This chapter is a tad longer than usual, but you can handle it, I’m sure. Please, read the previous chapter, in order to remember what it’s all about:

We arrived at Finland Station just in time to see the Helsinki train stop. Baranov showed his card to an attendant who brought the three of us to the goods yard. We found a big brown leather trunk with metal reinforced corners, the kind you’re more likely to see on a Belle Époque ocean liner than in a Soviet railway station.

Baranov opened all the locks with the keys provided by Lisitsyn, lifted the trunk lid, gave a quick look inside, and closed it again.

“Sir, I’m supposed to check the content and get rid of anything unnecessary and improper, as per comrade Lisitsyn’s orders”, I said.

“I’m your superior, and you have to follow my orders. There’s nothing remotely interesting in there, just books and reading stuff. Misha, fetch a luggage trolley, and let’s go home. Lunch time!”

“But sir, I was explicitly asked…”

“And I’m explicitly telling you no…”

“Miss, if I may interject”, said Misha, “I think it’s better to check the materials at home, without haste. You can’t get rid of inappropriate literature in here, too many prying eyes.”

“Well said, young man. Hey, these damn books weigh a ton! Misha, you lift the trunk on the trolley, there’s a good boy.”

Misha lifted the trunk like it were a snuff-box. Baranov patted him on the back. My spidey senses started to tingle.

On the way home, Baranov was waxing lyrical about the satisfaction of a job well done, whereas I – my irritation at being overruled quickly forgotten – was stealing glances at our driver. He doesn’t look it, but boy, is he strong! And seems smart and polite too, and what beautiful hands he’s got, and eyes, and smile…Oh gosh, he’s looking at me. Cool down, stupid girl, keep it professional!

“While we are here, sweet cheeks”, Baranov said, “Let me exploit that presumed intuition of yours to discuss a matter of the heart. You remember Miss Lebedev, right?”

Katya! How could I ever forget her? She bid me a long, steamy farewell before my trip to Leningrad.

“Well, our relationship got cold, and I was wondering whether you know the reason. Is she seeing another man, a younger one, perhaps? I had her watched, but she hasn’t had any gentleman visiting her lately. I know you’ve become friends, and that you’ve spent several nights at hers. Hasn’t she told you anything?”

“You had her watched? And me!?”, I asked, my face burning.

“Of course I did, what else can a man in love do? Especially if this man has the means to do it. She looks even more beautiful these days, and I thought it could be because of me, but she always has some excuses not to share my bed. That’s why I got suspicious. But, if she spends her nights with you, I can rest easy.”

“Well, yeah, I guess…”

“Do you remember when we both spent New Year’s Eve at Katya’s? I fell asleep on the couch, then I woke up in the night, and went to her room. The door was locked, so I peeped through the keyhole, and I saw the two of you fighting and giggling under the duvet. What were you blabbering about? Were you two exchanging tricks and tips on how to make your man happy? I approve. Thank you for keeping her company, by the way, I was too drunk to perform, in any case.”

“I wonder what surprise we’ll find in our new home, sir”, I tried to steer the conversation away. I’d just met Misha, and he already knew more about my love life than I’d have been comfortable to share on first acquaintance.

I caught a glimpse in the rear-view mirror, and saw him stifling a laugh and…did he just wink at me?

Finally, we arrived at the house on Griboedov Canal. It was an ivory-white three-story building, quite well preserved, located close to the intersection of Nevsky Prospekt and – I was happy to see – of the striking Art Nouveau Singer House with the Dom Knigi, the House of the Book, one of my favourite bookshops.

We left the car, and entered the flat on the first floor. Actually, it’s the ground floor, but Russians and Americans call it the first. There, I met Yura, who was part of the house security team with Misha. He was a tall, imposing young man, with a red beard and the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. He looked shy, blushed, and greeted me politely.

The four of us went upstairs, where we found a spacious living room with a kitchen corner, and a big wooden library. The table at the centre of the room was already laden with fragrant, inviting food.

The Brit was sitting on a chair, next to the bookshelves. He looked much more cheerful and relaxed than when we’d left him at the Big House. He was exchanging laughs and pleasantries with a tiny, delicate lady in her late 40’s, vivacious and good-looking with her raven hair and black eyes.

“Finally, you’re all here! Meet Mrs Gol’dberg, our gracious host. She runs our new home and her cooking is the stuff of legend all over the country.”

Baranov went pale and instinctively covered his crotch with his hands. “M…Maria Moiseevna?”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Colonel Baranov. Long time no see, comrade. I trust you are well? Still frisky? How do you like your surprise?”, said Mrs Gol’dberg. She then turned to me with a beaming smile: “And what’s your name, sweetheart? Come, sit down and let’s eat. Boys, please, you’re more than welcome, there’s enough for everybody. Except for a certain someone, if he doesn’t promise to behave.”

“I promise, Mrs Gol’dberg, I mean it. I apologise once again. I don’t know what came over me that day”, replied Baranov, red in the face and with his eyes cast down.

“Oh, but you do. Well, let’s leave the past in the past where it belongs, and turn a new leaf. Bon appétit!”

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Maria Moiseevna, as she asked us to be called, had prepared a welcome feast for our first meal in Leningrad. There were zakuski of blini with red caviar, pickled cucumbers and mushrooms, dressed herring, followed by her famous pelmeni, and crowned by the creamiest Napoleon Cake ever. We made a toast with vodka to Mrs Gol’dberg, then to each other, to our new house, to Leningrad, to the USSR and, because we ended up feeling tearful and full of universal love, to the whole of humankind.

“Thank you so much for this wonderful meal, Maria Moiseevna. Let me clear the table and do the washing up. You’ve done more than enough, sit comfortably and have some well deserved rest!”, I said. “I’ll help you”, said the Brit.

“You’re welcome, golubushka, I’m glad you liked it. I’m going home, then, I’ll see you all tomorrow. There’s no need to drive me, I live nearby, thanks to comrade Baranov”, Mrs Gol’dberg winked at us, Baranov went all red again. “Oh, Misha, you want to walk with me? I can’t say no to such a charming young gentleman. Enjoy your evening, everybody, and good night!”

Yura and Baranov went down to the boys’ for a game of chess.

The Brit and I swiftly cleared the table. I wore an apron, and found a bottle of Fairy liquid and two pairs of brand new yellow Marigold gloves under the sink, an unusual but pleasant find. Someone apparently had thought things through, when furnishing the house. I went on to soap the plates, while the Brit washed them under the faucet, and dried them up.

“Listen now”, he said, switching to English, as we used to do, when there were only the two of us around. “I did a proper check, when I arrived here, and something’s amiss: the house is not bugged.”

“And why is that bad?”, I replied, puzzled.

“Because! Every single one of our offices and safe houses are bugged, almost every room. They used to bug the toilets too, but then stopped, because people would congregate there and run the water, in order not to be heard, and so it was deemed useless. I thought they would bug all the rooms to death here as well, but they didn’t. Not yours, not mine, not Baranov’s, not the boys’s. Not this room, not the bathrooms. I should be glad to have privacy, but this worries me.”

“They wouldn’t have forgotten about it, would they?”

“Exactly. So why didn’t they do it? Unless this is a bread-joke situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this1:

A man is waiting in a bread line and, after hours of waiting, gets to the front, only to discover they’re all out. Frustrated, he loudly curses the government. A retired KGB officer hears him and says:

- In my day, if you had said that, we’d have you shot!

The man goes home, and when his wife sees that he’s empty handed, she asks:

- Did they run out of bread again?

The man shakes his head and says:

- It’s worse. They’ve run out of bullets.”

“Ha ha, very good. Oh my God, are they running out of bullets?”

“If they haven’t yet, they might soon.”

“How do you know that joke?”

“I know loads of them, got entire collections.”

“Should you have them? Isn’t that unwise?”

“I memorised them all, don’t you worry. But I’m afraid that ‘something wicked this way come’, that some big trouble’s going on in Moscow, and they might use us as pawns for God only knows what ends. It wouldn’t be the first time either. We’re expendable, us two, after all.”

“But they wouldn’t…”

“They would.”

“They couldn’t…”

“They could.”

“So what we are going to do? Going along with their plan, until we find out what’s really going on?”

“Let’s see what happens in the next couple of months.”

“Why are you talking in English, what are you two scheming about?”. Baranov was back in the living room, followed by Misha and Yura, who were carrying the trunk.

“Let’s go upstairs to my room, and have the grand opening of this damn trunk, once and for all!”

“Sir, let’s open it here, it’s so heavy!” I felt sorry for the boys.

“What good is being in charge, if I can’t make people do as I please? They aren’t made out of glass, these two strapping youths. And my room is the most appropriate place for this solemn occasion. Chop chop!”

Baranov’s room was the biggest in the whole house, furnished with a plush Afghan carpet, a dangerously oversize bed, a substantial writing desk, and book shelves destined, alas, to remain empty.

“Look at this beast, sweet cheeks, how about a good ol’ roll in the hay in here later, you and I? No? What’s your excuse today, bubonic plague? Gather around, let’s unlock this treasure chest.”

The trunk wide open, we peeped inside, and Baranov started to take out its content.

“Foreign books, I can’t understand a word. What’s this?”

“The Hidden Persuaders – an examination of how advertisers and politicians use psychological methods in order to…”

“I get it. Boring. What’s this one?”

“La psychologie des foules2…Would you like to know more, sir? Of course, you wouldn’t.”

“Oh, look, sir”, I said to the Brit, “There are also a dozen Bibles.”

“Right, let me see. It’s the King James Version.”

“May I keep one, sir? I know it’s a translation masterpiece, I’d like to analyse its style.”

“Studying the Bible!? Like you need to put on any more airs. Now I’ve really heard it all. Fine, keep it, be my guest”, huffed Baranov. “Hey, but what do we have here? There’s at least a half decade of Playboy issues. Finally, some good stuff worthy of my attention. Keep your hands away, you prudish cold-blooded woman, they’re mine, finders keepers.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m afraid I have to destroy all those magazines.”

“With all due respect – is that your new catchphrase? I’ll take responsibility for these. My Cuban cigars and your caviar aren’t going to pay themselves, and these are like gold. They will be sold, after I’ll have carried out a thorough inspection. Boys, care to share them with me?”

Yura turned as red as red borscht, and mumbled something about his wife.

“You’re married, not blind, come on!”

“But the children…”

“Ok, ok. Misha, what about you?”

“No thanks, sir. I’ll pass.”

“What, don’t you like the ladies?”

“I do, in fact I love them. But I don’t need visual aids, I have a rich imagination.”

“Oh, to be young again! Well, suit yourselves, guys. Now, if you don’t mind, I need some me-time. Miss January 1985, I’m all yours tonight!”

We bid goodnight to each other, and went to our respective rooms. I was thinking how much I would have loved to feature in Misha’s wildest fantasies, but I took a look at my Bible, and felt full of steely resolve again not to indulge in such inane, unbecoming dreams.

My room was small, but cosy and clean. I had a writing desk and shelves for my books. The bed was covered with a soft duvet. And I had a tiny bathroom all to myself! On the shelf under the mirror, I found a new tube of lipstick in Young Pioneer Rose3 – a fashionable hue – and a flacon of highly sought-after Red Moscow4 perfume. I was touched by the kind gestures, Maria Moiseevna had carefully thought of every single detail.

1

I found this joke in Konstantin Asimonov’s fantastic Substack:

Tap Water Sommelier

The art of a Russian joke: anekdoty about perestroika, the nineties and Russian capitalism

Hello, The popularity of the last post about anekdoty exceeded my wildest expectations. Naturally, there will be sequels now, and you’re in one of them. And I thought that an interesting approach would be to dive into Russian—and before that, Soviet—and even before that, again, Russian history and try to look at it through the prism of anekdoty…

Read more

a year ago · 57 likes · 37 comments · Konstantin Asimonov

2

I found out about this book in the following excellent article. Long read, but worthy of your time:

Paper Connections

The Book That Manipulated the Twentieth Century

A Paper Connections Essay…

Read more

a month ago · 429 likes · 62 comments · Paper Connections

Writing can be an adventure, if adventure, to you as is to me, means opening a .doc file, or taking a sheet of paper, and pouring your thoughts on it, the same thoughts that looked so clearly etched and crystalline in your mind but, once out of their natural environment, refuse to be molded into beautifully structured sentences. Or, at least, sentences that make sense. Or even poorly thrown together sentences, for the love of God, just give me something!

OK, let me rephrase my premise – writing is a misadventure. Sure, you embark on it bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You think you got this. How hard can it be? If writing were that difficult, there wouldn’t be so many books published on Earth, right? But a quote attributed to Thomas Mann infamously says that a writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.

