By Andrey Knishev
MOSCOW _ My job is to do humorous and satirical shows for Russian TV. I make no claim to be an expert on politics.
Do you remember the film "Being There". A certain rich gentleman dies. His gardener, an odd and naive man (played by Peter Sellers), goes into the city for the first time, out into the real world.
The only thing he knows anything about is the garden. But his fresh and spontaneous views attract so much interest that the gardener eventually finds himself in the White House as an adviser to the president. A political adviser! When he talks about roots and flowers, spring and dying, about the Garden of Life, he is taken for a man of depth and wisdom.
As I worked on "Democracy in Action," a program about things completely unknown to me, I felt like the gardener. As to the wisdom, I don't know. But as to the naivete and the sense of being uninformed about American democracy, it fit perfectly. What follows, then, does not concern politics, but rather the garden.
SEPTEMBER 1992: I stayed in several homes while I was covering the political campaign, and in every one I encountered courtesy, friendliness - and questions.
On my first evening in one on the homes, I gave an "interview" on the run. Apart from the standard "So, how do you like it here?" there was a ton of questions: whether I was working with an American or Russian group, who my associates were, whether the program would be shown on a local channel or nationally, where we had been, whether it was hard to associate with Americans, etc., etc.
My new acquaintances were particularly interested in the kind of budget our production had and who was sponsoring it. The head of the family, who himself had been a commentator on an NBC station, even wanted to know what kind of camera we were using and the videocassette format. But I was in a hurry, and we parted until the next day.
That evening the blitz of questions continued: How are things in Russia. Don't you miss home. Aren't you tired of working and speaking in a foreign language. And once again about the TV broadcast... "Good night! See you tomorrow!"
Only on the third day did my host by chance become interested in asking: "And what is the program you are filming ABOUT?"
Curiously, his 26-year-old son posed the same question to me near the end of our heart-to-heart talk that night.
For Russians, no further explanation is needed.
Of course there were many Americans who took an immediate and lively interest in the subject and theme of our program. But I found the episode mentioned above to be characteristic.
Not so long ago in Russia, where they would have been interested first and foremost in the subject of the program, they generally would not have asked who was paying for it all. It was clear that the project was at the expense of the government, and no one was counting. But now, more and more, my colleagues begin their friendly exchange of news with the same question: Where is the money coming from for innovative projects?
Alas!
I am no hypocrite. I also want to know where the money is coming from and where it goes. But it truly saddens me that in our culture today the question "What is your show about?" is moving to the bottom of the list.
I am pained by those Americans who are convinced that a free-market economy is developing in Russia at top speed. At present, it is only in the initial stages. Huge volumes of raw materials, goods, equipment, intellect and capital are being moved along, albeit grudgingly and with great difficulty, not freely and naturally as a market economy would presuppose.
But then, at the sidewalk stands, in the underground passageways, in freezing weather and slush, people are trading everything they can and cannot, from light bulbs and hosiery to cats, sneakers and pornographic post cards.
It is not a FREE-MARKET economy, but a FLEA-MARKET economy.
AUGUST 1992: In Washington, D.C., we conducted an interview in a large government building with Warren Rudman, a well-known senator from New Hampshire, who once again convinced us that American democracy works. But as we made our way out, we saw a sign at the entrance to the elevator: "For senators only!"
You can say whatever you like, but it would take months of thinking and talking from morning till night about American democracy (the best in the world), in addition to being Russian - having lived the greater part of one's life under the totalitarian Soviet regime - to fully understand the value of this inscription. For a moment, it transported us through space and time to a building of the Central Committee of the Soviet Communist Party, to something like an Orwellian Ministry of Truth. At the Republican National Convention in Houston, this feeling was even stronger. Before the convention started, we were handed special gifts, bags with sport shirts, cologne, pendants and coupons redeemable at specialty stores.
Inside the Astrodome, once again there were the corridors only for senators, special buffets, closed-off zones, and, of course, those people in suits, with their body language and their somewhat haughty tone of conversation. There was the singing of hymns, the portraits of leaders, the banners, the slogans... My Russian colleagues and I glanced at each other, broke into smiles and almost in unison said: "My God! It's the Communist Party Congress after all! Only it's not 1984, but 2042. That is, if the party is still in existence then..."
