How to Speak Russian

So I managed to pick up the Russian pianist from his hotel last night without mishap. It's funny, the promotional images they send for these artists are always a few years younger, a little more glamorous. I was not prepared for the faded, world-weary musician who stepped off the elevator. I don't know what I was expecting... a little more sparkle, maybe... a little more glamour. Add to that, after living in London for seventeen years, his Russian accent was almost nonexistent. His English was very British. But his conversation gave him away.

"London," I said. "That is one place I would like to visit."

Immediately he launched into a diatribe against the government. "They waste money," he said, "and every day they chip away at the individual's personal freedom. It's just like living in the Soviet Union during the 80's."

"How disturbing," I said.

"It may go differently after the next election, but I don't think the Tories have much better to offer."

"I suppose it is the same here," I said (always the diplomat). "It doesn't seem to matter which party we vote for."

He disagreed. "That Obama," he said. "He's got a brain. He will make a difference."

Interesting.

I should have known a Russian would want to talk politics. I was completely unprepared.

He also wanted to know where I got my Russian name. I said that I thought it was from that Russian movie that was popular back then, but I couldn't remember the name. It was Doctor Zhivago. Duh.

It's a wonder I made any kind of good impression at all. But he was gracious. And very polite. He would make this little bow whenever I would hand him things.

Funny how people are perceived differently depending on the circumstance. The theatre staff thought he was arrogant and snobby (they used other, less gracious descriptions) because he asked them to leave the auditorium so he could rehearse. They were just trying to clean the place, but they're supposed to have that done by 5:00pm. Granted, we were there a few minutes early, but they still should have cut him some slack. He is the Artist, after all. I guess maybe not everyone understands the artistic personality; I completely get that he needed to be alone to concentrate.

Around 6:00, Peter, our piano tuner, showed up. He's English, and well, what do you know, they got along splendidly. I popped in to the hall just to see how things were going, and Peter commented that he thought the artist was a lovely fellow, very nice. Likewise, the pianist commented to me that he thought Peter was very professional, did very good work. Mutual respect within the trade, you know. And perhaps it was just nice for both of them to hear the voice of home. Or the familiar. Something like that. Lord knows it's difficult to be a stranger in a strange land. Later, I saw them both out front, smoking cigarettes and speaking intently with one another. It was a quarter to seven, the audience was arriving, and the pianist wasn't even in his suit yet. I have never seen that happen before. I don't know if the people coming in even noticed him or recognized who he was. Anyway, I was glad to see he had made a connection with someone. I hope he felt welcome.

This was a chaotic night. Most of the board members were out sick or out of town. We were a skeleton crew with a full house. Somehow we managed to pull it off. Teamwork. What a wonder. After making sure that the pianist had someone to give him a ride back to his hotel, I left after intermission so I wouldn't have to drive back too late. Bum tire and all.

I am still waiting for my minions to fix my tire. The tires are on order. I am not pleased with the wait.