BERMUDA TRIANGLE, COMMUNISM AND BLOOD MONEY

Dedicated to all ‘Gnessin Musical College’ students of 1980’s. If any of you are still alive, that is.

A million dollar question…..’What was the best time of your life?’.

I suspect your mind will jump back to your school or college years. 

Of course it will. Time affects our memories. Our brain is very selective, we tend to romanticise or dramatise certain events, to re-write our history, to forget something important or to invent something new entirely. Not me though. I am old and wise. I know the best time is now. Not tomorrow, not  yesterday but NOW. 

If I think about my student years, the only question I ask myself is this, ‘How did I survive?’. Mind you, we’re talking about the 80’s in the USSR, which was tough going. We were revving our lives to the full, very much like those engines in souped up Nissans, which Athlone kids race on country roads at 5am. The cars are barely held together but they have nitro-oxide booster, which means they can do 700 miles a minute and last for about 3 hours.

We did the same and we thought we’ll live forever.

Insane studying, partying, kitchen disputes till 9am, that’s all I can remember. We didn’t have time to sleep, we were thirsty, we were hungry. We had to beg and borrow money for concerts, books, drinks, food. We had to improvise. I have to say…. some of those methods were quite ingenious.

Here comes the story of the ‘Bermuda Triangle’. It was an unofficial name of the little spot in the centre of the ‘Park of Friendship’ in Moscow. It had a statue of a hero pioneer holding a trumpet. His posture was supposed to show his devotion to the Great October Revolution. A picture of a male genitalia was painted on his back by politically incorrect elements of our society. It was called a ‘Social Realism’.

Next to the sculpture, an ‘International Friendship Tree’ was sticking out from the ground. It was planted by the Uzbekistan Communist Party Secretary on the 1st of May celebration some years ago and it was supposed to symbolise unbreakable unity of workers from around the world. It always had 5 or 6 empty glasses stuck on its branches. They were untouchable as this drinking spot was reserved for the specific group of customers – those who came through the ‘Bermuda Triangle’ selection process. Anyone else was banned and intruders were severely beaten up.

The ‘Bermuda Triangle’ consisted of three spots which formed a geometrically perfect triangle. A ‘Blood Station’, a Bank and a ‘Wino-Wodu’ shop. There was a specific order of events which upon completion would bring you to the centre of the triangle, to the sacred spot called ‘Shambala’, located between the ‘Friendship Tree’ and ‘Hero Pioneer’, and make you an honourable member of the prestigious ‘Bermuda Triangle’ society.

A ROAD TO PARADISE.

At around 5am or so, shaking and stuttering victims of industrial liquids misuse, would start creeping out from the dark shadows. They were the most affected members of the ‘Bermuda Run’. Their drink of choice would be any liquid or substance which contained alcohol. Shoe polish, medicine, perfume, window cleaner, paint thinner, insect repellant, rubber glue etc. Knowing perfectly well that chances of them getting inside the ‘Blood Station’ are equal to zero, they would still circle around the admission room, hoping for the miracle. They would try to look sober, walk straight and not to vibrate too much. They would be so desperate, they would start a highly animated gibberish conversation, just to prove to the station personnel that they’re still alive. They’d routinely try to insert their wasted bodies into different groups of participants, but they’d be mercilessly kicked out. They were called ‘Zombies’. 

Closer to the opening time, single and disorganised, grumpy and cranky proletariat elements would start appearing one by one. They’d have green faces and dark circles under their bloodshot eyes, but at least they would be able to walk straight. This particular group would be the most patriotic one. Their drink of choice would mainly be vodka with experimental chemicals, courtesy of our then tsar, Mr Brezhnev.

The group to follow was called ‘Intelligenty-Blya!’. They would wear hats, crumpled suits with numerous greasy spots, glasses and carry a very strong smell of cheap perfume, which was supposed to mask the ‘Exhaust’ – a smell of yesterday’s frivolities. I remember a comment from the ‘Proletariat’ group. ‘Ow, look at them bloody ballerinas…!!!’. Traitors!!! Go back to your Israel!!!’. Due to genetic fear and distrust of anything academic, ‘Proletariat’ would never attempt any physical violence against ‘Intelligenty-Blya!’, who in turn would completely ignore ‘Zombies’ and ‘Proletariat’ groups and their remarks.

