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).

Claudio and Gloria

These are Claudio and Gloria as I met them in the Galleria d'Italia and the reason they do not look as happy as they used to look is that Claudio just told Gloria he'll leave her for someone else. Gloria keeps asking him when did he even meet or found "someone else" ... like it mattered. He is bored and flustered and ashamed and wants to leave she is clinging and the entire situation is, frankly, embarrassing. As any good Italian Catholics, when they "find themselves in times of trouble", they turned to prayers ... Gloria prayed to Santa Caspetina di Falliubro (patron saint of broken-and-then-mended hearts) asking to be bound to Claudio forever, who in turn asked San Sidonio delle Proscuttini to help him say that he's going to go and let him be away. Major clash of prayers-come-true due to the well-documented animosity between the two above-named Saints: the two lovers though, each got what they asked for (kind of, more like were punished for not making a better effort to get along) ... they are together in a corner of a picture imprisoned in a 38-second repeating Aornis time-loop: it starts with Claudio mumbling his "Adieu" and slowly turning to leave, Gloria gasping and bringing her hand first to her breast and then up to cover her mouth (for her, a habitual gesture, for Claudio, a peasant woman's action) and it ends abruptly by jumping to the beginning. Thing is ... they do not realize "they are just prisoners here, of their own device" until it rewinds and starts all over again. I cannot imagine anything more frustrating. Who would come up with such an idea ... maybe Saints who can afforde to make up mind viruses? 

Aarohi Marjawani

This is Aarohi Marjawani, as I met her a few weeks ago in Florence, she is from Bhubaneshwar and lives now in Berlin. I wish I could, but I cannot say something very nice about her, but neither can I say something very bad. As she told me her story, it turned out it was mostly "just right". She was married to a very talented sculptor who used to beat her badly when he was drunk and used to apologize and promise never to do it again when he was sober. The problem was, of course, he was more often drunk than sober.  Aarohi left him and separated from him legally a few months later. Three things happened another few months later: the artist, to the sorrow but not to the surprise of the art world died, the price of his art shot through the roof, a bunch of creditors, among which the taxman, claimed very large sums of money. The gallery called her saying that all the art in their custody is in her name not as an heir but as an owner (the gallery and the artist were running some tax fraud)  and Aarohi, being legally separated, can tell all creditors to go to hell. She kept a few pieces and sold everything for a surprisingly huge amount. She always wanted long flowing wavy blond hair so she went to had it done, what she got (due to her natural black hair color), was a head of tangled mess of bright orange, which she cut off (the hair, not the head). She had breast enlargement and then had it reversed, then she had breast reduction which she then had also reversed and when she went back to her surgeon he asked if she knew what she wanted, she said she wanted it "just right" ... he told her she just had "just right" and threw her out. Aarohi recently bought an apartment on Dreibärenstraße, in Pankow and is happy.

Chicago

This is Chi-Cago (Italian Domestic Longhair aged five) as we met it in the garden of the Palazzo Pitti, playful, delightful, a perverted predator strolling, laying in the sun during days and hunting small rodents, reptiles, and insects at night. Chi, of course, would just kill, not eat its prey, as caretakers fed all the park's cats twice a day. Chi was very quiet, almost never making a sound, but when it did, it was the sweetest and purest and most melodious a creature could produce. Evidently, there is a story behind the almost-mute Chi: many, many, many, years ago Chi's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, a skilled hunter as well, lived in the small town of Cremona in the household of one Antonio, a luthier by trade. That forefather cat also had the voice of an angel but he used it often to the delight of all. Antonio, a very skilled artisan with a scientific curiosity, obsessed about the origin of the cat sound, decided to examine it further; the investigation was highly invasive and fatal (for the unfortunate cat). He was convinced it must be the intestines, so he cleaned them and cleaned them again and dried them and spun them and used them on his latest creation: a very handsome dark-yellow violin. It was a hit, the sound was amazing, people fainted, violinists fought each other to buy it ... Antonio was beaming, when asked about his secret he would mumble about wood, lacquer, talent, etc. The same night, the female cat of the house ran to the river and jumped on a barge going away to anywhere. Unbeknownst to Chi (although cats know everything), technology evolved and these days, "no animal had to suffer ... " but Chi keeps mostly Stumm just the same.

Carmen and Pietro

These are Carmen and Pietro as I met them the other day at the Galleria d'Italia, in Milan. The story is actually Carmen, Pietro is just the "vittima innocente": when two and a half month ago Pietro was transferred from the Pavia office to Milan and Carmen saw him, she decided she wanted him (in a major way). Grapevine query came back negative (which is positive): straight and single. She had a long (Chardonnay fueled) strategy sessions with her friend Nicolosia and decided to treat Pietro with studied, cold and calculated ignorance and reel him in. It did NOT work at all, he ignored her right back for weeks. After more Chardonnay, they decided on an attacking approach (with escalation): every time she saw him she would smile broadly and cheerfully and say "Ciao Piero" (deliberately using the wrong name to provoke interaction). Promising results: they went from Ciao to short chat ... and then Carmen escalated to all-out offense: anything Pietro said she would giggle and play with her hair, also she would blatantly time her checkout/check-in to match his and catch the same elevator. Eventually, on a Wednesday, Pietro caved: on Friday, he said, he is going to this art opening and would she like to go? Carmen almost fell off the floor but played it cool and said "Yes ... (giggle-giggle) ... that sounds ... (twirl lock with right thumb around pointing finger) ... great!" Chardonnay and Nicolosia decided on the dress ... Carmen's original proposal bright orange very tight and very short was voted down as too slutty. From what I saw, it is wooooor-kiiiing!