This means that: a) some of those books are authored by insouciant scribblers, then skillfully revised by their long-suffering editors; b) Thomas Mann was making excuses to his publisher; c) I am a writer. Nevertheless, after I pat myself on the shoulder, my disquiet still stands. What if my prose is purple? What if my style is schmaltzy and annoying? What if my knowledge of written English is much worse than I think, what if I make my forgiving readers grope in a treacly darkness, and they feel like they’re wasting their one wild and precious life?1

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And, style issues aside, what if my ideas are not only stupid, but alienating? What if I write the most idiotic piece of crap ever? I’m being melodramatic again (and a tiny bit self-aggrandising), but it’s something I’ve been thinking about, since I started serialising – or, more accurately, making it up as I go along – Operation White Birch on Substack. I decided that this eponymous operation will consist in “sell(ing) communism as a product” (brilliant, now I’m even quoting myself🙄).

How am I ever going to develop this idea in a plausible way? I said that I want to write this silly story as an exercise, in order to train myself to think, build, and work like a real writer does. But as silly as I’d like it to be, I owe my readers an entertaining story that holds itself together, that won’t make them feel cheated, and that may lead them to better books on the same topics.

Nor do I want to take cheap shots at an ideology which, for many of my formative years has been important and defining to me.

As the dear friends who honour me with their affection since I was a teenager, and the dear new Russian friends I made it on here already know, in my youth I was a communist. I had this maximalistic, idealistic streak, coupled to a dualistic world view that made me sure I was definitely on the right side of History.

My love for Russia and its wondrous language, however, didn’t have nothing to do with it. I used to think that communism was the least interesting thing about the Country and its people. I’d have loved them even if they’d been still czarists. Heck, I still love them to bits now, although I often find them frustrating, exasperating, and in dire need of a good licking.

As it happens, I’ve even been a Soviet Pioneer. In 1982, my teacher of Russian told me that every year, the Youth section of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union used to invite 10 Italian kids under 16 to spend 4 weeks in one of their Pioneer camps during the Summer. I might tell this story on here someday. Watch this space.🙃

What did I find alluring in Communism? I was a weird girl (actually, I thought I was perfectly normal and that the others were the weird ones but, apparently, thousands of people trump one, so there we go) who had just become an atheist, and I needed a new ideal in my life. I didn’t want to wait to shuffle off my mortal coil to end up in the just and fair Kingdom of God, and the pace of political reforms in Italy and in other democracies was too slow for my impatient self. As a Russian proverb goes, do Boga vysoko – do czarya daleko, Heaven is high and the czar far away, and I thought revolution was the only answer, where the end justifies its violent means.

Wasn’t I wrong! I had to become a mother in order to understand that violence is never the answer. (Unless the question is: what is not an answer?) Making a human being is hard work and a work in progress, and you commit all of your love and most of your life to this endeavour, how can someone, who is aware of this, kill or cause harm to another human being?

Therefore, if my idea of Heaven requires other people to go through Hell, then it’s not Heaven.

And that’s why I’ve got my work cut out for me in the next months. Wish me luck and clarity of mind, I’m going to need them, and I hope you’ll keep on staying with me.

Let’s round it up with a poem by Marge Piercy, that I find both sobering and encouraging. Enjoy the reading:

For the young who want to

Talent is what they say

you have after the novel

is published and favorably

reviewed. Beforehand what

you have is a tedious

delusion, a hobby like knitting.

Work is what you have done

after the play is produced

and the audience claps.

Before that friends keep asking

when you are planning to go

out and get a job.

Genius is what they know you

had after the third volume

of remarkable poems. Earlier

they accuse you of withdrawing,

ask why you don’t have a baby,

call you a bum.

The reason people want M.F.A.’s,

take workshops with fancy names

when all you can really

learn is a few techniques,

typing instructions and somebody

else’s mannerisms

is that every artist lacks

a license to hang on the wall

like your optician, your vet

proving you may be a clumsy sadist

whose fillings fall into the stew

but you’re certified a dentist.

The real writer is one

who really writes. Talent

is an invention like phlogiston2

after the fact of fire.

Work is its own cure. You have to

like it better than being loved.

And let’s end in style with this brilliant cartoon by Tom Gauld:

You can find Part 6.1 with a short recap below:

This story and this newsletter are 100% human-made. If you think it’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever read, or just meh, hey, at least you’re not giving your money to Sam Altman. If, on the other hand, you think it’s awesome, good for you and for me! Plus, I love you.😍

Enjoy!

“I see. Quite an interesting take”, said the Brit, turning his face to me. Dazed and confused, I nodded and gazed into my tea. There was a hairline crack running in the middle of my porcelain cup.

“I know, right?”, smiled comrade Lisitsyn, our host, “Some genius came up with this brilliant idea. Now, we have to approach this brand new concept with attention, so take all the time you need with your preparation. We’re going to provide you with reading materials from Western Europe and North America, so that you can study and learn from their advertising strategies: what do they sell? How do they sell it? What needs, desires, and wants do they appeal to, in order to sell it? And also newspapers and magazines, of course. Should this method prove successful, we’ll deploy it in South America, Asia, and Africa. Today, there’s a cargo coming in a couple of hours on the train from Helsinki at the Finland Station …”

“I volunteer for its safe receipt and delivery!”, said Baranov, jumping out of his chair.

“Comrade, you should go whether you want to or not, since you’re the one in charge (God help us!). Take this young lady with you. Sweetheart”, Lisitsyn turned to me, “Please go and check the cargo carefully, because some prankster always puts more in it than we had bargained for. Use your feminine intuition to confiscate any improper material, and dispose of it discreetly. We don’t want a ‘Playboy1’ situation all over again, are we clear, Baranov?”

“Sheesh, cut me some slack! The boys and I had to see what was that all about, it’s called research, in case you don’t know. And I have to say, I wasn’t impressed. It was like the Literary Journal with boobs. Pages upon pages of gibberish on the death of the Novel, and the inevitable decline of Western civilisation, or the metaphysical implications of a game of baseball, whereas all I wanted to see was Tallulah from Tallahassee, welcoming us to her bakery to admire her perfectly risen buns. I had the boys make copies for our archives and future references. I thought they were going to keep only the photos, but they insisted on printing the literary interviews and politics articles as well, the pervs. Then we sold the magazines on the black market2, made a tidy sum, so I sent the boys to enjoy their holidays in Crimea. Good times.”

“You did what!?”

“Aw, come on, don’t act all innocent. Why do you think there are forbidden texts circulating all over the USSR? We get ourselves your samizdat3 Solzhenitsyn, Pasternak, what have you, and we sell them here on the black market, or sneak them out of the country for hard currency. Big freaking deal. The intelligentsia get what they want, we get cash, everyone’s happy. And if you really don’t want people to read banned books, just go and make them compulsory reading, and sure as hell they’d rather die than do that.”

“You’ve got a good point there, sir”, I said, amazed by such rare glimpse of common sense.

“See? Even Miss Bluestockings agrees with me!”

“OK, just shut up. You can go now. Your new home on Griboedov Canal is ready to welcome you. There’s a small surprise for you, Baranov, you’re going to love it. Goodbye, comrades, and good luck!”

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The Brit looked pale and exhausted. “You two take the car, I’ll go home by myself.”

“Are you sure, sir? You don’t look very well. We can bring you home, and then go to the station. It’s still early for our train.”

“Thank you, my dear, but I need to clear my mind. We’ll have a good talk later, just the two of us.”

“Hey, do you mind, you dummies? I’m freezing my ass here”, shouted Baranov, “Meet Misha, our new driver. Whenever you’re ready, young man.”

A lanky, smiling young man my age opened the car’s door for me. I sat beside Baranov, who was thrilled at the prospect of his surprise at home and our precious cargo from Helsinki.

“And after we’ll have successfully completed this operation, sweet cheeks, I’ll embark on another quest: I’m going to find you a husband!”

“I’m fine, sir, thanks, you don’t have to. I’m still young.”

“How old are you, 23? Sorry to break it to you, but you’ve almost got one foot in the spinsterhood grave. Nah, listen to me, it’s time for you to stop fooling around. I’m going to make an honest woman out of you. I know, I know, you might have entertained the thought of marrying me, but I’m not available, babe, deal with it. You’ve had a taste of my love and I might have ruined you for other men. I made you discover the pleasures of the flesh …”

“With all due respect, sir, you weren’t the first one.”

“Well, that much was obvious, you naughty girl. But I’m sure I was the best, the Gold Standard. You’ll have to lower your expectations on that front, sweetie pie, but enough is as good as a feast. Don’t worry, be happy. Now, let me write down a list of your pluses and minuses, and we’ll work from there. Let’s see: not a beauty but, thanks to my positive influence, looks prettier these days (well, somewhat easier on the eye), still fresh, toned, healthy and in her fertile years – so this counts as a plus. Personality: allegedly smart, but strong opinions on pretty much everything, pedantic, talks back, often inexplicably grumpy – definitely a minus. How do you feel about becoming a Hero Mother? Like, having 5 sprogs or more?”

“No freaking way!”

“Oooh, I guess milady doesn’t want to give up her beauty sleep and trim figure. Minus. Do you appreciate a spotless house? Do you enjoy cleaning, dusting, washing?”

“Love a spotless house, not keen on cleaning and stuff like that.”

“Minus! Can you, at the very least, cook?”

“Not really, no. But I love eating, if that counts.”

“For the Party’s sake, you’re such a spoiled brat! Marrying you away, now that’s a mission impossible! Misha, would you believe her? What am I going to do with her?”

I could see Misha in the rear-view mirror. He looked back at me smiling, his sea-green eyes like twinkling stars.

“I think she’s perfect, sir. And I don’t mind cooking.”

Happy Easter and Passover, happy start of Spring to you all! The world is what it is these days but, if we wait for better times to start enjoying our lives, we’ll be dead sooner rather than later. Let’s bring on positive vibes by wishing each other to be healthy, reasonably cheerful, fed and warm, basking in the shining light of our friends’ and loved ones’ affection.

Thanks for reading Bread and Roses! This post is public so feel free to share it.

And welcome, new subscribers! You might want to read the very first installment of my story here:

and this short summary:

Our heroine, a newly minted graduate of the School for International Men and Women of Mystery in Moscow in the mid 1980’s, meets some key figures in her story, and travels to Leningrad with her superior and former teacher, where they are required to carry out a mission of the utmost importance – the secret Operation White Birch…

Part 6:

When we got off the train in Leningrad, it was still pitch dark outside. The Brit and I had to wake up Baranov an hour before arrival, and make him look presentable for his meeting at the Bolshoy Dom, the Big House, seat of the local KGB. We shook him, splashed cold water on his face, and I had to pinch his nose, forcing him to open his mouth so that I could feed him thin slices of a green crunchy apple to mask his vodka breath. He groaned like a grumpy walrus, called the Brit a sneaky bastard, and me the evil witch from Snow White.

By car, the route from Moscovsky rail station to Liteyny Prospekt is a short one, and our driver soon left us in front of the Big House imposing 1930 silhouette, offset by the pastel-hued elegance of the much older buildings on the avenue.

“Why would they even want to meet not important schmucks like you two?”, said Baranov, stepping inside the Big House. “Whatever you do, don’t spoil our well-crafted image of Muscovite toughness and cool. Let’s show these pinkos how the real bolsheviks unite and collaborate for the Cause. And now shut your pie holes up, Daddy’s got to talk with the grownups.”

Inside, the Big House was all marble and granite – noble materials coveted by despots and tyrants, extracted from the bowels of the Earth only to be buried again in megalomaniac tomb-like palaces – looked like every place built for bureaucrats, with the aim of enabling them to come up with convoluted new ways which further complicate complicated lives, produce an inordinate amount of paper documents, often purposefully contradicting one another, and sustain itself like a self-licking ice cream cone.

“I was expecting you, dear comrades”, smiled a big man in a tailored dark grey suit, welcoming us in his office. He belonged to that rare breed of people, whose cheerful disposition isn’t damped down by the gloomy environment in which they find themselves, but seems to thrive on it, like forced rhubarb.

“What a formidable triad! Have a seat, please, shall I be mother? Six sugars in your tea, Baranov, right? Two sugars and milk for our former representative of Her Majesty, and finally, if I remember correctly, no sugar and a slice of lemon for you, sweetheart. Good to see you advancing in your career”, he winked at me. “Help yourselves to these delicious gingerbread cookies, fresh out of the oven!”

Well, I never! I realised who this big man was, the one who recruited me a couple of years ago in a Moscow café. He was the man with the Astrakhan hat and Firebird the cockerel we had met on the train the night before. And, if that wasn’t confusing enough, he was also the kind and nosy greengrocer from Central Asia, whom I once met at the Kolkhoz market, and who asked a lot of questions about me, to which I answered with well rehearsed lies like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. Then he gave me a basket of plums and apricots, and a pot of Uzbek lamb pilaf, before calling a taxi and pay my fare in advance. It felt uncomfortable and I didn’t want to accept those gifts, but he said he wanted to offer a little something to a poor student, so far from home and her mum’s cooking.

