinkled with green islands. The roar of the streets had receded to a whisper, the heat wave been tamed by a cool wind, the crowd hidden by buildings and trees' canopy. As if standing at the prow of a sailboat, only skies and birds belonged to our world.
Time to leave this haven of peace was too soon upon us. The pushbikes where awaiting our return to finish touring the busy city.
In quiet contemplation I climbed down, still taken by the enchantment of this unassuming half-collapsing structure. Absent mindedly, many twisting steps later, I took a wrong turn thinking it the exit, and full of surprise I came face to face with the inhabitant of the premises.
He was standing there, in the middle of a grubby room, light somewhat filtering through a dirty broken window obstructed by rusted bars and random objects, showing a disorder which made it impossible to distinguish anything else than a brownish-grey heap of odds and ends. Camped there, his legs wide apart, his clothes matching his surroundings, his head lowered, he suddenly planted his steady gaze on me from under his dark eyebrows. Only his eyes had moved. Not a word had been exchanged.
I prudently retreated with a meekly whispered word of excuse he probably couldn’t hear nor understand, composed myself, and flashlit my way out through another flight of stairs and the crumbling mouth of the establishment. Once into the blinding daylight, as if in humorous relief, I found my tour guides struggling with the last pallet-ladder.
My love for the place hadn’t been tempered with by the last encounter, and on the following evening, undeterred, equipped with flashlights and beers, I had managed to corrupt an Italian traveler met in Veliky Novgorod to go up this majestic decaying monument.
Up there, in the fading lights, we found a merry group of Russians busily drinking, and wondering at the venue of foreign souls in this forsaken place. Our mutual curiosity led to a conversation made of an English and Russian jumble of words, of sounds and gestures, of laughter and misunderstandings.
On that night, quietude was out of the question and city lights weren’t enough to fight off the joyous animation; so when they suggested going down to refuel in a nearby bar, we all did, amongst more gestures of sword fights and sounds of blood spilling attributed to a giant Russian hero, and alternatively punctuated by beer and vodka drinking.
From that point forward, the last metro having been missed, there was no going back. For the remaining of the night, I was doomed to drink craft beer in hip Dogma, eat cheap and delicious local blini in an underground mom and pop’s restaurant hosting energetic live music, be abandoned by the now sleepy Russian, Bolshoi sightsee with my fellow traveler, dance in fashionable Kamchatka and exit it’s entrails at 4 a.m. to bathe in sunshine, wait for the first train on a bench in front of an unoccupied kremlin, and miss most of the May 9th military show of force.
Of course, a few days later, the fever took me again:
I had worked my way through my next host’s curiosity, and tempted him with a sinister climb to a majestic sunset of vanilla skies and cotton clouds. He had enjoyed silence and tranquility.
A new admirer of Moscow’s best-kept secret was born.
When my last day in Moscow was finally upon me, I couldn't help but think about this abandoned structure and how it was meant to disappear in the near future - recycled, renovated, or just torn down and replaced without a moment’s hesitation.
I couldn’t leave without honoring my soul’s home in this city with a last visit.
Late in the night or early in the morning, discarding the ghostly presence I had encountered but once, I decided to head back there, one last time, alone.
Armed with courage, with my phone’s flashlight and a tasty beer – which could also be used as a club if need be – I entered the darkness, silently passed the spine-chilling second floor, listening intently for any uncanny sound, bypassed the rusted iron gate and splintered obstacles, ascended the many steps, and finally emerged into the starry night.
No one was there, perfect solitude, moon shinning over me, lamplights far below projecting long shadows on the nearby facades, cold wind playing with high clouds, bristling through the blooming shrubs growing high above the metropolis, whistling through my bottle, ruffling my hair.
A late birthday gift, an ideal farewell interrupted now and then by a hint of fear only enhancing the boundless beauty spread before my eyes.