Eight Pieces of Empire by Lawrence Scott Sheets Read Free Book Online

block. The baroque and neoclassical buildings, without a space between them and none higher than the Winter Palace, seemed bathed in a kaleidoscope of fading pastels. Against the setting sun I could see St. Isaac’s Cathedral. Half the city seemed to be in scaffolding, a Soviet hallmark.
    As we passed south across Nevsky Prospekt, we began moving away from the city’s heart and into areas dominated by the stolid structures associated with Stalin-era buildings, and then finally into the outskirts of the city, where the “functional” buildings of the Khrushchev era reignedsupreme. While most were only twenty or thirty years old, the “suburbs of the future” were already crumbling, battered, cookie-cutter-identical high-rises. This was Kupchino, a formerly pristine (if swampy) forested area that was now a socialist-style ghetto of battered buildings, state-run factory behemoths, and gangland turf battles. It was a world away from my communal and Nina Nikolaevna’s Petrograd district of cathedrals, czarist haunts, and long avenues of worn-down but warm coffee shops.
    Kupchino’s miles of apartment blocks were of such a uniform design as to be virtually indistinguishable from one another. The streets were laid out in a rectangular monotone. Humidity discolored the sides of the prefab buildings, leaving black sootlike lines that adorned the exteriors in abstract maps. This proved to be a godsend, for the soot murals made it possible to tell one identical building from another. Otherwise, it was easy to get lost in the Orwellian maze, possibly the work of a dissident urban planner bent on architectural sabotage. It reminded me of the crumbling housing projects in the south side of Chicago.
    Kupchino may have had its aesthetic shortcomings. But from a sociological perspective, it was a hotbed of life as the Soviet Empire was collapsing. Among the endless stretches of crumbling residential blocks buzzed a beehive of fledgling extortionists and shady businessmen. They hung out in acrid-smoke-filled “billiard clubs” and slimy disco bars. All around were smoke-belching, state-owned factories waiting to be taken over in sham privatization schemes.
    OUR OLD LADA rattled to a halt in front of a nondescript storefront. When Vova asked how much we owed for the ride, the driver shrugged. This was unusual, since Soviet gypsy cabdrivers—like cabbies everywhere—had a habit of overcharging anyone stupid enough not to negotiate the price beforehand. “Oh, it’s up to you guys,” said the driver, faking a smile. Vova handed him a wad of rubles as we got out of the car. The driver didn’t bother to count them and looked relieved as we disembarked, as if he’d dumped off a pair of lepers.
    There was a long queue in front of the store. People were grumbling.Some were arguing. At first I thought the line was for vodka or milk. But there were no drunks hanging around, and no one coming out with bags of groceries.
    Two tough-looking men greeted Vova. One was short and skinny. He had on acid-washed jeans and a shiny, synthetic-looking leather jacket. The other was taller and balding. He wore a tracksuit. Under the top half he wore a sweater. Vova and the men discussed something and we moved on toward the shop. The two men led us to the front of the line. I thought we’d evoke hostility for cutting in front, but no one uttered a word—or even gave us a dirty look.
    A man in a slightly too-tight sport jacket and tie propped open the door and let us in. The number of customers was tightly controlled—there weren’t more than a dozen inside. Several times more waited in line on the street.
    An overly deferential managerlike man was there to meet Vova and his two “business associates.” All four of them then shuffled away to a back room; Vova smiled and gestured that I should wait where I was standing, and maybe take a look around.
    I did so, then realized with a jolt that we were in a state-run jewelry store. There were gold bands