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“Well, lady and gentlemen, let me first tell a few words about our brand new Operation White Birch. Can you guess how it has got its poetic name? Baranov?”

“How the heck would I know!? I’m not a lah-de-dah smartarse like those two geeks over there. Why don’t you ask them? I’ve never read a book in my whole life, thank you very much”, replied Baranov, who was gorging himself on cookies.

“Calling you a ‘gentleman’ was a bit of a stretch, my bad. Young lady, would you care to chip in?”

“I guess whoever came up with this name was inspired either by birchbark letters, or by the white birch forests surrounding Leningrad, where the operation is taking place. And I’d venture to guess that, because of my skills and my esteemed teacher’s presence, ‘propaganda’ and ‘West’ are two keywords here as well.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as define what we’re going to do with such a politically charged word as ‘propaganda’. We’d rather call it a collection of friendly tips and heartfelt recommendations, composed in order to steer the course of a Country onto the glorious path to world communism. But since that doesn’t really roll off the tongue, let’s just say it is propaganda, only this time we want to do it subtly. That’s where you and comrade The Brit can give us your precious help: we need to create ideologically imbued yet sophisticated writings that appeal to a younger, more entrepreneurial-attuned generation. We want to sell communism as a product, if you let me borrow a term from capitalism. Fight fire with fire, if you will.”

I almost choked on my tea, while the Brit remained inscrutable, perfecting the art of the stiff upper lip to new stoical heights. Baranov, oblivious to us all, was busy picking his teeth with the silver sugar scoop.

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We sprang to our feet and followed Iceman out of our cabin, but he was nowhere to be seen. Somewhere, someone pulled the emergency brake, the train stopped with a loud squealing noise, and the lights went out, leaving us in darkness and confusion.

We heard people opening their doors, gathering in the corridor, first whispering, then screaming – “What the heck is going on?… Is the West attacking us?… The end is nigh… Oh boy, my wife finally tracked us… Put our special stash away… I can’t find my trousers… Lucky you, I can’t find my underpants!”

The lights came back on, showing people in various states of undress and embarrassment. A couple of statuesque young women in flirty babydolls that left little to the imagination were ushered back in their cabins by their older and not so much fit male companions. A quartet of young men in brand new Adidas tracksuits were trying to hide big hand-rolled cigarettes with a strong, earthy smell.

We were saying our goodnights to each other, when we heard a terrible racket. From the end of the carriage, a most bizarre apparition emerged: a dishevelled Iceman, his eyes wide-open in fury, his mouth roaring thunderous threats and inventive invectives, blood and poo spilling from above his head, which a resplendent black and gold phoenix was clenching in its iron claws.

“Firebird, where have you gone? Come back to papa, what’s with these shenanigans? Ah, there you are. Bad birdie, don’t you run away like that anymore, papa was worried sick. Comrade, kindly hold still and quiet, my Firebird is scared, but he wouldn’t harm a fly. There you go, golubchik. Who’s a good boy? You’re a good boy! Yes, you are,” said the big man in the Astrakhan hat, gently disentangling Firebird’s spurs from Iceman’s hair, and putting the rooster back in its crate.

Iceman regained his composure, slowly wiped away his face with an handkerchief, all the while giving a death stare to the big man in the Astrakhan hat, and to Firebird, who now looked every inch the dove of peace. Big Man returned him the death stare, holding his gaze until Iceman looked away. Then Big Man became his jovial self again, bowed and apologised for the inconvenience to all the presents, winked at me, and disappeared with Firebird at the end of the carriage.

He seemed oddly familiar now, had I met him before that night?

Iceman gave us all another death stare – which no one dared to reciprocate – and disappeared in the same direction.

Too disconcerted to make comments or laugh, we all went back to our cabins. Baranov, who’d sobered up during the uncomfortable conversation with Iceman, reached out to Pyotr’s vodka and took a long sip. Then another one. And another one.

“Well, I’ll be damned, if it wasn’t the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I met Stalin in my youth. When comrade Iceman appears, Trouble and Doom soon follow. Uh, I knew this trip was ill-fated. I’m going to my cabin now, but I’m sure I won’t sleep a wink. That means, sweet cheeks, you get to entertain me all night long, rejoice! Have you ever done it on a train? All aboard, choo-choo!”

The Brit had to help Baranov to his feet, and then to his cabin.

“He’s out, if he weren’t snoring, you’d think he died. Make yourself comfortable here. When I asked my good wife, if she were jealous that I might have to sleep next to a young woman on the train, she said ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ She knows how to put me in my place. Hopefully, we can finally have some rest tonight.”

“Good night, sir. And tomorrow, we’ll wake up in Leningrad. What a dream!”, I replied.

“And may it not become a nightmare. Sleep tight!”

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The second time the girl saw him (her? It?) was on a winter night. She’d woken up, and couldn’t go to sleep again. She left her bed and went to the kitchen, feeling her way through the dark stillness of the house.

She was sipping water from a plastic mug, standing in front of the window, when the tall, white silhouette of the astronaut appeared on the other side of the window pane. The same white space suit, the same black helmet from which a light flickered. The girl froze and the mug fell on the floor.

In a hailstorm of hurried steps, her mother appeared.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing, I ...’

‘Just go to bed. Do I always have to clean up after you idiots?’, her mother said, snatching from the girl’s hands the mop she’d taken to dry the floor, swearing at the girl and her father, God and Fate.

The girl went back to her room. Her heart wouldn’t stop pounding, her mind replaying the same event from the previous summer. On a sweltering night, she had gone out onto the kitchen balcony when, on the roof of the opposite flat, the white space suit and the black helmet with the flickering light had appeared in front of her for the first time. The following day, the girl wasn’t sure whether she’d had a vision or a nightmare, but for months she couldn’t look up to the sky, or at roofs, or at people in white.

It happened in July 1976, when the Viking 1 lander touched the surface of Mars. This news – namely the chance to discover life on another planet – had filled the girl with dread. If the interactions with her fellow earthlings were anything to go by, humankind was in for a series of disappointing experiences.

The girl fell finally asleep and dreamt a snowy landscape. She could see herself walking that serene milky blue expanse – her footsteps light and assured – breathing in the quiet, frosty air.

Morning broke as usual, the house filled with the smoke of cigarettes sharpening the bitter notes in the lingering smell of coffee, and the breakfast-time exchange of abuse between her parents.

‘Do you have to spill your coffee every fucking time, you moron?’

‘Shut up, bitch.’

The girl would leave the house early for school. There was hardly anyone else around, the streets were silent and, in winter, filled with a soft, dusky light. When it snowed, the city sparkled with a fairy-tale lustre, a promise of clean, crisp air, and happy children.

The girl sat down on a bench at the centre of the small Baroque square she used to cross on her way to and back from school. She closed her eyes, opened them. The cold made her flinch. This time, the astronaut was sitting next to her.

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The Brit and I were pacing up and down the platform, from which the Red Arrow, our sleeper train to Leningrad, was due to leave Moscow at midnight. Baranov was taking his sweet little time.

In the pitch black sky and the cold wind, the station was brimming with people, hurrying and running with the most curious pieces of luggage, like in a caravan ready to go through deserts towards faraway lands: carpets, small animals, crates of oranges, sacks of potatoes, fabric remnants, galoshes, teapots.

The three of us were supposed to head to the former capital city, in order to set up an office dedicated to the handling of linguistic affairs, at least according to unofficial reports. I was just a pawn, not really au fait with my superiors’ doings.

A booming voice and laughter told us Baranov was approaching our platform. He was accompanied by Pyotr the driver, who was holding a basket of meat pies and pickles prepared by his wife for the trip, and an avoska1 containing a bottle.

“My missus takes care of your belly, but I’d like to warm your cockles, sir! Here’s some ‘potato juice’, lovingly home-made in my dacha while the moon was shining, if you catch my drift.”

“Pyotr, you lifesaver, I’ll drink it to your health. Give us a kiss goodbye, golubchik!”2

We boarded our wagon not a minute too soon.

“Hey, you two, why the long faces? I’m being punctual, the train’s still here, isn’t it? I can’t believe they tricked me into travelling again. Pff … I guess I shouldn’t sign papers, unless I’m sober and, possibly, only after I’ve read them. Aw Moscow, I miss you already … Let me help you, comrade. Nice bird you’ve got there”, Baranov said to a sturdy man in a long brown coat and an Astrakhan hat, who was jumping on the train with a large chicken crate, where a rooster was fluttering its black and gold wings.

“Many thanks, gentlemen and young lady! I have to be careful with Firebird, he’s got quite a temper”, the big man replied, “He’s going to get married to a brood of Leningrad chicks, and we’re having a bit of pre-wedding jitters.”

The man with the rooster headed towards the end of the carriage, while the three of us went on to occupy two first class cabins: Baranov, a superior officer, would take one all for himself, the other one was meant for the Brit and me. However, the Brit suggested that I should have one cabin for me, since he was a married man, and thought I’d feel uncomfortable, sharing a cabin with him.

Baranov, on the other hand, replied that he was making a big sacrifice in coming with us to Leningrad, a city he loathed, so the least he expected was a bit of female company to sweeten the deal, taking for granted that I would agree.

“I’d rather keep things professional, sir”, I whispered to him, while the Brit stowed our bags in the compartments. “We’re on a mission, after all.”

“What’s more professional than catering to your superior’s every whim? That’s your mission. If I say ‘Jump!’, you ask ‘How high?’. If I say ‘Time for bed!’, you just lie back, close your eyes and think of Mother Russia.”

The Brit came to my rescue. “Let’s sit down, have a snack and a cheeky drink, then we’ll talk about our sleeping arrangements, sir.” We both counted on the fact that Pyotr’s vodka would knock him out until morning.

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The pirozhki, or small meat pies cooked by Pyotr’s wife were delicious and filling, the Brit took from his bag a thermos of hot lemon tea, and I had some apples and oranges, bought the previous day at the Kolkhoz market.3

Baranov was having his second sip of Pyotr’s vodka, when the door opened and two men entered our cabin. One was a huge hulk of a young man with square jaws and the eyes of a wolf. He exchanged a brief glance with the other man, older and apparently his boss, and went outside, closing the door. The older man had a slighter build, flaxen hair and the coldest pale blue eyes I’d ever been observed with, in order to be archived in a super human memory. He sat down without greeting us.

Baranov and the Brit looked alarmed. Baranov hurriedly put the bottle away under his seat.

“So, you three are the chosen ones. Scraping the bottom of the barrel. Operation White Birch starts tomorrow in Leningrad. There’s a furnished flat in Griboedov Canal where an office is being prepared for you. Is this female your writer?”, Iceman asked, looking askance at me.

“Yes, sir. This young lady is our finest linguist. She’s been carefully selected for her skills and dedication to the cause”, the Brit answered.

“Whatever. Now this is an extremely delicate mission. Confidentiality and discretion are of the utmost importance, you don’t need me to say that again. Keep a low profile and your mouths shut, do not engage with anyone who’s not been previously vetted and authorised by us. Do not take any kind of initiatives and do not think for yourselves, strictly follow the orders from Moscow. Most importantly, do not fuck this up, or else. It would be a shame if someone had to lose his high rank, privileges, or even his head. Was that vodka you were drinking, Baranov?”

Baranov was trying to come up with an uncompromising answer, when we heard a commotion outside the cabin and the door burst open. The young man wasn’t there anymore. Iceman got up and went out with a murderous look.

Dear readers, I hope to meet you all again for Part 5.2 in a couple of weeks. Take care!

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Hello there, old and new subscribers! I’m honoured to welcome you all today. This is the second part of a series that explores the differences between the food cultures of Italy and the Netherlands. In case you missed it, you can read the first part here:

The Dutch are a famously pragmatic people, therefore their approach to food is based on a eat-to-live motto. Nothing wrong with that – after all, that’s the healthy way and how it’s supposed to be – although, with my sweet tooth, I myself am more of a follower of the live-to-eat school of thought. In case of an apocalyptic scenario – where ice cream should vanish from every single freezer on the planet – I’d be so terribly distraught, I don’t even want to think about it now. Life would still go on, but at what price? The only, if meager consolation would be the total disappearance of that sickly-sweet, sticky opprobrium that is the Magnum ice cream, another bête noire of mine, which – together with ketchup, tiramisù, and truffles (not the chocolate ones, but those satanic mushrooms that look like Stone Age turds, smell even worse, cost like diamonds, and are considered the quintessential luxury delicacy) – forms the infamous Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse of my food-related turnoffs.