‘Intelligenty-Blya!’ would usually be immersed into some kind of scientific, historical or artistic debate. The names of Aristotle, Einstein, Beethoven, Dostoevsky, references from Harvard or Cambridge research groups, quotes from Shakespeare and such would be hurled at each other. Their drink of choice would be Armenian or Georgian ‘Cognac’. 

My sincere apologies to our French comrades, but in my honest opinion, no French cognac can be allowed anywhere near Georgian or Armenian Brandy. Sorry!

At around 5.45, fresh, energetic and well-organised, the ‘Hope of the Nation’ group would march in. That would be us, ie music students. We’d be hung over as well, but being young, we’d still manage to look clean, healthy and full of energy. Sort of. 

Also, instead of rubber glue, window cleaner or antifreeze, we would have higher pedigree drinks in our system – fortified wine, which for some bizarre reason was called ‘Portwein’. Soviet ‘Portwein’ had some interesting qualities. It was used as a grease solvent, wood paint and contraception aid. Rumours were it was sent to Middle Asian republics in huge quantities to regulate birthrate and to keep patriotic mood on the required level. The bottle itself was called a ‘Bomba’ and was perfectly shaped and balanced for the purpose of self-defence in case of a scientific disagreement. If your opponent’s skull was harder than your ‘Bomba’, the bottle would break, leaving you with very dangerous weapon, which was called a ‘Rozochka’ (a little rose). Very romantic.

Our group would be greeted with howling, whistling, insults, accusations and death treats. All in vain though. We were determined and we were united. We knew the drill and we were prepared. The ‘Zombie’ group was never a threat due to their solvent-induced weakness, ‘Intelligentsia’ was too occupied with their academic disputes, so the only real threat was coming from the ‘Proletariat’ group. Street-fights in Moscow were a common occurrence, and they were more experienced fighters, but thanks to Mr. Brezhnev and his chemical experiments, the ‘Proletariat’ group in the early morning hours was disoriented and disorganised. We would fiercely protect the integrity of our group and any aggression would be dealt with determination and military precision.

STEP 1. ‘The Blood Station’.

‘Citizen! Give blood, give life. One day you might need some and you will wonder…’

This deeply philosophical concept was printed on the red banner, which was hanging near the door of ‘Laboratoria’. Below, in smaller letters, a more prosaic sign stated, ‘If you have gonorrhoea or syphilis – think again!!!’. 

It’s been thirty-five years, and I still don’t have a slightest idea what it was supposed to mean. 

A ‘Sanitar’ was responsible for the first stage of the selection process. ‘The rule of conduct’ leaflet stated, ‘If you are drunk or hangover, you cannot enter’.  As nearly everything in the USSR, it was largely symbolic rule. Everyone in the queue was or drunk or hangover, so everyone would be let in anyway, except of the ‘Zombie’ group, who would be left outside because they were neither drunk or hangover. They were glowing in the dark and they were half-dead.

You enter ‘Laboratoria’, where a doctor sticks a needle into you, gets a sample of blood, writes down your name and lets you go. The next 15 minutes would define your near future and well-being. If you are not suffering from any incurable diseases, you are called in. Congratulations! You are cleared to give 500 ml of your blood and to receive 25 roubles in return. It was ‘Bloody Money’ indeed.

We used to call it ‘Perpetuum Mobile’. You lose a half a litre of blood, then you replace it with 2 or 3 litres of alcohol, then you repeat the procedure again. And again. At some point there will be no blood left in your system, just alcohol. An interesting concept, but we were never able to prove its practical validity. At some point ‘Sanitars’ would simply refuse to let you in. They’d say, ‘Get out and get some meat on your bones, then come back’. Which would completely invalidate results of the experiment.

Step 2. ‘The Bank’.

Well, nothing exciting here. You run as fast as you can to the bank – the second point of the triangle. You go to the little window, you present a piece of paper from the ‘Laboratoria’ and get your ‘bloody money’.

Step 3. ‘The Purgatory’.

A short run from the bank to the wine shop was the most dangerous part of the journey by far. It was the ‘Zombies’ last chance to reclaim their lives. Forget American Football……none of those highly trained giants would last five seconds between the points two and three. You literally run for your life. Local pensioners sitting on the bench were betting on who will make it to the shop and who will not. Our youth, unity, discipline and military planning were decisive factors at this stage. ‘Intelligentsia’ group thought running was undignified. ‘Proletariat’ members were only concerned with their own fate and therefore presented easy targets to the ‘Zombies’, who would grab a factory worker or professor or microbiology, wrestle him to the ground and relieve him of the holy banknote….while the rest was trotting along, ignoring desperate cries for help. We, the ‘Pride of the Nation’, would consolidate our ranks and run in a military formation. We had an agreement – no man is left behind!!! Like a pack of proud lions we were flying through the prairie, ignoring hyenas who were attempting to steal our livelihood. 

