ABSTRACT
Yesterday, around three o’clock in the afternoon, I was standing waiting for Misha in front of the Manège, near the Kremlin. It was a dark, wet afternoon with a fine sleet in the air; Russians of all ages crowded up the steps of the Manège, a huge yellow building that was formerly the imperial riding school and now holds exhibits of contemporary art. Misha and his friends were supposed to come by and take me to a café, the Aramat, near Gorky Street, and they were late. I scanned the crowd and thought once again how much nicer Russians looked dressed for cold weather: they are ungainly and ill at ease in their badly cut summer clothes, but winter in Moscow means fur, rich fur, everywhere, spangled with melting flakes of snow. Suddenly a slight start went through the crowd. People paused to look, an old woman nearby said “Gospodi!” (“My Lord!”), and a policeman standing in front of me turned his head thoughtfully. It's them, I thought, and, sure enough, I saw Misha waving his big hand as he made his way nonchalantly toward me. Behind him came a little troop of six men and women dressed as he was, their long hair blowing in the sleety wind, their bells and beads tinkling and rattling.