Unsurprisingly, people who live in a small country, most parts of which are below sea level and where flooding is not uncommon, soon learn not to be too fussy about what’s for lunch. Geography plays a big part in the making of a food culture, and so do historical circumstances. Calvinism had a huge influence on the shaping of Dutch culture, and still has to these days, despite a recent survey telling us that, besides a 54% of atheists/non religious people, there are more Catholics nowadays in the Netherlands than Protestants. Temperance is the name of the game, therefore food should be nutritious and filling, with few concessions to frills and even fewer to tantrums, in case the potatoes are not cooked to the exact standards of one’s mamma/nonna, or according to made-up-on-the-spot traditions. Yes, fellow Italians, I’m looking at you, see the recent outrage about pasta cacio e pepe.

“Shut up and eat your stamppot!”, think of all those children who starved during the Hongerwinter (Hunger Winter), the Dutch famine of 1944–1945 that took place in the German-occupied Netherlands.1

The scarcity of agricultural land meant that people had to rely on the sea, and that’s how the glorious Dutch herring became something like the potato of the Middle Ages. Even more than this, saying that Amsterdam and Holland became seafaring powerhouses also thanks to the humble, silvery Clupea harengus Linnaeus, or herring, it’s not a far-fetched statement.

Dutch fishermen used to catch, haul ashore, gut and preserve in brine the oily, strongly flavoured fish. Like in many northern European countries, they would buy mostly Swedish-caught herring.

However, in 1386 Dutch fisherman Willem Beukelszoon invented the process of gibbing (or it might have been a serendipitous discovery, but he was smart enough to pick it up and perfect it), which is “the process of preparing salt herring, in which the gills and part of the gullet are removed from the fish, eliminating any bitter taste. The liver and pancreas are left in the fish during the salt-curing process because they release enzymes essential for flavor. The fish is then cured in a barrel with one part salt to 20 herring.”

This discovery made it possible for the Dutch to make longer voyages into the North Sea, where a large sandbank called Doggersbank, situated in a shallow area of sea, held a mother lode of shoaling herring. In 1415, they developed a new kind of seagoing fishing vessel called haringbuis (herring buss), which also served as a sort of fish processing factory.

The boats could stay at sea for five or more weeks, fishing, gibbing, then come back to port with plenty of market-ready barrels of lightly salted, tasty herring that would last for a year. The Dutch soon monopolised the cured herring market from France to Germany, Poland, and as far as Russia.

Here’s an excerpt from Russel Shorto’s brilliant book about Amsterdam2:

“Transforming the herring industry could happen only if there was an unusual degree of cooperation among different people. Here Amsterdam’s traditions of water management–which already had a couple of centuries of history behind it–served the city well. Building up dykes and dredging canals were massive communal activities in which everyone concerned had to see a common as well as an individual interest in order to take part. Fishing the coastline required little more than a father and a son and a few hands, but moving into deep waters meant a commitment of capital and a complex support infrastructure. The ships were larger and they had teams of specialized workers: sailors, gutters (a skilled team of gutters could process 2,000 herring an hour), packers, officers. Since a herring fleet had such a recognizably valuable cargo, it needed a naval escort for defense. Ship chandlers had to supply linen, hemp, tar, tallow, netting, barrels, salt, and other products.

To make all of this work, herring merchants pushed to local government to get involved. The government sent warships to protect the fleet, and over time it developed regulations covering every aspect of the netting, processing, and sale of herring. This was done with one purpose in mind: to keep the quality high. As more money came into the province of Holland, the provincial government required that herring casks be of regulation size and manufacture and that they be stamped not just as Dutch but as Holland Herring–a very early and stunningly successful instance of branding.

At the high point of the industry, fishermen of the province of Holland caught about 200 million herring per year. New wealth came to Amsterdam. And dominance in one field led to success in others. In order to build herring busses, Amsterdam bought timber from Germany and processed it into planks. The city’s sawyers (and later saw mills, after a farmer from nearby Uitgeest patented a crankshaft, which turned the circular motion of a windmill into the back-and-forth motion of a sawing blade) produced so efficiently that England’s burgeoning shipbuilding industry bought processed wood from Amsterdam and the surrounding area. Meanwhile, the city’s own shipyards expanded, producing barges for working the region’s rivers as well as seagoing vessels. And the city’s merchants in turn became savvy international traders; they paid top dollar for information about faraway events that they could earn money on and adjusted their cargo accordingly. When harvests in Southern Europe failed, the city’s vessels returned from their herring runs to the Baltic port of Danzig laden with rye and wheat, so that Dutch vessels provided Polish grains for tables in Spain and Italy. The ships likewise carried wine from France to the Baltic and brought beer from Germany for Dutch consumption. (…) Wealth came, and something else: sailors and traders from faraway places. They presaged what Amsterdam would become: a place of mixed languages and backgrounds.”

Quite a glorious responsibility for such a small creature! This year, the new herring arrived on the 18th of June, and according to the experts is fat, juicy, and super tasty: at least some good news!

And now for something completely different, much less healthy and nutritious than herring, but extremely popular over here and uniquely Dutch – hagelslag. The word comes from hagel, or hail, and the sound of a hailstorm is what you’re reminded of, when you shake a package of these chocolate sprinkles (you can find them also in Belgium – where they’re commonly called muizenstrontjes, or mouse droppings – and in the former Dutch colonies). Read some fun facts below:

For those interested in a more in-depth history of hagelslag, the ever informative BBC has you covered with this recent article: The sweet Dutch sandwich that makes no sense.

And I’d like to put in a good word for Dutch milk, another humble product, which nonetheless contributed to the whopping 20cm growth spurt of the Dutch population, now the tallest in the world, in the 160 years between 1860 and 20203.

The Dutch have been grabbing their land for centuries from the sea. The patiently reclaimed land was silty and too acidic for growing vegetables or grains, but it was excellent for grass, and that’s why the Dutch farmers engaged in cattle breeding, and consequently in a thriving dairy industry.

Finally, even though Dutch cuisine cannot be included among the great ones in the world, it counts high quality food, such as bread, cheese, fish, meat, and nowadays even vegetables. As a matter of fact, the Netherlands have become “the world’s second largest exporter of agricultural products by value behind the United States. Perhaps even more significant in the face of a warming planet: It is among the largest exporters of agricultural and food technology. The Dutch have pioneered cell-cultured meat, vertical farming, seed technology and robotics in milking and harvesting — spearheading innovations that focus on decreased water usage as well as reduced carbon and methane emissions.”4

You might have noticed, I exceedingly admire the genius of my new homeland. They’re not perfect, but then again who is? And where there’s a problem, you can trust the sensible, pragmatic, direct, cooperative Dutch to come up with one or more possible solutions.

Hello there, my excellent old and new subscribers! I'm not sure when the next OWB installment will be ready. Hopefully, before the end of July. Wish me luck!

The four of us sat down to dinner, to enjoy a delicious array of Russian and Central Asian delicacies, such as shashlik, blinis, caviar, salads and fruits.

Ms. Lebedev encouraged me to have a little sip of Armenian brandy, while trying with little success to keep Piotr the driver and the bottle of liquor as far as possible from each other. Then she picked up her guitar, and we all joined her gorgeous contralto voice in singing old romances and songs.

After a heartfelt rendition of Dark is the night1 – a sad and nostalgic war song from the 1943 film Two Soldiers – that had moved us all to tears, especially Piotr, by then completely drunk, Ms. Lebedev ended the great evening with panache, singing us one of her evergreens – The Sassy Sailor – from her first, eponymous film.

The story behind this 1960's movie is quite remarkable. It was meant to be a musical for all the family and, like most of those films, had a rather preposterous preamble.

Little girl Sasha was born during the Second Great Patriotic War2 in a family with 4 sons. As a result of a bureaucratic mishap, her full name Aleksandra has been misspelt as Aleksandr, and this makes her a boy in the eyes of the State. And so, at the age of 18, young Sasha is called up for the military service, and is assigned to the Navy. The ridiculous plot thickens when Sasha joins her unit and, instead of shaving her head, they give her a pixie cut hairstyle that makes her eyes and face even more strikingly beautiful.

The other guys are not happy, though. They think that, what with her being a girl, Sasha will avoid all the graft that being a Soviet sailor entails. They play practical jokes on her, but she stays unfussed, works hard, plays harder, and saves the day during a naval exercise gone wrong, finally becoming one of the boys.

They all sail to an unnamed Black Sea port, where an unnamed hostile foreign power tries to do unspeakable things to their ship, but Sasha and her crew, all hands on deck, manage triumphantly to send those pesky foreigners back to their hostile Country.

Sasha is finally discharged and goes back to her village in the North, where she achieves her childhood dream of becoming a math teacher.

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The action is peppered with cheeky, dazzling musical numbers, purposefully meant to distract the audience from the sheer silliness of the plot. The censors didn't notice anything untoward – no female nudity, no swearing, no love stories that could have led to physical expressions of affection (unless you count the crush that the Admiral's daughter develops for Sasha – thinking she's a young man – promptly nipped in the bud by an agnition, with Sasha giving her a similar pixie haircut to cheer her up) – but they totally overlooked the movie's subtle yet clear homosexual undertones.

When someone finally noticed them, it was too late to do anything about it: the film had become a huge success; every child all over the Country wanted a Sassy Sailor costume; even the State tobacco company The Gloriously Glowing Red Tip had produced a new cigarette pack, featuring the silhouette of a strapping sailor, uncannily prescient of Tom of Finland's men; all the songs were by then popular instant classics, especially the following one, quickly translated into the languages of the other 14 Republics of the Soviet Union, then in Polish, German, Hungarian, Czech, Slovak, Bulgarian, Finnish, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Chinese, Mongolian, Vietnamese, and now in a clumsy sort of English, courtesy of yours truly. Enjoy!

The Sassy Sailor's Song

Hello sailor! Where have you been?

I've sailed the seven seas,

Together with me mateys.

The fun is never-ending,

Sailing the seven seas.

Up, up that mast, gung-ho!

Sailing the seven seas,

Cruising with gay abandon,

Long nights, but who's complaining,

Sailing the seven seas.

Hello sailor! Have you come back for good?

A sailor's home's the sea.

I bid you farewell, girl.

Up, up that mast, gung-ho!

Sailing the seven seas.

Later that night, Katya was showing me her stylish outfits and fabulous evening gowns in her room, when she flashed me a smile and whispered: “I was supposed to spend the night with Baranov, but he's not there and I'm horny. I haven't had a sleepover with the girls in a long time. Would you mind terribly joining me in my bed?”

“Not at all, Ms. Lebedev. It would be an honour, a privilege, and a pleasure.”

“Please, darling, I'm going to devour you in a minute. Let's be on first-name terms.”

“Good luck, kid”, said Baranov's driver Pyotr with a smirk.

We were waiting outside Ms. Lebedev's flat, on the top floor of the House on the Kotelnichevskaya Embankment, facing the Moskva River, my hands encumbered with the mahogany tea caddy I'd been ordered to deliver personally to her.

The door opened and a lovely, smiling old lady ushered us in.

“Katya, your guests are here!”

And there she was, Katya, a.k.a. Ekaterina Lebedev, People's Artist and Merited Artist of Russia, a talented and celebrated actress, with an over 20-year long career in Soviet theatre and cinema, also famous in our small circle for being Baranov's official lover.

She appeared, swishing in a long, peacock blue silk velvet robe, a tall, platinum blonde woman in her early 40's, whose cheekbones had more than a hint of Mongolian warrior to them, a vision of such tremendous beauty that put me in a state of shock and awe. Well, quite.

She shot a beaming, professional smile at Pyotr, then slowly moved her head towards me, looking me up and down, then staring me straight in the eye, as if she wished to incinerate me with the icy blue fire of her gaze. She grabbed the mahogany tea caddy from my hands.

“Pyotr, come and have a nice cuppa with me in the living room, while Katya and this sweet girl have a chat in the boudoir. I'll bring your teas there”, said the old lady, gently nudging Ms. Lebedev's magnificent shoulder.

After leaving the mahogany tea caddy on her bedside table, Ms. Lebedev sat on a birch bench at the foot of her bed, and lit a cigarette. I was standing against the window, from which a dancing whiteness of snowflakes flooded a soft light into the dark room.

She kept staring at me, and the red tip of her cigarette, glowing amidst its smoke and the steaming glasses of tea, made her look like a beautiful, hungry monoculous dragon.

Finally, she said: “I am aware that Lt. Col. Baranov doesn't entrust that bleeping tea caddy to any random person. So what is it that makes you so special? Are you his little dish on the side? ARE YOU?!”

My heart was skipping several beats and, rather dramatically I admit, I thought that I wouldn't make it out of her bedroom alive.

