nEUrosis

A tale of two Russian women

May 20th, 2007 by Laura Citron

Lilia

Last night was a beautiful evening, too beautiful to go to sleep without a walk around the block. I sat by a fountain in the city centre, watching the crowds of young people drinking, playing guitars, smoking. (Most young Russians can’t afford to go to a bar, so they sit out on the public squares.) The girl sitting next to me introduced herself and offered me a cigarette. She had short hair, a nirvana t-shirt and black basketball boots.

Lilia is 19 (nearly 20, she told me proudly). She was born in a town 5 hours away, but came to work in Moscow a year ago. She works in the McDonalds behind us. “This was the first McDonalds in all Russia!” she tells me proudly. (Someone else told me that the first McDonalds in Russia was the one at Ohotniy Ryad, not Pushkinskaya, but I didn’t contradict her). I asked her whether she liked her job. “The money is good, 3 dollars an hour.” Moscow is one of the most expensive cities in the world. Yet 3 dollars an hour is considered a good wage.

When I told her I was British, Lilia was delighted. “Thank God you’re not American. You know, the Americans didn’t help us in the war at all. They left us to fight the Nazis on our own. Did you know that? Only you helped, the British.” We got talking about the Victory Day parades last week. The pain of the Second World War is still very real here, even among young people.

Lilia tells me that she’s a lesbian. Pushkinskaya, where we are sitting, is a popular lesbian hangout at weekends apparently. “The 21st century is the century of freedom!” she announces. “Men. Women. Whatever.” Just then, an ex-girlfriend calls and they starts having a row on her mobile. I wander home, calculating that a bottle of beer from the kiosk (40 rubles) costs her half an hour’s work.

Blondie

I saw Blondie’s husband before I saw her. We were in a classic Moscow expat hangout, watching the FA Cup Final on Saturday afternoon. The room was packed with sweaty diplomats who had slipped away from their wives for a few hours of male bonding, sexy waitresses and cold beers. Next to me stood a short, 50-something man in the early stages of hair loss. He was sporting a pair or Armani jeans pulled up over his gut. Tucked into his expensive leather belt was a puke-coloured Ralph Lauren polo shirt. In another life he would have been a dentist. It occurred to me as I watched the footie that Wayne Rooney’s mother probably had more sex appeal than this man.

During half time, a pretty blonde girl wobbled over on a pair of impossibly high stillettos. She wrapped herself round the man, gazing lovingly at his multiple chins while he gazed lovingly at Chelsea. I was shocked. I’d heard about expats and rich Russians having ‘trophy wives,’ but I’d never seen one in person. This girl looked late-twenties. She was beautifully dressed with real Prada bag, Gucci shoes and a perfect manicure. The rock on her finger would have taken a serious chunk out of Titanic. When she turned to the side, I could see that she’d had her lips done too.

Could she really love this man? If she didn’t, she certainly gave a credible performance. She stroked his back, whispered sweet nothings into his ear, even pretended to care whether Chelsea won. The cynic in me saw Blondie as little more than a very-high-class prostitute with a wedding ring. On the other hand, it’s difficult to make a living in Moscow. Blondie was definitely making more than 3 bucks an hour.

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