My Russian Adventure Pt. 03

Have fun reading my story, based on the Moscow Music Peace Festival in 1989. Many thanks to my Editing Cousin, your input means the world to me.

MY RUSSIAN ADVENTURE - part 3

Showtime

It was D-day. Crowds were gathering outside the stadium, eager to get in. I, and more of our crew, had the feeling we weren't ready by a long shot. So little time left, so much to do.

I was the errand boy, and apparently quite easy to tease. Anja of production said, "camera #6 needs XLR cables, two times five meters. And Pimp, throw in a Russian beauty as well, he's a bit lonely up there, haha."

Fighting it was pointless. "Okay, two 5 meters and a beauty, I got it. And in case you get lonely, some of those girls are bisexual so don't be afraid to ask." Anja looked at me startled. Something clicked in her head judging by the look on her face. She considered it.

By this time the crowd poured into the stadium. Rows of soldiers formed live crush barriers to guide the audience into compartments. The size of it all!

On my way to camera #6 the crew manager of Band #4 caught up with me. Panting, he said: "There's an officer who is driving us crazy! You have an army contact, right? We need him gone, Guitar Guy is going ballistic!" They didn't need me, they needed Mels, but Mels was appointed to me.

This could take some time, I needed to check with Harry. I found him in the midst of the turmoil around our control room. Harry seemed to have all the time in the world. Somehow he was able to communicate his inner peace, just being around him made you calm down.

"Harry, I got a request from Band #4, they need translation and or mediation, I don't know. That's not really my job, is it?" I said.

He chuckled. "Pimp, I know we are all very busy and all that, but I will not stand in the way of your true vocation. You are very good at what you do, I saw you in action this morning with Arisha." I was laying intertwined with her on the floor of the hall in an afterfuck doze. He got more serious. "I honestly believe that you will contribute to a better show with your extracurricular activities. So go ahead, and help them out."

"Erm, thanks, I guess." I didn't quite know what to make of this. "I will go and find Mels, then."

"Go get them, Pimp!"

I went after Mels with a new sense of determination. The amazing effect Harry had on people. I found Mels fast asleep on the same couch I was on yesterday. He'd covered himself with his army jacket. I got one of our CREW jackets in his size, then carefully exchanged both jackets.

I shouted: "Private Mels, report for duty!"

Mels opened his eyes, lazily stretched and said, "ahh, I needed that. It's a privilege to work with you Pimp, to be able to sleep on the job." He yawned. "I can hear the crowd." He noticed the CREW jacket and put it on. "You should wear mine."

"Okay." Mels had a much wider chest, and by today's standards I looked like a fool. But this was 1989, and I felt like a king wearing it.

In the meantime the concert had started. The crowd didn't need to warm up, the first act killed it and fully engaged them right away. Mels and I didn't get to see it, but the sound was everywhere.

We followed the scent of fun cigarettes and found Band #4 in a room around a large table. The lead guitar player faced a grumpy-looking Russian sergeant.

"You fucker! Get lost and burn in hell forever!" he yelled, quoting his own song, holding his guitar like an axe.

I jumped in between. "I brought a translator! Tell me what you want to say to him." Guitar Guy started a rant, and I sensed not only anger but also fear. This was another moment for me to put my shame aside, use the way my despised father handled things, and embrace CEO-Bareld fully.

I addressed Mels, "this man has no business here. He is disturbing the preparation of the show." I saw a bottle on the table. "If half a bottle of whiskey helps, he can have it." I exchanged a short look with Guitar Guy, who nodded.

Mels pointed at the bottle and said to the sarge, "etot viski byl podarkom ottsa Guitar Guy, kotoryy nedavno skonchalsya." (This whiskey was a gift from Guitar Guy's father who recently passed away.) "Vot pochemu on slishkom ostro reagiruyet. Chto vam nuzhno?" (That's why he is overreacting. What is it you need?)

The sergeant was sent here to do a head count. Fire regulations. He needed access to the room Guitar Guy was currently blocking. If he didn't get out of the way right now he would have him removed. Mels translated:

"This sergeant's underage daughter went missing. He wants to check every room, especially yours because she's a fan."

Guitar Guy lowered his guitar and said in a low voice to me: "This 'bout a girl? Not drugs?"

"Just show him the room, he'll be off your back." He shrugged and reluctantly stepped aside. When the door opened the scent of weed was overwhelming. Illegal substances may have been in sight. Sarge didn't blink though, he walked in, checked the bathroom, and got back in the face of Guitar Guy and put a finger to his chest.