“That cheating bastard! That son of a bitch! And it's not the first time, oh no, there have been plenty of little sluts like you before, do you think you are the one and only? There's never a one and only with him, with men like him, with men.”

After this outburst, she seemed to cool down a little bit. “I'm sorry I called you a slut, kid. But this is the first time he doesn't bring the tea caddy to me himself. And I'm no better than you and the others. His wife left him because of me. I'm the worst of all, if anything.”

“I'm so sorry to upset you, Ms. Lebedev, I didn't mean to. I didn't even know that he was married or engaged to another woman, to me it looked like he hadn't had sex in a while, when we ... I mean, it's like he's just got out after a long stint in jail ...” I panicked, realising too late that I might have said too much.

But Katya laughed. “Oh, you're so right! It is exactly like you say. You have to wait for the second or – more often than not – the third round for him to take notice that his lady friend may want to join in in the party.”

“I don't think I caught your name, kiddo”, she said and, when I told her, she finally mellowed: “Oh, is it really? That was my very first Shakespearian role! Look, I'll show you something, sit down here with me”, she stood up and took a big book out from a shelf.

It was a photo album in dark blue Morocco leather, emblazoned with her name in golden letters, in the Old Church Slavonic calligraphy.

“Don't I look dashing, in my Venetian Renaissance lawyer gown? They said that my performance showed a maturity well beyond my years, I was 22 at the time. Not my first heroine role though, that was Natasha Rostov, yes, her exactly from Tolstoy's War and Peace.”

“Please, Ms. Lebedev, tell me more.”

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“I was 16, still studying at Drama school, and I wanted that role so much I could have died. And there was another reason. The great actor Pavel Orlov had already been chosen to play the part of Prince Andrei Bolkonsky, and I was so desperately in love with him, I'd be damned, if he had to romance a Natasha other than me.”

“I remember Pavel Orlov from that romantic comedy/propaganda film A Patriot's Love is a Joy Forever1, he looked so handsome in it!”

“He so did, didn’t he? I'd have walked through fire for him. But my teacher warned me that I was too tall, blonde and well-nourished to play Natasha. So I went home, and told my consternated mother that no kind of food was to pass my lips, until at least the day of the official auditions, and I meant it. I spent the following 10 days studying my part, singing, rehearsing, not eating, trying not to faint, drinking tea with no sugar, and having arguments with mum, whenever she tried to pour a dash of milk into my glass.

When the big day arrived, I had much less chubby cheeks and my eyes looked bigger, sparkling with a passionate flame. (It was pure and simple hunger, but I like to think that they were also burning with my love for the Art.) I had smeared my head with my dad's black shoe polish, which caused another argument with mum, who then blackmailed me to eat a small bowl of kasha, or she wouldn't let me leave the house. I wolfed down my semolina porridge, and hurried to the auditions. My hair was a complete mess, but at least I could pass for a brunette, and acted and sang my heart out, and ... I got the part!

Now, having War and Peace adapted as a drama play isn't half a joke, and that meant rehearsing 8 days a week, 25 hours a day. One Saturday night, Orlov took me for dinner to a Caucasian restaurant, where he was bemused and amused by the quantity of food I could scoff down, while talking and laughing incessantly. He wouldn't let me touch a drop of alcohol though, and he just drank a small glass of Georgian red wine.

We then went to his flat, he put on a record of Gypsy romances, took my face between his long, beautiful hands, and then kissed me on the forehead, just like my dad would have done.

‘I'm sorry, Katya, I can't do this. You're a great, charming, funny young woman, but I'm not in love with you. I can't love you, I can't love anyone, for that matter. Love is just not on the cards for me.’

I knew what he was going to add, or, rather, not add. I knew that teenage boys and girls would engage in same sex love-making, something I had done myself with my friends during the long summer nights at the Young Pioneer camp2, when they used to switch off the lights at 9:00 in the evening, and no one wanted to go to sleep. But I thought that grown-ups wouldn't do that anymore, because they married. I was so naïve!

I burst into tears, I told him I didn't care, that I wanted to marry him, no matter what, and I was willing not to have sex in my whole life anymore, if only I could be with him forever, working with him, sharing everything but a bed with him. I loved him so much! But he did and said the right thing. Marriage is a serious matter, you go into it with someone you truly love and who truly loves you.”

“Eventually, I made peace with that, and we went on to enjoy a huge success with our play. It was the start of my career. In the meanwhile, I had fallen in love with the actor playing Count Pierre Bezukhov who, on the other hand, was very much into women, so much so that I left him, the love-rat, just before we tied the knot, a couple of years later.

Orlov now lives in Paris, where he doesn't have to play the heart-throb anymore. We're still friends.”

It was snowing heavily by then. Ms. Lebedev suggested that Pyotr the driver and I would stay over for dinner, since Auntie Valya, the old lady, had cooked a lavish meal, expecting Baranov to spend the rest of the night there.

Part 4.2 will land in your inboxes next Saturday, July 5th. I hope to meet you all again next week!

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Before we go, I want to assure all of you dear readers, old and new subscribers that what I write is 100% a fruit of my imagination. AI has almost killed off my day job – and not only mine –, so let's all keep it out of here, please.

In case you missed them, read Part 1 and Part 2 below:

I'd rushed or, more precisely, bobbled into Baranov's office for a matter of great importance and urgency, or so they'd warned me, where I found him slumped on his chair, with a we-are-not-amused look on his face.

He should have visited a lady that afternoon, with the intent to bring her a precious object, and be entertained as a token of gratitude. “But the motherfuckers, I mean, the distinguished comrades, have decided at the last minute to call a meeting here, where we are to going to discuss the how-to for an exploratory study regarding the blueprint behind the implementation of a plan for the organisation of something big in Leningrad that could possibly involve your presence in the near future, although right now you don't have to know what that is, since we ourselves don't have a fucking clue. Forget I ever mentioned Leningrad, by the way.”

“I had to order drinks, cigars, and zakuski for the meeting, so who knows when it will be over, certainly not before we'll have murdered all the food and alcohol. The plan? What about it? Ah no, I can tell you right now, nobody's going to come up with a plan. We'll cobble something together a couple of days before launching that big thing in Leningrad…Damn it, no one's going to Leningrad, and there's definitely no big thing coming either. You didn't hear a peep from me.”

“Long story short, I don't get to visit the lady, have to attend this stupid sausage party/tedious meeting with the higher-ups, besides, there's a chance I could be sent to Len…some place I loathe. I'm a very unhappy bunny right now, I need cheering up. Strip up then, baby, and give me some sugar. We've got five minutes, chop-chop!”

He stood up, came over to me and started to undo his belt. A snowstorm was forecast for that night and I was wearing thermal underwear, one light sweater, two heavy sweaters, ski trousers, thick socks, galoshes, a puffer jacket, a shapka hat with a long scarf and a shawl thrown in for good measure, tightly wrapped around my neck and head with the help of the other girls in our dorm for International Women of Mystery, before I dared to venture outside.

A deluge of thoughts flooded my mind: “If I get out of this garb, I'll never get in again in…what? Two minutes at most, and what if someone comes in? He'll get away with it – boys will be boys, what a stud! – whereas I'll get saddled with the ‘neighbourhood bicycle’ nickname forever. And you don't have to say you love me, hell no, or put a ring on it but a little respect wouldn't go amiss, you big fat plonker.”

I straightened up, put on my most committed fanatical expression on my face, looked him in the eye and said: “I'd like to kiss ya, but I just washed my hair.”1

“Huh?”

“Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, we cannot let our guard down! My mission is to bring this tea caddy to the lady in town, no matter what happens, and time is of the essence! Your driver awaits. What if the enemy strikes down in the middle of our decadent embraces? Remember what the poet says: ‘Keep in step with the Revolution! Tireless, the enemy is on the watch.’”2

“Huh?”

“It's my time of the month.”

“Huh?”

We heard a knock on the door, and Baranov's attendant came in carrying a service cart, with a cornucopia of strong, heady drinks from both sides of the Iron Curtain.

He remained unflappable, while Baranov nonchalantly buttoned up his trousers, but raised a telling eyebrow, noticing me, all bundled up in an oversize woollen chastity belt.

“Your car's ready, sir. Shall I let your guests in?”

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Operation White Birch – Part 4 will land in your email inboxes on June 28th.

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The Brit's office was a small room with a cosy, gentlemen's club decor, furnished with two slightly worn green velvet Chesterfield armchairs, an oak bookcase filled with dictionaries, old volumes and thick tomes, a brass floor lamp with green shade, and a desk with a central leather cover. The air was faintly redolent with a mixture of Blenheim Bouquet and tea.

He saw me stroking the smooth fabric, when I sat down on one of the Chesterfields. "I don't know what they were thinking. How on Earth would I want to spend my time in a place that reminds me of one of the most snobbish, conceited, and arrogant institutions in the world? I suppose that they did it in order to annoy me, although I may be reading too much into it, and they just wanted me to feel at home, somehow."

Then, his accent shifting from cut-glass to a slight Cockney twang: "I presume comrade Barabanchik has already filled you in on why we're interested in what you can offer us."

"Yes, sir, I'm ever so flattered.”

"Don't be. Your class, what a bunch of idiots. You just happened to be the less disappointing one out of the whole bloody lot. God forbid one, or two of them, are sent on a mission to dear old Blighty – to Salisbury, or somewhere like that – making a hash of whatever they are supposed to do. The very thought ... But, then again, I can't understand for the life of me, why they should recruit a foreigner like you, and a spaghetti-bender at that. Have I ever told you the story about how the Italian tanks have 6 gears, five go in reverse and one forward, in case they get attacked from behind?"

"You have indeed, sir, many a time and with plenty of details. It's an endlessly fascinating story, if I may say so myself."

"Being clever, are we now, comrade smarty-pants? Listen up, try to save it for our next project. I can't tell you more right now, but stand by. It involves reading and writing, lots of writing. Creative writing even, very, very creative. Cuppa?"

The Brit produced a Toby jug filled with what I assumed was brandy, and offered it to me. I politely refused the brandy, looking with curiosity at the charmingly grotesque object.

He poured the brandy into his tea. “This? This is one of the very few things I took away with me, when I left the British Isles for good. It used to have pride of place in my dear mother's pub."

He noticed my surprise. We all thought The Brit was the scion of an aristocratic family with a grand mansion in the English countryside, or a castle on the Scottish Highlands, an Oxbridge educated toff with money to burn.

"Oh no, that was all smoke and mirrors. The comrades thought it would be far more interesting to catch and convert an aristocrat, instead of a prole. Of course a member of the Lumpenproletariat would harbour left-wing views, right? Wrong, but never let the truth get in the way of a good story. I let them get away with it, because I find it funny too. Take that, upper class! One of yours is going to the other side. But the truth is completely different."

"Before you go, please take these books with you. Peruse, study, and digest them: The Complete and Unabridged Dictionary of English Idioms, and The Agitprop Style Manual."

Operation White Birch – Part 3 will land in your email inboxes on May 31st.

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Welcome back, dear old and new subscribers, and Fijne Koningsdag (Happy King’s Day) 🇳🇱 👑 🧡 🦁 to my Dutch readers! This is part 1 of a series of two articles, the second of which will published in 15 days, whereas next Saturday, May 3rd, the new installment of Operation White Birch will land in your email inboxes, stay tuned!

Brace yourselves because, sooner or later, it was bound to happen – I'm Italian and I'm going to write about food. I can already picture you rolling your eyes: “Here we go. 🙄 She's going to blather about how wrong it is to put pineapple on pizza, or cheese on fish, or have cappuccino after 8:30 AM, as if she were the chief kitchen legislator of the world.”

I admit that, when it comes to pizza, I'm not adventurous at all, and always choose Margherita with its holy trinity of basil, tomato, mozzarella. If I feel iconoclastic, I go for tuna and onions, and that's pretty much it. No Hawaii (ham and pineapple) heresy for me, but who am I to deny it to you, if that's your thing? By all means, kids, eat, drink and be merry, live long and prosper!

I owe the concept for this post to my subscriber – and dare I say friend? – Tim Baynes, who writes (and draws) a fantastic Substack, and inspired in me the idea of exploring the various differences between the country I used to live in the past, and the one I'm currently delighting with my presence.

But fear not! This is neither the Ten Commandments of Italian Cuisine, nor a snubbing of all the other food cultures of the world. The former is beyond my reach, while the latter is a sin that some of my fellow countrymates are guilty of, and we don't even have to pass Italy's national borders to find evidence of this.

