Here I am again, apologising for absence of letters. If truth be
known, so relieved to have found creative energy to continue with Granny
Elena's memoirs that have allowed myself to be immersed in writing. But
comments from followers about wanting to hear from me have prompted me to write
again. As I wrote in last letter, after stresses of pending trial (see posts: June 6: An ongoing trial; May 7: Trial begins), was in desperate need to return to Moscow to see family.
Wanted to fly but, despite being related to famous Mikhail Bakhtin, brought up to be economical whenever possible and as it was too late to get cheap flight, decided to go by train via Brussels, Cologne and Warsaw.
A
delightful thing happened on the overnight train from Cologne and Warsaw. My compartment was empty apart from one other
traveller who turned out to be a famous writer, Prospelov. On finding out that Bakhtin was my grandpa he
invited me to have dinner with him.
Buffet car was charming: mahogany furniture, linen tablecloths and cosy
lamps. It was dark and snowing. Had fascinating conversation with Prospelov. He asked to read my memoirs of Aunt Mischa
from my Notebook, then commented that he’d like to be my mentor. As I hesitated, knowing I couldn’t afford to
pay for a mentor, he explained that he was currently researching relationship
between mentors and mentees, and therefore wouldn’t charge as I’d be helping
him. Readily accepted and we agreed to
meet face to face several times a year and to skype in between. Although was looking forward to getting to
Moscow and seeing my aunt, was almost disappointed when train arrived in
Warsaw.
Aunt Mischa met me at
station and drove me back to apartment - wonderful place with high ceilings and
walnut furniture. Uncle Stanislav was antiques dealer before dying of
heart attack while attempting to move a neo-Renaissance cabinet.
After dinner first night, noticed funny smell in bedroom. Seemed to be coming from my rucksack which I hadn't unpacked. As I emptied it out, sprang back when I heard a groan from the bottom. Miaowed to Aunt Mischa who came scrambling through. Another groan emerged from rucksack. Aunt Mischa helped me empty it onto the bed.
The last thing to fall out was a white, inert object reeking of alcohol. Old readers will know immediately that this was flatmate, white mouse, Neville. He opened his eyes, burped and rushed off to loo, presumably to throw up. On the bed lay a note from another flatmate, Saussure, explaining that Neville was so overcome with guilt at having bought doctored cat nip (see post of 30th October: Retreat to Moscow) that he felt he owed it to me to spend time in Moscow, acting as my assistant (though it didn't state how Neville thought he could assist me).
Aunt Mischa made Neville drink a thimbleful of water and found one of Uncle Stanislav's thickest scarves for him to sleep in.
Purrs, Bakhtin