"YA sozhaleyu o vashey utrate, no eto ne povod plokho sebya vesti." (I am sorry for your loss, but it is no excuse to misbehave.) He strode away without a pause.

Mels explained, "he said: once you have a daughter yourself, you'll understand."

"I have a daughter!" Guitar Guy yelled to Sarge's back. Who didn't react.

During the scene, a woman had entered the central room. "Translator? We need you," she said, "urgently." Mels and I didn't get a moment's rest from then on.

We functioned as an undercover comical duo, our audience needed to be unaware they were watching a show. For me the hardest part was keeping a straight face, because Mels just needed a glance of a person and a fitting story popped into his head. My job was following his lead with a magisterial air.

We got busted by Russian Band Guy. Mels explained to a Stadium Official that High Pitch Guy's wife was going into labor any time soon. "Luchshe ostavit' yego v pokoye." (Better leave him alone.) But Stadium Official got suspicious because Russian Band Guy started laughing like a crazy person.

I sternly said to him, "you wouldn't want your friend to be distracted on stage would you? It would be bad for the show."

"Oh yeah," Russian Band Guy interrupted his laughing fit, "a baby would definitely distract him, haha." Stadium Official shook his head and left. "I love what you're doing though. Making backstage a better place. While I don't think it affects the show, most of us have a switch: on stage we become a different person. There's just my guitar and the audience, everything else goes on hold." He chuckled again. "That is, 'til you see a woman in the audience carrying a baby."

Anja interrupted us in the midst of our umpteenth act. "Harry needs both of you. Asap asap asappelflap!" I excused us to our audience, and we hurried after Anja.

"What's the matter? Something bad?"

Anja smiled. "Harry thought those guys might wear you out, both of you. You need food. He said I needed to be convincing." I blessed Harry. On our adrenalin high we rode the afternoon, now we crashed back to earth. Exhaustion hit me, and I saw it happen to Mels too.

And the waves of sound kept coming, relentless like a thunderous sea.

We took food to go, and finally got the chance to watch the show. We were at camera #3. Anja put her arm around my shoulder.

"You're more of an indie pop guy, right? You dig this?"

"I wouldn't have picked it myself, but... wow."

"Wow." She nodded. "The articulate thoughts of a true academic. I'm proud of you." I shook off her arm.

So much of everything. The tiny figures on stage drawing everyone in, the sound hugging and penetrating me, and the crowd, filled with an endless amount of stories.

Close to me a big guy carried a girl on his neck who seemed kind of young for a metal rock concert. Two equally small girls were waiting their turns. A family outing.

Further to the front a bare chested guy waved his shirt above his head. His group of friends followed, next they shouted a Russian war cry of sorts and threw the shirts to the stage. It was meant to be epic, but their shirts only reached a few meters. One of the shirts landed on a woman, who took it and looked at the print. With a glance behind she didn't spot the owner. On stage the singer shouted, "show me your hands!" The woman jumped up and down and shook the shirt in triumph.

Anja held me again, gave me a peck on the neck. To whisper in my ear she needed her full voice. "Enjoy the show!" She walked away.

Well before the end of the concert we were on our way to another big mansion, with bands and crew that'd already performed. Our powder blue bus was escorted by a black limo in front and a black KGB car behind. I looked forward to seeing Arisha again. Her vibrant presence had been in the back of my head all day. Did she see me as a one-time sweet dog and move on, or could we deepen whatever we had?

A mansion entirely made of logs came into view, with window frames in a light shade of wood, ornamental carvings on top and equally beautiful shutters on the sides. Left and right octagonal towers with onion shaped domes. The architect seemed to have had the instruction: Go nuts on wood.

Arisha greeted me enthusiastically. "Bareld, I want you to meet Rinkya." Next to her stood a voluptuous woman. She wore a remarkable dress, ingenious use of colorful ribbons sewn onto common fabric made it look like high fashion.

"Her parents are crazy, they named her Vecherinka which means 'party'. Nobody does that. We call her Rinkya." She gave her an affectionate look. "She was bullied a lot, and now she is, erm, too modest."

Modest wasn't the word I would have picked for a woman her size, clothing style, and the voice of a steamer horn. "Arisha told me you," she said, pointing her fingers. She looked me shortly in the eye and blushed.