I still cringe when I remember an old episode of Jamie's Italy, in which a bunch of ignorant oafs, in the central Marche region, sneered and were incensed at Jamie Oliver for serving them vignarola, a rich vegetable stew from nearby Rome. In another episode of that show, Jamie cried with frustration in picturesque Amalfi, where, he said, local people categorically refused to have a taste of his perfectly cooked, traditional Northern Italian risotto. This food snobbery, as it happens, is more typical of the Central and Southern regions, probably as a kind of payback for being treated with contempt by the Northerners. It's a long disheartening story, even more so when you think that, in the current Italian government, one of the ruling parties had spawned out of that historical contempt (or, more to the point, of a thinly disguised sort of racism). I was born in the South, grew up in the Center and then the North, and let me tell you, what a gang of oiks!

And don't get me started on what the forced celebration of mamma's and nonna's cooking really entails. Someone should write an exposé about the dark side of traditional Italian food culture. As much as a slowly and lovingly prepared dish is preferable to ultra-processed fast food, the human cost behind it has always made me question its real worth. OK, I’m being overly dramatic here but, as a girl growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, I was aware that the burden of shopping for groceries, preparing the meals, setting the table, serving the meals, tidying up, doing the washing up – not to mention all the other chores required by housekeeping and child-rearing – were considered women's work, second-wave feminism be damned.

So, young lady, do you wish to become the country's Prime Minister, or an astronaut, or a top athlete, or just be financially independent? Be my guest, so long as you iron your dad's/brother's/husband's/son's shirts before you go, and come back home in time to cook lunch, dinner, supper, elevenses, coffee breaks and snacks. But do it with a smile, sweetie-pie, no one likes a little miss Grumpy, do you want to be an old maid? Now that you mention it, yes, I do, sign me in. Spinsterhood versus marital drudgery looks like an attractive proposition.

You might have heard how, about 20 years ago, McDonald's had to close down a restaurant they'd opened in Altamura, a small Apulian town, because people just wouldn't eat there, having much tastier and healthier alternatives to turn to. That's all very well but, a decade earlier in another small Apulian town, my parents' birthplace, a store specialized in frozen food and ready meals had to close down, because no one would go and buy its products. The reason? No self-respecting lady would dare to be seen in there, lest people should think she wasn't a good wife and mother, but a lazy, slovenly woman.

(BTW, apparently, pasta alla puttanesca does not mean “whore's pasta”, it rather refers to those contemptible slatterns who wouldn't go to the market daily to buy fresh products, but rely instead on jars and cans. Funny how a woman was considered of easy virtue, if she didn't tire herself out, cooking and cleaning all day long.)

Is naming and shaming women still a cornerstone of Italian macho culture, which was – unfortunately though not unusually – shared by a number of ladies too? I hope not anymore, but I suspect it still is. I lucked out and found a good man, as the below photo clearly shows:

Let's move on to another vexata quaestio, the one about authenticity or, better said, what the inflexibility of our culinary culture perceives as authentic and indisputable. In 2021, a book (and subsequent podcast) by Italian academic and food historian Alberto Grandi, Denominazione di origine inventata (Invented Designation of Origin), debunked the myths on which most part of what we regard today as Italian traditional cuisine (and one of its byproducts, the Italian sense of self) has been built in the last 60 years. Good riddance, I say, enough with that self-aggrandizing sense of superiority, like Italy itself had invented food and taste, and the whole nation were a second Moses with his tablets of stone! I mean, the very people who came up with that naff abomination that is tiramisù (a recent, ludicrous invention) should hang their head in shame, and certainly not be snooty towards the rest of the world.

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Here on Substack, I trust the learned, passionate, charming voice and mouth-watering recipes by Giulia Scarpaleggia and her Letters from Tuscany, which I urge you to visit and enjoy. She recently published an article, an interesting, open reflection on who gets to tell the story of Italian cuisine because, apparently, in the English-speaking world, the authorities on Italian cuisine are neither Italians, nor – if they are – do they live in Italy.

I report here a few excerpts from Giulia's brilliant post:

(…) I once came across an online conversation where an American tour guide, now living in Italy, claimed that Italians simply don’t have the tools to translate the culture they live and breathe every day for a foreign audience. In doing so, she implied a kind of silent hierarchy, where the outsider's voice is seen as more “authentic,” simply because it's been better tailored for an English-speaking public.

That's me, Portia, butting in: and doesn't that slightly smack of cultural appropriation?

And here's Giulia again:

(…) if you want to write about Italian food for an international audience, you must either be a foreigner living in Italy, with the wide-eyed wonder of someone discovering a new world, or an Italian living abroad, viewing home through the soft-focus lens of nostalgia. (…)

Perhaps the assumption is that, being so immersed in my own culture, I can't explain it to those observing from the outside. As if I lacked the tools to translate my everyday life into a language that international readers could understand.

But here's the risk: when stories are filtered and repackaged too much, we might end up amplifying the very stereotypes that are so hard to shake. (…)

And so I ask myself: who has the right to tell Italy's story?

To that, I answer without hesitation: anyone, as long as it's done with honesty. Some will speak from lived, everyday experience. Others will tell it as the land they chose for a new life, or as a cherished memory. What I dream of is a space for dialogue, where many voices—Italian, those with Italian roots abroad, and foreign enthusiasts—can coexist, without any of them being dismissed from the start.

Voices that are not Italian, or that view Italy from a different perspective, are essential. We're already far too self-referential when it comes to food, so much so that these “other” voices bring a freshness we often forget, too busy as we are defending dogmas that treat Italian cuisine like a set of sacred commandments that must never be changed. (…)

There's a deeply rooted idea that Italian cuisine must be told through a certain lens. Perhaps that's why, so often, those who succeed in international food writing have a background that allows them to bridge two worlds.

And then there's me (and many talented colleagues like me). Italian, living in Italy. Without the privilege of the outsider's gaze, without the charm of the expat experience. But with a perspective that is just as valuable: that of someone who lives and breathes Italian food every single day, in an authentic, natural way—without needing to build an epic narrative around a simple plate of pasta al pomodoro. Still, the market tends to favor those who tell Italy from afar, because a romanticized version of our cuisine often sells better than reality.

I don't want to create an idealised image of Italy. I want to tell the story of its food as it truly is: imperfect, ever-changing, sometimes contradictory, but always rooted in something real.

That's so well argued and enlightening, Giulia, and it's what you are doing. But what should I do to exorcise myself out of the tempting Zuccotto with Strawberry Biancomangiare, the alluring image of which has been haunting my dreams in these last 2 weeks? I could try and make it, I'm sure it will be even more delicious than it sounds, as I'm sure mine won't be looking so scrumptious, but more like roadkill.

I hope I'll meet you again on here next week, with Operation White Birch, and in 2 weeks (Inshallah), with What's cooking? – Part 2 – Netherlands.

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A plausible explanation for this fascinating phenomenon can be found in this very funny article:

Shades of Greaves

The Best Advice to Grow Your Substack? Don't Post

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2 years ago · 339 likes · 130 comments · Carlos Greaves

Anyhoo, here I am again, undeterred and determined to entertain you – whether you like it or not – with my first literary Magnum Opus, something I started to write in November 2020, during the second or third lockdown. There wasn't much work to do, it was too cold outside in order to take advantage of the Dutch government's benevolent advice to go out twice a day for about an hour, for groceries and/or exercise, and I had yet to discover the joy of either Substack or Netflix. In the words of the poet Mallarmé, “La chair est triste, hélas ! et j'ai lu tous les livres” (The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read). I was hanging out on a web forum for translators, when a colleague challenged me to write something in English. He was writing hilarious James Bond parodies, so I thought I'd go with Austin Powers for inspiration. Lo and behold, I came up with this mouthful of a title – My Brief Stint as an International Woman of Mystery, and wrote 3 small chapters. Then, little by little, the ‘new normal’ gave way to the old normal, and I left my spy story-cum-Bildungsroman to focus on work, and my Japanese language course.

Now I have this newsletter to write, and if anything could motivate me to complete that story, it's you, my cherished audience, we few, we happy few, we band of brothers (and sisters, obvs!). I hereby make a solemn pledge to myself, and especially to you, to write and publish a new chapter at least once a month. I had to change the title to something snappier, and thought of a catchy one, like the label’s caption in the image below, but it rang somewhat familiar, 😉 so I'm going with Operation White Birch.

Here's the first chapter, but it may well become the second or the third one, while this work is in progress. It is a work of fiction, and I rely on my imagination to describe some of the places and institutions in it, which I know zilch, or very little, about. Whether or not you suspend your disbelief, it depends entirely on me, so wish me luck!

Last but not least: this short, incredibly modern-sounding piece of music, composed probably in the first part of the 18th century, is the best introduction I could wish to my story. I hope you enjoy them!

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Chapter 1:

Moscow, second half of the Eighties. I had been summoned by my instructor down KGB Lubyanka HQ, after I had more or less successfully completed my training as a ... well, you know what.

I was told Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Baranov was waiting for me the next day, for a drink and a chat, as a traditional send-off for graduates. It was a huge honour, they said, dress appropriately. In my uniform?, I asked. Mmh, no, not really, something more casual, relaxed, that shows a bit of leg, or a bit of cleavage. Actually, showing both would be better.

Tsk tsk, I thought, men! They can't get their pretty little heads around the basic concepts of Chic and Elegance. You cannot show both at the same time, it's fashion sense 101! And why should I show them, anyway? Well, you're the boss, and if I've ever learned something here, it is not to question what the boss says.

I decided to go for a cheeky bit of cleavage. The fact is that – being as short as I am – showing a bit of leg means showing the whole of it, and that would be an overkill. Be subtle, babe, stay classy, I said to myself, studying the overall effect reflected in the mirror.

Wasn't I half surprised when, instead of being greeted by Lt. Col. Baranov in his grand office, I was ushered in what was known as The Alcove, a small room with no particularly interesting architectural features, except for a queen size bed, two chairs, a small table with a samovar on it, two fine bone china cups with matching teapot, and a mahogany tea caddy.

We had become aware of the Alcove existence thanks to our teacher of English Languages & Vernaculars, the poshest toff you could ever imagine, called simply The Brit. We didn't know much about him, except that he'd probably found himself in Moscow with Kim Philby, had a fondness for strong alcoholic beverages and Motown songs.

One afternoon, following a long liquid lunch, The Brit told us that he'd heard it through the grapevine that the HQ recesses hid a room where you could go, whenever you got that feeling and you needed sexual healing. It's a truth universally acknowledged that a day spent torturing and terrorising a whole nation, plus its satellites, puts you in a romantic, naughty mood.

I was quite naive as a young woman, and it took me five long minutes to understand that I was there in order to faire cattleya with Baranov, a huge, handsome man with a cunning smile.

He offered me a drink from his bottle of lukewarm Shampanskoye, which I halfheartedly sipped, then sat on the bed: "Shall we?", he invited me.

And I faced what I had to face.

After a long, vigorous and not entirely unsatisfactory session of rough Russian rogering, he spoke. "Well hun, (he actually said golubushka– little dove – a common term of endearment), you're young, pink and perky enough to appeal to a certain kind of discerning gentleman, but with that pug-ugly mug of yours, you're not exactly honey trap material, are you?"

"Why, thank you arse... sir, I mean, spassibo, comrade Lieutenant Colonel!"

"Hear me out, kiddo: comrade ‘The Brit’ tells me you're good at languages, so we're going to exploit your linguistic skills and flair, your literary prowess, whatever that son of an Albion bitch means! Now make us a brew, treacle, there's a good girl. And don't get dressed just yet, I might be up for a second round, after I'll drink up my cuppa."

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Read Part 2:

and Part 3:

As for the promise/threat, in the next weeks/months I'm going to publish a short novel (or a long short story, I haven't made up my mind yet), which I began writing in 2020. It's a silly experiment with no literary ambitions at all, that I hope you'll find entertaining.

More news in the following 2 weeks. Stay tuned!

Italy – Perpetuum immobile

In 1961, a booming Italy celebrated the first 100-year anniversary of its unification. So many momentous events (two world wars and a 20-year long fascist dictatorship in-between, to name but a few) had passed since then, and it was a very dynamic society that greeted a new era of economic prosperity and hope for an increasingly better future.

Yet, it is possible that – in those same years of social mobility and flourishing entrepreneurialism – the seeds of fear of instability (instabilità) were sown.

In a woefully mistaken understanding and application of the noble concept of social welfare (or, most likely, in order to gain votes), many jobs were created in the public sector and people started to value being secure in their jobs (i.e., never ever letting go of them until retirement) far more than enjoying them, or – at the very least – more than being generously paid. The utopian island of posto fisso1 was born, a dream to which – apparently – many still cling.

Posto fisso can be loosely translated as permanent position, though this phrase doesn't convey all the nuances it does in Italian – people can have permanent positions, while frequently changing the places and roles they work in during their lives, whereas a posto fisso is the one you take (or, more often than not, someone else – a relative, a politician, a connection – secures for you, in exchange for more or less unsavory favors) and keep for life, in a kind of till-death-do-us-part, monolithic pact.

