Sasha and Shura

These are Alexandra (Sasha) and Alexandra (Shura) Zhukow, I met them at the dry-cleaner on Nevsky, close to the Mayakovskaya Metro Station they own and operate. They were also the most formidable and successful cellist mother-daughter team in recent Russian music history. Sasha started playing the cello at age six and developed into an exceptional musician ... so when her daughter Shura turned six she taught her too. Everybody knew what a great success Sasha was: that she was in the Menshnikov Quartet and played first-cello in the "Leningrad Philharmonic" and that she was given the use of the "1748 Count Berezin Domenico Montagnana" cello and that the great Shishkin composed a cello suite for her. What nobody knew is what price Sasha was demanded to pay ... the how/when and with whom remained her horrible secret for a long, long time. Shura, at eighteen, won the prestigious Shishkin Annual Best New Cellist (prize that Sasha won herself at her time) and enrolled in the Conservatory. The work was hard, the hours were long, but Shura was doing fabulously. One evening, about two years and a half ago, Shura came home very happy and excited and told her mom that Gherghidanov named her third-cello in the orchestra for the North-American tour and will record the Glinka CD for Sony Music, she will make serious money. The next evening she was to go and see Gherghidanov at his house to discuss details. 

It came as a huge surprise to everybody when the next day Sasha retired from all musical activities, sold "Count Berezin" for 850,000 Euros and bought the dry-cleaner. Shura was devastated but after a night-long and tear-filled discussion with her mom decided to join her in the new business so she never has to tell her own daughter how she too (me too) made her career.

Sasha and Shura now sometimes busk playing cello duos for fun on cheap Chinese cellos from Amazon.  

Tanya Berevina

This is Tatiana Ivanovna Bervina, a young, very talented but badly struggling writer whom I met in the St. Petersburg subway (they call it Metro). She got on at Vladimirskaya station, closest to the "Elite Supermarket" at 20 Lomosova Street where she works as a cashier, to go home (getting off at Pionerskaya) but had to change lines at Spasskaya. Tanya was tired of being a cashier, tired of sending her short stories to magazines and publishers, tired of never hearing back from them but she was never tired of writing; she told me that writing is like brushing your teeth: you must do it every day no matter how tired you are!

She shared a story, and as she spoke, the look on face gradually confirmed the identity of the main character:
An aspiring young poetess, after reading a few poems at the monthly literary forum housed by the Secondary School #311, on Belgradskaya Street, was approached by a tall handsome young guy who showered her with compliments and praise. He turned out to be Vasiliy Vsevolod, one of the assistant editors at Nasha Literatura who offered his enthusiastic help and unlimited support. She was so happy, practically beside herself, giggling uncontrollably. They left together at about nine-thirty when Vasiliy asked if she would tell him more of her body of work at a nearby pub. They talked about their heroes, she: Akhmatova, he Brodsky, both: Yesenin. It was getting late and he called a cab. When the taxi arrived Vasiliy, gave the driver his address, put his arm around her shoulders and tried to steer her into the car. She pulled back and kicked him viciously in the shin under the sudden realization that he was interested in her body, not body of work. Three things came to a sudden stop: a pleasant evening, the hope of quitting "Elite Supermarket" soon and any hope of ever publishing at Nasha Literatura.
When Tanya finished her story her eyes were even more tired. I looked at her and said in my best Vysotsky imitation: "Dasvidaniya Tanya"

Mr. Schiller

This is F. Schiller (28), whom I never met at "Milano Centrale" on Friday, August 10th, 2018 at 5:45 AM. F. was born and raised in Weimar where, from an early age, he showed a propensity for screwing up and getting into troubles of ever-increasing severity. He quit school at fifteen and hang out downtown mostly up to no good. That made him a frequent visitor of that nice, tall, white-washed Jugendstil building at 13 Markt, the central police station. Some of these interviews continued in front of a judge and were followed by stays in various Juvenile detention centres (where he was a waste of rehabilitation effort). By the age of 21, he'd already spent three years "inside" - mostly for theft and never for anything violent. F. was after-all very nice and gentle who abhorred brutality, who talked and joked with you, bought you a drink and then rob you. Weimar, Germany gradually became less than his favourite place on Earth and he drifted slowly Southward where Italy waited for him with open arms: better weather, many careless tourists with expensive cameras, fat wallets and heavy backpacks and most importantly a totally incompetent and inefficient police of lazy dudes, not always very bright. So, coming back to the fateful 45th minute of the fifth hour of the tenth day of the eighth month of the 2018th year when F. slipped away with my backpack, inside the laptop, the tablet, the camera and sundry items. And that is how I met Andrea Improta (did not give me his rank) at the police station the quintessential Italian policeman fitting the description advanced above. Andrea spent a vast portion of our quality time trying to convince me that I can file a police report when I get back to Toronto ... he even showed me how slow his computer was saying that it will take hours and I'll miss my train.  He was right, in fact, I missed the next TWO trains but boarded the third train with a copy of the "Attestazione Della Ricezione Di Denuncia"| that he produced in slow and careful, hit and miss, two finger-search-helicopter style typing interrupted occasionally by colleagues who would open the door grin and say something to Andrea (must've something been funny because the staff-room would immediately erupt in hollers and laughter) ...
Somewhere close by, F. was wondering if the laptop and tablet are password-protected (they were).