There's nothing wrong with gifts, or with a sincere and joyful gathering of people who share the same views. But still, there was something that put me on guard. Once again I felt that Power speaks one language, just as it did in the days of ancient Rome, and in Stalinist-Brezhnevian Moscow, and... Well, I won't carry the parallel any further. The main thing was that for an instant it seemed as if we could perceive the image of Empire in the face of democracy. And all empires flourishing in splendor sooner or later end in collapse.
We hope that American democracy will remain alive and well, dynamic and self-critical, that it does not become set in its ways. Let's hope it doesn't turn to stone somewhere on Times Square, in the form of a 50-foot-high statue of Bill Clinton with hand outstretched, pointing toward Ronald Reagan's mausoleum.
No, I still cannot escape politics.
A dilettante, I continue to be tormented by the question: Why, under democracy, do people resolve issues by voting. The majority delivers the verdict. And it is always right!
Twenty years ago in the Soviet Union, the MAJORITY convicted and exiled Alexander Solzhenitsyn from the country. The MAJORITY supported Hitler in 1934.
Let me cite a parable of my own creation: At a certain meeting a chairman conducts a vote. "Those in favor? Those opposed. Those abstaining. Excellent! We have resolved the land issue with a majority in favor and only one delegate opposed. His name, it seems, is Copernicus.
"And now we will go on to the next issue...."
MOSCOW - Imagine this situation: A Russian and American are waiting for the departure of a train, which keeps being postponed. Then it is announced that the departure has been canceled altogether. What happens?
The Russian starts to curse the engineer and swear at the assistant stationmaster. He finds out the names of those in charge, collects signatures from witnesses for a letter to the transportation minister. "I won't stand for this!" he cries.
And the American. He would sooner say to hell with it and simply ask, "So, when is the next train?"
For several decades, we Russians have been developing a "backward mentality." Due to prohibitions and censorship, fear and habit, and the fact that someone else always made the decisions for us, there was no space for growth and forward movement. As a result, people of the old Soviet school have grown accustomed to not DOING anything except TALKING about why they cannot do it. Now we are digging up the past much more, crowding into the archives and sighing with a sense of nostalgia. We are searching, justifiably so, to find out who is guilty for our not being able to realize ourselves.
The prominent Russian author Andrey Platonov has one of his characters say to another: "Outwardly there is nothing to live for, so you must retreat into your mind!"
The foreigner who understands this possesses the key to all of Russian culture.
Americans as a nation are a people of action. They move forward without being weighed down by the burden of centuries-old traditions, customs and regimes. Astonishingly, Americans do not like to philosophize. It elicits a deferential yawn from them, or a polite expression of attention.
Have you started yawning yet?
Words are the yeast of Russian culture.
It works like this: A pothole stands in the middle of a walkway and hinders everyone. Residents think that the city council ought to fill it in. The city council thinks it's a matter for local authorities. The local authorities have no money. As a matter of principle, none of the residents fills it in.
Someone says something on this account. Then someone else writes what he thinks about what was said, followed by someone else speaking out about what was written. An interview is conducted with this person for a televised broadcast, and yet another person writes an article about the broadcast. At a congress someone quotes from the article, while generalizing it and putting it into a historical and political context. And then people begin discussing it on the streets and on the telephone: "Did you hear what so-and-so said?"
At times it seems that this chain of words stretches from one century to the next. It is called spirituality, the mores of the Russian intelligentsia, the tradition of Russian philology, or something or the other.
Meanwhile, if someone had DONE something in the very beginning, all of these words would have been unnecessary. There would not have been a chain of phrases, but a chain of action.
The pothole, which is alongside the building I live in, will soon be 10 years old. And not for anything will I myself go and do something about it. It is better to write about it. Perhaps an American will read this and help?
In nature there are two birds that for me symbolize our two very different countries: the nightingale and the parrot.
Russia is the nightingale, a songbird: a bird not easily detected in the foliage, a bird you have to listen for.
Look at the people wearing gray and black raincoats, with their sullen and care-filled faces. Look at their homes, watch their movies. Read Russian literature. Talk with them in the kitchen until late at night...
America, in all its bright and gaudy plumage, is at times just like Polly the parrot, a garish and intrusive bird, whose cries seem empty and lacking in melody to many Russians. Look, however, at the splendor of its apparel. Could the dull, uncomely nightingale ever compete with it? Everything in America cries: Notice me! Buy me! The striking placards, colorful pavilions and packaging, the kaleidoscope on television... At times even the people wearing bright plumage remind one of beautiful parrots who don't know how to say much.