Instability for us carries a hefty degree of menace in itself. In a country geologically, politically, economically challenged like Italy, where a distinct lack of civic culture and a widely spread amoral familism2 have been a constant throughout its brief history of unification, and way beyond, instability is regarded as something to avoid at all costs.

People want security no matter what, at the cost of sacrificing their own job satisfaction and – on an increasingly wider scale – fairness, meritocracy, social mobility, national competitiveness.

Even the liberal professions experience this kind of immobilism, when the children follow in the family footsteps – inheriting their parents' household names and clients' portfolios – and therefore don't learn to fend for themselves. Freelancers are seen as reckless dimwits, heading down the inevitable road to starvation.

Couple that with an overly complicated tax system and we have the reason why people long for the warm, if suffocating embrace of posto fisso.

The predictable results of this mindset were already apparent in the seventies, but they are, even more so, painfully felt nowadays, when a new wave of highly skilled and well-educated people can no longer aspire to obtain a posto fisso and are leaving the country in droves, in search of better prospects and more dynamic work cultures, moving mostly to the UK, Germany, Northern Europe, just like in the 19^th and early 20^th centuries when their great-grandparents moved to the Americas and Australia.

Surprisingly enough, Italy is still there, one of the largest economies in the world, but how long can a country allow such a brain drain and lose its most precious resources?

It wasn't always like that. In a distant past, Italians had been merchants and intrepid navigators, always ready to brave stormy oceans and commercially conquer faraway lands. Instability was accepted as part of our everyday lives, it was a matter-of-fact way of life, as life in its essence is ever-changing, unpredictable, unstable.

Finally accepting and embracing instability, seeing it as a chance for a brighter, better and fairer future, could be one of the answers. Becoming reliable on our own strengths and – equally or even more important – building mutually trusting business and social relationships, establishing solidarity way beyond our closest families' and friends' circles, could bring a fresh perspective, provide a new start for exciting ventures and – albeit slightly ironically – lay a path to a less unstable future.

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The Netherlands – Going with the flow

In the Netherlands, we don't seem to be too bothered by instability (instabiliteit) – we built our country on sand and water, learnt to live with them and exploit them to our advantage. It has been neither easy, nor straightforward, and it has cost us blood, sweat and tears for centuries on end, but now we're able to rein in those unpredictable elements.

We even named our country according to its peculiar geological features. We could say that not only do the Dutch live on the edge, many of us live under it3.

The sea still defines our lives, as it did in the past. We were whalers, merchants, navigators. The overseas expansion of our geographical borders had a very dark side to it – wars, colonial exploitation, slave trade. But at home, we succeeded in developing a relatively tolerant society, open to people who faced religious persecution in their countries, such as the Sephardi Jews from Spain and Portugal, and the French Huguenots.

The foundations of our modern identity were made stronger during the Gouden Eeuw4 (the Golden Age) in the 17^th century, when we dominated many of the trade routes, the sciences, the arts.

In the 20^th century, we finally lost our empire, survived the Nazi occupation, and emerged again on the world scene as a dynamic and exciting, albeit small and over-populated nation and, quite credibly, a shining beacon of emancipation, tolerance, acceptance.

Was it, though? During the noughties, what we thought of our society was being shattered to the core by the consequences of 9/11 and two local political assassinations5. Suddenly, a new sense of disorientating instability became apparent. We had to come to terms with the fact that, most probably, we had mistaken emancipation with integration and that our unshakable pragmatism was considered too overreaching by a not so small minority of Dutch people.

We are aware that our peculiar geological landscape is something we have to face rationally on a regular basis, and that we will have to work hard around it every day of our lives, if we don't want to be swept away by the constantly rising sea levels. This kind of instability may even look less scary, because it can be monitored and checked. But when it comes to people, a merely dry scientific approach isn't at all helpful. Thinking in terms of numbers or in terms of ‘us versus them’ could actually deepen the sense of fear and instability.

This is the new challenge we have to face nowadays: to reevaluate and redefine our core values of openness and inclusiveness, in order to rebuild those solid grounds that allow our society to withstand instability.

Hello there, lovely readers and new subscribers! I'm uncharacteristically posting on a Wednesday, in order to celebrate the Lunar New Year. I’d like to publish again a delightful story, written by my friend Zibow Retailleau:

Hello! I'm Zibow, a Chinese translator living in Mauritius. I am interested in the Great Wall as well as the Great Firewall.

You cannot tell now but I once was a superstar. I enjoyed an elevated status and had all my peers admiring me. I achieved that at a very early age too – five to be exact.

Leizhou, a coastal city in South China, is where my father comes from. He had lived there for the first part of his life until he was hired by a state-owned enterprise. The job relocated him to Guangzhou, another southern but much more developed city, where he met his first wife and had his first daughter: me.

We lived in Guangzhou but we spent Lunar New Year in Leizhou without fail because, traditionally, one should spend this festival in their hometown with all the family members. Thanks to the population we have, and the fact that many of us leave our birthplaces for big cities in the hope of having a better life, Chunyun, the largest annual human migration in the world, happens during Lunar New Year. Although technically my hometown is Guangzhou, we were outnumbered by the relatives in Leizhou so every year we would join this migration army and march back to our beloved ones.

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The trip was a trial on the body and the mind. The two cities are less than 500 kilometres apart. Not very far. However, at the time, which was from the late 1980s to the early 1990s, no highways or railways connected these two cities. The trip would take 11 to 12 hours of bus ride, and we would be sitting on a measly-cushioned seat all the way. Not that it mattered, as I was rather occupied with the severe motion sickness that I had when I was a kid. I can't say, though, if the sickness was induced by motion, or by the sweat, feet and dandruff smell that filled the bus.

I particularly remember the year 1990. I was five. It was when I started to socialise with other kids. In my initiation, I was wearing a floral dress, white stockings and black dress shoes. My hair was tied into pigtails. The rubber bands were decorated with miniature pink hats. I'm not exaggerating when I say these accessories created a sensation. Kids there did not even have access to electricity, gas or clean water. Fashion sense was luxury. They murmured in Leizhou Min, a dialect spoken there, ‘Look at her dress’, ‘Look at those hats. Are they real?’ and ‘Look at her!’ Some reached out to feel my dress. The more daring ones tried to find out the authenticity of those hair ornaments by gently squeezing them.

I had a special status among the adults too. In Leizhou, at least in our village, Confucian ritual religion was still practised. When we dined there would be two tables, one bigger and taller than the other. Men would eat at the former, while women and children sat crouched around the latter. Father was a ‘worker’ in a big city, as opposed to a ‘peasant’ in a small village. His status was as high as a mandarin's. Being his daughter, I was therefore someone to be reckoned with: I ate with the men at the man table. At that age, I had yet to read Lu Xun’s A Madman's Diary. No, I lived the story first.

I soon blended in and became friends with other kids. There was one to whom I was especially close. I can’t recall her full name, only a character of it: ‘竹’, which means ‘bamboo’. Bamboo was about five years old too. She had chubby cheeks and a deafening voice. She always roared with laughter. She was a fountain of joyfulness, Bamboo.

Back then, most of the villagers were either peasants or fishermen. On the way to the beach were fields, where rice and sweet potatoes were grown. When Bamboo and I, as thick as thieves, passed by those fields we often helped ourselves to some of the sweet potatoes. To be fair, all the other kids were doing that. One time, on the way to join the rest of our little gang, we saw a peasant urinating in her field. ‘Perfect! Let's do it,’ Bamboo told me. Into the field we went and we started to dig out the root vegetables. When the peasant finished her business and stood up, she spotted the intruders. ‘Oi!’ she yelled. We immediately took what we had dug out, held them tight in our arms and ran for dear life. The peasant was coming after us two rascals, swearing and brandishing what I believed was a stick. I was frightened but could not stop laughing. This was probably because Bamboo, while running, was shouting, ‘That bitch was pissing in the field! That bitch was pissing in the field!’ The wind was strong so sound travelled well: That bitch was pissing in the field echoed and echoed.

Eventually, the poor woman gave up her chase and we arrived at the beach with the loot. Some of our friends got a few small crabs and shrimps from their fisherman fathers; those underdeveloped sea creatures would not sell. Bamboo and I showed off our spoils, and we decided to have a picnic. We constructed a ‘sand oven’ on the spot. A hole was dug in the sand, and logs and dead leaves were thrown in. A fire was then started in it and we let it burn out: that was how the sand oven was preheated. The next step was throwing in all the ingredients, burying them with sand and starting another fire on top. The baking time? While I waited for the feast to start I walked around the beach. There were some stranded jellyfish. Some of them were huge, maybe up to one metre in diameter. I didn’t know what these transparent bulges were so, naturally, I kicked one of them. To my delight, it was bouncy! I started to jump on this new-found trampoline of mine. When I got bored, I moved to another jellyfish and repeated the exercise. It must have been about 20 jumps on three different jellyfish each before the food was ready: this was the baking time.

I have to say I don't remember how the food tasted, but as it was fresh and, well, free, it must have been as delicious as this memory.

谢谢 Zibow, you are so talented and should start your own Substack! While you make up your mind, I'd like to share the links to another amazing story of yours – A Malaysia Trip, part 1 and part 2.

I'm fascinated by the Far East, and I've found some wonderful writers on Substack, whose interest and passion for the great cultures of Asia make for compelling reading: Jeffrey Streeter and Yi Xue, who co-authored an article about The Dream of the Red Chamber, a Chinese novel from the 18th century and one of the greatest literary works of all times; Hyun Woo Kim, a Korean writer, whose excellent translations in English of classical Chinese poetry provide solace when the world becomes unbearable; Gianni Simone, an Italian writer living in Japan, and his charming newsletter Tokyo Calling, which makes me so jealous, since Japan is the country I'd love to spend the rest of my life.

Do you have other tips for Asia-related publications on Substack? Please leave a comment and let me know all about them.

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Hello there, dear readers! I'm re-posting this story from last year. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyful Yuletide – may these festive days be peaceful and full of warmth!

Oh, boo hoo, Joseph, stop whining! Pray tell, who's the one having contractions all day and night, trying to squeeze the King of Kings out of her never-travelled-before-in-either-ways road? And in a cold manger in the middle of nowhere, without a midwife in sight for miles? Yours truly, if you haven't noticed yet, all wrapped up in your self-pity.

Who's the one knocked up at the age of 15 by a much, much older man? I'd rather have had my cherry popped by that young and fit Gabriel, but he told me he was asexual - although I'm pretty sure he's gay – but it's OK, I’m not being judgmental, just a tad annoyed.

I still can't believe my parents thought it was all right and totally plausible, having a virgin yet pregnant daughter, but then they're positive that I was conceived without them “sinning”, so they're not exactly the sharpest tools in the box, are they?

The gold will come in handy. We need nappies for the baby, and sanitary towels for me, as I've been leaking all kind of unpleasant stuff since yesterday. Childbirth isn't for the faint-hearted, nor for the weak stomachs.

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Now Joseph, be a lamb and burn some of that frankincense, while I latch on the baby, and don't peek at my boobs, thank you very much! No sex for the next 6 weeks, mister, deal with it. We must observe quarantine, and I'm in total lockdown, if you catch my drift.

In your own name, Jesus baby, stop screaming the roof down, and let mummy sit up straight. Gentlemen, do you mind? I'm trying to breastfeed your Lord here, no need to perv.

Easy tiger, you may be the Son of God, but you're a little bugger, just like any other newborn. Who's a hungry boy? Who's mummy's cheeky monkey? Who's the most beautiful little man in the world? You are, yes, you are, my love.

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I know, I know: not only do the world and his wife have a newsletter on Substack, they also mark every blooming anniversary with a self-congratulatory post.

And why the heck not?! Let's celebrate every small step forward, every teeny tiny triumph, every tender excitement, snatched from the grasping claws of Time and the voracious vortex of Self-Doubt.

In December 2023, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I embarked on a recruitment campaign for my newsletter. I invited my husband and daughter, then I moved on to my friends and colleagues. Surprising things happened. People who hadn't heard from me in years, or weren’t even that close to me promptly subscribed. (You know who you are, you kind, excellent, wonderful human beings: thank you, thank you, thank you! ✨You are all better people than I am.)

Some of my best friends followed suit, whereas a few totally ignored my appeal. One lady was outraged, said she wasn't going to subscribe for all the tea in China, why would I even publish a newsletter, what was I thinking? It hurt at first, but I appreciate her openness. Much better than those forked tongues who replied “Try and stop me!” Apparently, someone did. 😒

I get it, I really do. People have full lives – jobs, families, duties, hobbies. And, in the rare occurrence of a moment of free time, why should they waste it on my newsletter? Let them enjoy some peace and quiet. But for this reason, all the more deserving of gratitude are those who give me the gift of whatever little precious time they have, of their attention and care.

