Metro Stop Dostoevsky – Excerpt
It was two o'clock in the morning of February 3, 1990, when the phone rang next to my bed. "I can talk for only two minutes," B said, shouting over the crackling line to make herself heard. "I'm calling from Siberia. I have my passport, and they just gave me an exit visa. There's a ticket available to America from Leningrad this Saturday, or else one for next August. Those are the only two dates available. I have to decide now. Do you still want me to come?"
I didn't have time to ask her why she was calling from Siberia instead of Leningrad, but she probably wouldn't have been able to answer anyway, with the Russian operator listening in. Nor had anything been said about how long she planned to stay. This was her first trip outside of Russia, and I knew from her last letter that she and her husband had just separated. Under those circumstances anything could happen.
By then, of course, I already knew about invitations, knew that you can't just say to someone in Russia, "I'd love to have you come visit me in America," and then forget about it. An invitation is an official gesture, requiring official documents, not just an invitation, but an Invitation, a Priglashenie, presented to the local Russian-government passport office as a request for an external passport, which, if granted, then becomes a request to the American government for a visa to enter the United States, and is followed by another request to the Russian government for an exit visa. Invitations are coveted trophies, particularly since Russians can receive permission to travel to the West only if they have a notarized invitation. People forge invitations, or buy them for astronomical sums, or agree to rent their apartments to people who are willing to give them invitations. Invitations are to Russians what green cards are to foreigners in America. This was true then, and it is still true now. Although many things have changed in Russia, the invitation has not, and Westerners who offer invitations in a general sort of way often have little idea of the leaps of heart produced by the gesture, nor do they have any idea of what they are potentially getting into.
Bengis, Ingrid (2003) Metro Stop Dostoevsky - Travels in Russian Time; North Point Press, pp3-4.
I didn't have time to ask her why she was calling from Siberia instead of Leningrad, but she probably wouldn't have been able to answer anyway, with the Russian operator listening in. Nor had anything been said about how long she planned to stay. This was her first trip outside of Russia, and I knew from her last letter that she and her husband had just separated. Under those circumstances anything could happen.
By then, of course, I already knew about invitations, knew that you can't just say to someone in Russia, "I'd love to have you come visit me in America," and then forget about it. An invitation is an official gesture, requiring official documents, not just an invitation, but an Invitation, a Priglashenie, presented to the local Russian-government passport office as a request for an external passport, which, if granted, then becomes a request to the American government for a visa to enter the United States, and is followed by another request to the Russian government for an exit visa. Invitations are coveted trophies, particularly since Russians can receive permission to travel to the West only if they have a notarized invitation. People forge invitations, or buy them for astronomical sums, or agree to rent their apartments to people who are willing to give them invitations. Invitations are to Russians what green cards are to foreigners in America. This was true then, and it is still true now. Although many things have changed in Russia, the invitation has not, and Westerners who offer invitations in a general sort of way often have little idea of the leaps of heart produced by the gesture, nor do they have any idea of what they are potentially getting into.
Bengis, Ingrid (2003) Metro Stop Dostoevsky - Travels in Russian Time; North Point Press, pp3-4.
No comments:
Post a Comment