The next step was to squeeze yourself into the hundred-strong crowd inside the shop, which required some drastic manoeuvring. It was a nearly impossible task as maximum occupancy of the shop was just 20-30 people. We used a technique, which Swedish Knights used during the war in 1788 to break through enemy lines. We locked hands, screamed and ran straight at the crowd at full speed. It usually worked.

Inside the shop we had another obstacle. You cannot just march to the stand and buy something. The USSR was highly bureaucratic country with millions of senseless rules, procedures and regulations, which everyone had to follow even if everyone knew that it all is a total waste of time, energy and resources…. a bit like a modern Europe, I’d say. So, the procedure was as follows. You spend 15-20 minutes in the queue, fighting, pushing and shouting. You secure yourself a bottle of your choice, get a note, then run to join another 20 min queue, and finally present your note and 25 roubles to the cashier – a blue-eyed country girl who’ll look at you and ask, ‘and what goods are you paying for, exactly..?’. You could be killed instantly for the joke like this, but she would be so fresh, naive and innocent that nobody would take it seriously.

You pay, get a receipt, run back, join another 20 minute queue, locate your goods, have a last fight, win, collect……and exit the purgatory!!! You emerge from the shop holding your precious four of five ‘Bombas’, exhausted, shaking, limping, sweaty, half of your sleeve missing, a few scratches here and there, blood on the knuckles, a loose tooth, a black eye, a torn ear etc., but filled with hope and anticipation. Another battle won, another step for humanity made.

Step 4. ‘The Journeys End’. Final steps to ‘Shambala’.

We had a very complicated drinking culture in USSR. It’s practically impossible to describe and to explain all intricacies, customs and ethics connected to the drinking process. You’ll be surprised to hear that after you got your prise and exit the shop you’ll became untouchable. No one will stand in your way, no one would even dare to say or do anything to make you feel uncomfortable. No ‘Zombie’ would dare to suggest that you share your treasure with someone less fortunate. No ‘Proletariat’ will call you a ‘parasite’ and a ‘traitor’. Even ‘Intelligentsia-Blya’ will offer you a hand to help you down the stairs. The whole world will silently bless you, your courage and skill. Pensioners, who were betting on you an hour ago will pat you on the back and say things like, ‘now son, well done, have a well deserved rest!’. 

I know, it sounds bizarre. You really have to be born in the USSR to understand this. 

The last stretch towards ‘Shambala’ was something you’d remember for a long time. You were not simply walking to the centre of the ‘Bermuda Triangle’,  you were descending… like an angel walking on clouds, carrying a golden harp and a trinket of ambrosia. You were entering the sacred place, joining your brothers, your comrades, your soul mates, joining those select few who went through the grilling hours of fighting and suffering, losing old friends and making new ones. There will be no class division, no aggression, no ‘Proletariat’ or ‘Intelligentsia’, only happy, equal  and enlightened human beings, united in love, friendship, harmony and universal balance. There will be poetry, philosophical discussions, songs, stories, sharing of wisdom and experience….for a while. 

Then a harsh reality will kick in, but that’s a different story altogether. 

Actually, if I remember correctly, it was in ‘Shambala’, where I lost my tooth during the discussion about one of the Dostoevsky books. You have to excuse me, as I might have a slight tendency to exaggerate. I am Gemini after all.

I remember thinking about our geriatric government….’You were trying to build a communism. You tried hard. You killed millions of people, you displaced nations, you lied, stole, poisoned, tortured, perverted….. and for what? Where is your communism? 

Well, let me tell you something. It was right there, in the centre of the ‘Bermuda Triangle’. It would start at around 12am, and it would go on for the most of the day, then it would end, sometimes quite drastically, but the next day it’ll start again’. And again and again. 

As long as there was a need for blood, (50 roubles per litre), Communism in ‘Shambala’ would continue to exist in its purest form. 

P.S. The park is gone now. It’s been replaced by the shopping centre. 

No ‘Hero Pioneer’, no ‘Friendship Tree’, no ‘Bermuda Triangle’, no ‘Shambala’.

They sell iPhones instead of buying blood. 

That’s Capitalism for you. What they’ve  gained, we’ve lost.