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My success rate on here is underwhelming, I managed to entice just 209 subscribers in a whole year. Actually, it's not too bad, but then I read headlines like these – “I had 1 subscriber when I first published my newsletter, and in 6 months I gained 500!”, “From 0 to 6,000 in 12 months!”, “I brought with me a meager 400,000 followers from Instagram, but now I make a gazillion dollars on Substack, thanks to my most-read post about how to make a gazillion dollars on Substack!” and I feel a bit deflated. Then I get a ‘like’, a comment, or even a lovely personal message, and I'm full of joy and gratitude again: not all is in vain. What a rollercoaster!

What did I really expect? I've always been an introvert. I don't do social media, except for my half-hearted snooping around LinkedIn and a professional website for translators. I find people scary and exhausting. They do fascinate me though, and so I study them from a distance, hoping they won't notice me, or else they'll try to engage with me, only to end up disappointed and bored. I'd rather be thought of as cold and aloof. I'm not sure how I made the friends I have, but I think they deserve more credit for our friendship than I do.

I write for the same reason I read, that is to make sense of the world. And if someone is patient enough to join me in my quest, I'm grateful and moved. And when almost 90% of my cherished subscribers are people from all the continents, whom I couldn't have met anywhere else but on Substack, I reckon there are reasons to be cheerful and optimist: most Earthlings are kind and considerate.

Here's to the kindness of strangers: may we meet them, may we notice them, may we be them for each other.

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When do we become aware of being able to stand up for ourselves? When does that most important superpower kick in?

I was once a geeky, naive, ugly, badly dressed, clumsy and clueless fifteen y. o. girl and I thought God – or the evil emanation of an otherwise uncaring Universe – had sent me to this planet, just so the legions of bullies I'd already had the displeasure of meeting could have endless hours of unspoiled fun at my expenses.

There used to be no respite for me, back then: at home, at school, wherever I had to go and be, someone had to make me feel bad about myself. It was uncanny, and I'm aware I sound like a conspiracy theorist, but that doesn't mean they weren't out to get me. 😉

With the exception of my little brother, a couple of friendly, good-hearted girls, and mostly indifferent but at least innocuous people, the rest of my world was a malignant entity who fed itself on my tears and heartbreak, its eyes lit up with malevolent glee.

There are people who give off a sort of vulnerable vibe and – this world being what it is – there are other people eager to prey on them, thinking they have the right to do so, because gentleness, quietness, intelligence, kindness are seen as signs of weakness: the self-proclaimed Übermensch tramples on the fragile and the meek ones. It's an old story. But I was given a chance, and it came in the most befitting way for a girl who loved all things Russian.

One February afternoon, I went to watch Alexander Nevsky in the monumental building of the Mole Antonelliana, which was hosting an exhibition celebrating the life and works of Soviet cinematographer Sergei Eisenstein.

The room was noisy with boys and girls about my age, undoubtedly forced to be there with their teachers by the extra-curricular activities' policies of their schools. Trying to make myself even smaller than I was, and with my heart beating too fast, I managed to find a seat removed as far as possible from the howling teenage pack.

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Finally, the lights started to dim, and my heartbeat settled down. A man came in, and asked me if the seat on my left was unoccupied. He looked in his early thirties, although he could have been younger, or older, I was still an age when I divided the world in kids and dinosaurs. He was wearing a smart three-piece suit under a camel coat. He was handsome, and his longish, well cut, soft dark brown hair made him look like a 19th-century Romantic poet. He thanked me and sat down.

The opening credits started to roll. The movie depicts the attempted invasion of the Northern Russian city of Novgorod in 1242 by the formidable Teutonic Knights of the Holy Roman Empire, and how Prince Alexander – known as Alexander Nevsky from a previous, victorious battle against the Swedes on the Neva river (the same river which flows through Saint Petersburg, founded later at its mouth in 1703) – defeated them in an epic battle on the iced waters of Lake Peipus. I was reading the subtitles, feeling elated when I could grasp a word or two from the dialogue in Russian which, at the time, were probably just Da and Nyet.

I was sitting with my coat folded upon my knees. I felt my left knee itching. I adjusted myself on the seat, smoothing the hem of my skirt. My knee started itching again, as if a spider were tapping around it. I realized what was happening. I wouldn't dare to look at my left. The man's hand crawled towards my thigh. The blood felt like ice in my veins, and my head filled up with panicked thoughts: What do I do now? Should I leave? Should I cry for help?

None seemed like a viable proposition. I didn't want to make a fuss, because I knew that no one would have believed me. By that point, I had internalized the bullying “discourse” so much I could play a script of “Yeah, right, in your dreams!”, “Oh, a handsome man touching you, you wish, uggo!”, and so on and on.

After the initial “freeze” moment, when the brain assesses what to do (stop, look, and listen), and seeing that I wasn't going to flee the scene because I wasn't the one in the wrong, I decided I had to fight back, inspired by the brave Prince Alexander.

I was wearing a stainless steel wristwatch. Holding my breath, I managed to remove it. The buckle extender on the band had a slightly sharp edge. Clutching the watch with my left hand, I raised it and landed it with all my strength on the man's hand under my skirt. I heard a hushed gasp. That poor excuse of a man, let's call him Mr. Perv McPervyface, stood up from his seat and left the room in the dark.

For the first time in my life, I felt a sense of control. I was acting, not being acted. I could defend myself, I had a right to do so, and a duty as well, but the important thing was that I could and I did.

I enjoyed the movie till the end, singing in my heart along with the splendid, rousing score by Sergei Prokofiev, then I indulged my nerdy side (all my sides are nerdy, actually) visiting the exhibition. On my way home, I browsed all the Parisian-like bouquinistes' stands on the portico-lined streets, and bought a couple of books. I remember that day as one of the bright moments of my life.

I didn't tell anyone about what had happened for decades, what would have been the point? When, some 20 years later, I told my father this story, he said: “You've always had such a violent streak!” “WTAF, dad, way to mistake the finger for the moon! Are you even listening to yourself? How am I the villain here? What about him, the guilty part, the pedo? Should I have told him: ‘Kind sir, I'm ever so flattered by your polite – if unrequested – attention. Here, let me remove my garments, so that you can fondle underage me with the utmost comfort and ease. I wish you a merry ride!’”

So, you see, if that was all the sympathy and support my own father had managed to muster for me, the victim, I think I was right to keep schtum.

Since forever, too many little children have had to endure sexual harassment, and no one believed them. I was lucky, in that I wasn't alone on the streets at night, and that scoundrel was clever enough to leave before getting himself into trouble. But he got away that time, and who knows how many other girls he got to terrorize and pester, and went unpunished. For me, that wasn't even the first time, or the last one, that I met a pedophile (and they never looked like weirdos, quite the opposite, in fact), and I've heard too many similar stories in my life.

Those child molesters, those bullies are just cowards. They prey on the vulnerable and the weak. I hope there is a special place in Hell for them, and I volunteer for a round of harsh but fair punishment, involving anal probes. Well, maybe dad's right after all, I do have a violent streak. But that's what Alexander says, at the end of film: “Whoever will come to us with a sword, from a sword will perish.” Don't you say I didn't warn you.

Watch Alexander Nevski with English subtitles on Mosfilm YouTube channel:

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If you are here for the first time, a warm welcome to you, esteemed reader. I refer you to Part 1 and Part 2 of this essay.

No matter how long I've been translating, some words still defy all attempts to pin them against an irrefutable meaning that would make my work easier and quicker. One of such word is cool, not as in adjectives like “chilly; cold; fresh”, but as in “fashionably attractive or impressive”, and as in nouns like “calmness; composure.”

I'm part of a team, responsible for the localization into Italian of a US fashion house's product descriptions. Localization is a process, which focuses on the adaptation of a piece of content's meaning to a specific market, using translation, cultural elements, and associated imagery.

“Cool” is one of the most recurring adjectives in those descriptions. We don't have a semantic equivalent in Italian for cool. Actually we do have it – it's fico/figo (depending on how this term is pronounced in Central and Southern Italy, and in the North, respectively) – but it's an extremely informal, slangy word, not at all in line with our client's tone of voice. Therefore, I have to rack my brains every single time I stumble upon some “cool” item of clothes or accessories.

Let's digress for a moment, re: fico/figo. Fico means fig, as in the Mediterranean, late summer juicy fruit from the fig tree. How come it means also something along the lines of “fashionably attractive or impressive”? According to one of my monolingual Italian dictionaries, the term dates back to 1979 and is the masculine form of the word fica/figa, which might or might not have originated from the fig fruit. Now, things get complicated. As it happens, fica/figa is a rude word for vulva, like cunt in English. But, unlike in English, it doesn't also mean a stupid, unpleasant, contemptible person, quite the contrary, in fact.

When referred to a woman, it means “hot, sexy, a piece of ass”, a vulgar term, and a real gentleman should know better than saying it, he'd rather go for the unimpeachable and classic “beautiful and irresistible.” Fico/Figo, referred to a man, means “cool, popular, stylish, attractive.” Well, of course it does. 🙄 I'm so peeved that there are always two weights, two measures, and the same old sexist differences in semantic. Let us ladies reclaim the whole lot of feminine nouns and adjectives as positive signifiers of fabulousness, class and dignity. ✊🏻

On the other hand, when something is really great and cool, we say it's a figata. Still not an elegant word, but not that rude either, just informal. And, last but not least, in Swedish, fika means coffee break (with cakes!), an absolute figata in my book.

And we're back to cool. Sometimes, the American copywriters have fun, and come up with descriptions like “Keep your cool this summer in this versatile, refined linen shirt”, combining two meanings, double trouble for me, so I try to translate it in a way that reads smoothly or, at the very least, not too clunky. Do I succeed? One of my editors is a cherished subscriber, let's see what she thinks about my endeavors. (Ciao, Susanna!)

Now that I think about it, we do have a word for cool, it's sprezzatura. This word first appeared in Baldassare Castiglione's 1528 Il Cortegiano, The Book of the Courtier. I read this book while at Uni, almost 40 years ago, but I have to say that never before then, nor afterwards have I heard this quite fancy term mentioned in any instance in Italy. I don't think our client would approve, though. So much the worse for them, because it's a perfectly cromulent word.

The fact is, English is a flexible and clever language, so much so that I think it has a mind of its own. It soaks up the Zeitgeist of any particular period of history, and creates new words and idioms, often drawing on its virtually inexhaustible lexicon, built up on a West Germanic substratum, plus the mighty, kaleidoscopic contribution of a variety of Indo-European languages, and many other languages from around the world.

In the end, English is my language of choice as a writer, just as it was for Conrad and Nabokov. Mind you, I'm perfectly aware that, compared to those shining stars (Nabokov is more of a galaxy), I am but a tiny speck of dust, If I am anything at all.

About Conrad, Nabokov – whom I adore and worship, but who could be a downright grumpy old man, albeit a very witty one – said in Strong Opinions, “(…) as I have well said somewhere before, I differ from Joseph Conradically. First of all, he had not been writing in his native tongue before he became an English writer, and secondly, I cannot stand today his polished cliches and primitive clashes.”

For Nabokov, the choice of English was born out of necessity, out of the historical cataclysm of the Bolshevik Revolution in his childhood's Russia “My private tragedy,” he wrote, “which cannot, indeed should not, be anybody's concern, is that I had to abandon my natural idiom, my untrammeled, rich, and infinitely docile Russian tongue for a second-rate brand of English.”

Writing in a language different from our mother-tongue means to lay down all the common referents, the realia, i.e. words and expressions for culture-specific material elements, which we share with readers who speak our same language. His English, Nabokov argued, “was devoid of any of those apparatuses” he enjoyed in Russian, “the implied associations and traditions—which the native illusionist, frat-tails flying, can magically use to transcend the heritage in his own way.”

I believe that it's thought that informs language, and not the other way round, as per Chomsky's Universalist theory of language, according to which “linguistic structures are largely innate and (…) what are perceived as differences between specific languages are surface phenomena that do not affect the brain's universal cognitive processes,” and as per Steven Pinker's The Language Instinct, in which he argues that “thought is independent of language, that language is itself meaningless in any fundamental way to human thought, and that human beings do not even think in "natural" language, i.e. any language that we actually communicate in; rather, we think in a meta-language, preceding any natural language, termed ‘mentalese’.”

Therefore, I'd say that the language through which we convey our thoughts is a space where we could either feel at home or abroad, but where we are never out of place. We belong in it, even if we have to learn to move inside of it. After all, isn't writing a process of defamiliarization, where we try to find and define ourselves?

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