Which bird is better. Which of them has a greater right to existence? A senseless question. Both were created by nature for a reason. The nightingale is for those who want to LISTEN, the parrot for those who want to LOOK.
Which of our two countries is better, which is ahead? Just as ridiculous a question.
Both are the experience of mankind.
In all likelihood, Russia is for those who want to ponder, and America for those who want to act.
JULY 1992, New York, the Ramada Hotel: During the Democratic National Convention I was robbed here. In a crowded hall I was distracted and, right out from under my nose, my bag was carried off. EVERYTHING was in it. I'm not talking about clothing, or even documents. No, they carried off irreplaceable photographs, a computer disk with scripts on it, notepads with some of my best ideas, money, videotapes, expensive electronics, and most importantly, all, absolutely all of the business cards I had collected and my notebooks, both Russian and foreign, that would take another lifetime to replace. I had no duplicates. I felt naked. It reminded me that all I really have is my hands, feet and head. It forced me to look differently on much of the material evidence that signifies success and prosperity. For an entire month after that, I spent time philosophizing...
A month later at the stock market in Chicago, we conducted an interview with Tom Baldwin, one of America's youngest, most successful brokers. Having started out with nothing, he reached such a level of success within just a few years that he now makes $30 million to $40 million annually.
"Do you have your own American Dream?" we asked him near the end of the interview.
"I did." He paused thoughtfully. "I wanted a few cars, a couple of nice homes, a yacht and some other things. Recently, however, I have begun... I have begun..." Tom fell into thought while looking for the right words. "Everything said and done, I have generally begun to relate to everything in a more philosophical way now," he concluded. What. Did I really say that Americans do not philosophize. No worse than Russians! But to reach that stage, apparently, a person must either have $100 million in the bank account, or be deprived of everything.
In America, people do not feel ashamed of the money they earn. It is somehow understood that money is synonymous with success, that it is a just reward for work, talent, ingenuity. There is even an expression: "If you're so smart, how come you're not rich?"
Another parable: "The apostles looked at Judas with anger and disdain. `If you're so smart, how come you're not rich?' asked Judas, concealing 30 silver pieces in his bosom."
NOVEMBER 1992, in an airplane from New York to Moscow: It seems that I have discovered a new variation of the ideally happy fellow. It is a Russian or an American flying from Moscow to New York, or -- what is more important -- flying back home.
During the flights from Russia to the West and back, I am usually overcome with a special kind of joyful excitement. It is as if you are hanging between two hemispheres, between two worlds. We are made in such a way that we always drive the bad from our memory and hope for the good.
It is much like that here. Taking off and losing contact with the earth, we leave behind a trail. We free ourselves of the superfluous and tiresome, and we move toward something better, the imagination painting rosy pictures of what lies ahead.
Breaking away from Moscow, we leave behind the dirt and chaos, the labyrinth of problems, and we near America with all its opportunities, energy, positive thinking, fast pace and unquenchable passion for novelty.
Among my acquaintances, there are Americans who with pleasure escape periodically to Russia from their remarkable America.
What do they feel during the flight? That for a time they can rest from America's plastic sterility and duplicity in everything from the abundant supermarkets to the typical smiles and questions. They are flying from the inexpressible and hypocritical falsity of television, the inventive banality of advertisement, the need to watch every penny. And they are flying to the Russia of Chekhov and the Bolshoi Theater, to a country where history is created, where one may stroll through a forest, where the eye can see for miles, where poor but sincere people live...
Having returned, you can show your friends slides, give gifts, boast of and embellish your adventures, and make new plans. The grass is always greener...
It's a wonderful feeling to be in that plane between Russia and America. One feels the desire to remain in it and circle, circle somewhere in between...
THE END GlasNews is the publication of the Art Pattison Communications Exchange Program, which encourages links between English-speaking and Russian-speaking professionals and educators in journalism, telecommunications, advertising, public relations and other communications disciplines.
Translator: Michelle Kowalski. Managing Editor: Alan Boyle. Write to GlasNews, 111 West Harrison Street, Seattle, Wash. USA 98119. Phone: 206-285-7070. Fax: 206-281-8985. E-mail: glasnews@eskimo.com.