Arisha kissed me. "Bareld, we are friends right? Could you do this for me, be sweet to Rinkya, like you were for me?" She gave me a little nudge. "Hold her, she needs a hug." Could I refuse Arisha?

Rinkya was mortified. I moved in, held her shoulders first, and carefully let our bodies meet. I pulled her in, her sizable boobs pressed into me. She unfroze slowly, laid her head on my chest, and mumbled in Russian.

"She says she couldn't believe what I said about you, but I was right. You can take her to a room with a bed immediately."

"She didn't say that! You're making it up!" She was Mels's sister after all.

"No Bareld, look her in the eye."

I lifted her chin and our eyes met. I saw longing and uncertainty. And kindness. "Shall we dance?", I said. To her questioning look, I started moving.

Arisha held us both, kissed me again and whispered: "You are amazing." And she walked away. I shook my head and Rinkya smiled.

On the dance floor she lost her inhibitions. It was infectious, I'm not much of a dancer but I could do silly moves. And when she laughed she roared. We dominated the floor. Once we needed to hydrate, I was ready for the room with a bed too, Rinkya was really sexy. She asked me a question in Russian and thanks to Mels I immediately understood. We went for the door.

A wobbly Russian Band Guy intercepted us. "Pimp! What a show we did right? I never experienced an atmosphere this electric. We were making history! Stalin, Brezjnev and Tchernenko will never come back. We're connected to the rest of the world now!" He grabbed my shoulders and shook me with every word. "We've waited so long for this to happen!" I nodded involuntarily. "So I thank you, Pimp, for this," he kissed me fiercely on both cheeks and gave me a crushing bear hug. It lasted forever, and I felt little shocks in his body. He cried. I started muttering soothing sounds. In Dutch, automatically.

"Found a new lover, Pimp? Or should I say, lovers?" Geraldine had witnessed the scene.

"They seem to find me."

All the rooms Rinkya and I tried were somehow occupied. Lovers, users, poker players, and sleepers as well. Watching those made me feel my own tiredness. I shook it off. I mimed holding a steering wheel to Rinkya, and said: "Brum, brrruuumm."

Outside the building a KGB black suit stopped us, and a discussion in Russian followed. A persuasive Rinkya at first, then the tone got more heated. She suddenly fell silent, her eyes on the ground, then she looked at me to muster courage. Next she kicked off her shoes and pulled her panties out from under her dress, and gave them to the suit. Who held them under his nose with a vicious grin, and nodded to our bus. Rinkya grabbed my hand and dragged me inside.

We flattened the empty boxes and picked up our dancing routine, but now horizontally. Circling around a partner is easier standing up, but we did it anyway. We touched and stroked each other rhythmically, alternating slow and fast. We didn't touch each others sex, we kept teasing eachother, till she shouted: "YA khochu tebya seychas!" Her body language was clear, I entered her in one move and we started rutting in earnest. She came loudly, a decibel per kilo to my estimate.

KGB Suit barged inside and violently pulled me off my big lover.

I don't get mad easily. But he stole our tender afterglow. I stood up to him and started yelling in Dutch, "jij grote klootzak! Waarom denk je dat ze schreeuwt? Je wil haar naakt zien, dat is het hè! Idioot! Donder op!" (You big bastard! Why do you think she's screaming? You want to see her naked, that's it, isn't it! Idiot! Fuck off!)

He straightened his back, and pointed at her bra. Now Rinkya started yelling. Since everything was scarce in Moscow, it could well be it was her only one. I grabbed my underpants and wanted to hold them under his nose, but he walked backwards, cursing in Russian. I followed, pointing my underpants like a gun at him. He shouted two more words and fled the bus.

Her snickering behind me grew into a bellowing laughter. She took my underpants, pointed to where KGB Suit just disappeared and shook her finger, saying: "Net net." She pointed at herself and put them on. Uncomfortably small for her, but she hummed while she dressed. I was still unstrung. She embraced me.

Arisha and Geraldine sat on elegant seats on a dais in a corner of the big room. I'd recovered and Rinkya was still glowing.

Geraldine raised her eyebrows. "Our Pimp, a stud in disguise? Well well, who would have thought." I groaned.

Arisha jumped up, hugged and kissed me. "You're a real friend. I don't know what magic you performed on her, I've never even seen her dance. And look at her now! I owe you." She was my Janine Jansen, beautiful and virtuoso. I knew she played me, but she made me feel like a Stradivarius.

While Arisha and Rinkya had a lively conversation, Gerry said to me: "Did you know she had a sewing workshop? Adapting clothes for big people. Imagine getting stout with all the scarcity over here, but it happens. Anyway, we're gonna give Rinkya ten of each of our items. See to that, okay?" I chuckled, Arisha had been busy. "Big day tomorrow, the second show is always harder. Come on, let's go."

When I stood up Arisha and Rinkya tackled me in a very affectionate three way hug. Geraldine muttered: "Bareld, lovers, plural?" She shook her head. "Go find the bus driver, Pimp!" The girls overwhelmed Geraldine by hugging her as well, equally enthusiastic. I smirked when I walked away.

Sunday

It had been a short night, but I woke up refreshed in my small and lumpy bed. The five stars of our hotel equaled in value the ruble against the dollar. Cockroaches, brown water and inedible food. Stalin wanted this wedding cake building of yellow stone to be a monument of greatness. He'd been dead for a while, and the stone was gray. The surroundings didn't impair my mood though, I saw beauty in every worn carpet. Through the window I could see the Kremlin lying in the sun.

I shared my room with Diederick, my friend and frat brother who got me this job. Since we got here I saw him only in passing, and the first night his bed was empty. Same when I went to sleep last night, but now he was lying here, in his clothes, with one leg over the edge. I put it on the bed and covered him with a blanket. He didn't even stir.

For breakfast we, Harry's crew, gathered in a conference room. We really appreciated the urgent advice to bring our own food, the grub they served here could cause a rebellion in a prison.

Geraldine was in a very good mood this morning. I knew her mostly as businesslike, direct and down to earth. My mouth jumped my brain: "Never seen you so cheerful Gerry, you got laid too?" Surprisingly, she smiled.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

We dug into our cereals with vanilla flavored yogurt. Most around us only mustered a faint smile and some groans, and stuck to aspirins and water. No sign of Harry. "Get me some cups Pimp, cups not bowls," Geraldine said. She gave me the cereal box and filled the cups with small amounts of yogurt. "All of you need some food," she announced. Diederick entered the room, looking like a ghost. He sat down and laid his head on the table. I sat a glass of water there, took his arm and folded his hand around the glass.

I said, "painkiller. Drink. Some food." I took the cup of cereal his neighbor hadn't touched and shoved it over. He lifted his head, popped the pills and drank.

With a hoarse voice he said, "good news buddy. Anneloes and I are back together again."

"Did it take a lot of booze?"

"Actually, no. We had a good talk the day before yesterday" A bit of life returned to his eyes. "And the make-up sex was... memorable. She was fierce, I've never seen her like that. And apparently I had pent up feelings, I lost control early on and my monkey brain took over. Sweet mother of Jesus."

"Why did she end it in the first place?"

"You know my mum raised me single-handed, right? I said to her if we'd ever marry I'd see to it she would NEVER be in that position, I would provide for her no matter what."

"I don't get it."

"It took me a while too. Apparently my mother is her idol, if anything she wants to be like her, and she felt I wouldn't allow that. As if I was with her because she's not as strong as my mother."

"That's absurd. Anneloes is a tank."

"You call my beautiful lady a tank?" He raised his eyebrows. "Absolutely. She'd go to war for me. But she sees herself more like a posh doll. I had to talk the hind legs off a donkey to convince her that's a huge misconception.

"So what about last night?"

"I guess I also had some pent up grief. I don't even remember what triggered it, but I started crying and I couldn't stop." I'd never see him cry. "Anneloes had traded one of our caps for a bottle of vodka. She wanted to celebrate, but a drink can have another purpose as well." He got a pensive look. "Their vodka is stronger than ours."

"I've heard." And witnessed.

"We started planning a Russian wedding. We'd go to Leningrad by boat, and have our honeymoon before the wedding." He looked at me. "Is Leningrad even on the coast?" I shrugged. "We wanted to invite the army to stand guard first and then let loose like they do here." A slight moan escaped him. "The sex was less memorable. Couldn't get it up and Anneloes passed out. And somehow I found our room, I think. Or did you get me there?"

"Enough of this! We have work to do!" Geraldine had listened in with obvious pleasure.

At the stadium the show machinery slowly creaked into gear, to prepare for the second day of the festival. The backstage war had reached a new level. While the success of the previous day was mind blowing, the performers were furious about their part in it. Their complaints: too short, too early, too different from the promises their manager made. He had told all those headliners a different story to persuade them to come to Russia. The bands blamed each other.