That Life-Saving Russian Face

When abroad, most Russians do not relish the idea of bumping into a group of compatriots. A friend who recently traveled to Paris said he made a point of avoiding “by kilometers” any place where he might run into “russkiye.” I can’t approve of such snobbism, but I have to admit I understand it. Truth be told, the “aura” of romanticism a Russian intellectual feels when in Paris dissipates at the sight of fellow Russians. And you would have to be blind not to be able to pick out one of us Russians from a crowd of travelers.

In the Soviet era, when traveling abroad was much less common (last year 12 mn Russians went abroad!), a group of Soviet tourists was immediately recognizable. Gray, poorly-tailored suits with ugly ties were an immediate tip-off, as was, in summer, the audacity of wearing sandals with such an outfit. Then there were the golden teeth and the huge, logo-festooned bags from the cheapest stores.

Today, Russian tourists dress differently, but are no less recognizeable. The ugly Soviet suits have given way to Armani outfits or black Versace jeans, golden chains or, in summer, loud, multicolored shorts and expensive krossovki (running shoes). And don’t even get me started about the “New Russians” occupying the best hotels in Cote d’Azure (where locals have dubbed them nuvarishi—combining “tovarischi” and “nouveaux riches”).

Perhaps Vladimir Vysotsky (who was married to French movie star Marina Vladi) put it best, singing about “Russian scribblings in Paris toilets,” and how Russians are “needed in Paris like skis in a Russian banya.”

So, while I try not to be a snob and am certainly not the least bit ashamed about being Russian, I do realize that identifying myself as such can carry certain “baggage” abroad. As a younger man, I lived in Paris for a few years, so I can pass myself off as a local without much trouble. But then there is this Russian face—not something you can hide. But, as a recent trip to the French capital showed, sometimes that is not all bad.

The first incident took place when my son Dima and I were strolling near the Arc de Triomphe. I was explaining how Napolean built the Arch to commemorate his victories, yet this didn’t stop Russian Cossacks from bivouacing on the adjacent Champs Elysees after they entered Paris in 1814. A car braked near us and a guy yelled out the window in poor English, laced with a thick Italian accent. “Oh, you, Mister, you have mustache, you must be Italiano, come here ...” I responded in English that “I am no Italiano, sorry,” but this only excited the fellow more. “Oh, you speak English? It is so good, then who are you?”

When he learned I was Russian, he was positively effusive: “Oh Russia, Sheremetevo-2, I know, I have office in Moscow, we sell Valentino. You know Valentino?” At which point his driver pulled out a black bag containing a beautiful suede Valentino jacket and a fashionable winter coat with fur lining. I am no slave to fashion, but even in my ignorance, I knew this was valuable stuff. Despite my protests, our two new friends forced the bag on me: “Russo, very good souvenir for you, my friend, moda Italian, no money.”

Well, as they say in Russia, “Dayut beri, a byut begi” (“When they give you something, take it; when they beat you, run away.”) Apparently, these two fellows were fashion dealers who had just made a presentation in Paris, distributing samples for free. Having spent all their money, they were “giving away” leftovers to people friendly enough to give them a little cash for petrol to get back to Milan. One might think it easy to get a little help selling such stuff from one’s car, but this was Paris, not New York. And Parisians are not very well represented in the Good Samaritan Hall of Fame.

So, to these young Italians, a friendly Russian was a “find.” And, even though I had no intention of buying expensive jackets while in Paris, I acquired them for what pocket change I had on me—roughly $80 in Francs. How could I not help a fellow traveler?!

Later, Dima and I were at Places des Tertres at Monmartre, where sidewalk portraitists abound. A young female artist approached us, saying she liked my son’s face (good taste!) and offered to do a portrait. I responded in Parisian French with a resounding “non,” but my Russian face had not escaped her attention.

Sure enough, we soon were talking in Russian; it turned out she was a Russian art student who has been living in Paris for 18 months, supplementing her income with portraiture. Soon her price had fallen to a fraction of going Monmartre rates (“aren’t we compatriots, after all?!”). She drew a wonderful portrait of my son, and I bought her a glass of Bordeaux in the nearest bar.

Still later that evening, dead tired after carrying my son’s tennis bag and the huge Valentino bag around the city, I was in the suburb of Montreuil, trying to get a cab. There would be no simple waving by the side of the road here, like in Moscow. The only way was to enter a bar and order a drink, so I could ask the bartender to order a cab by phone. Yet the barkeep was not encouraging: “At this hour [it was just 10 pm] taxi drivers are usually slow to come to our suburb,” he said. “Gospodi!” I muttered. “Such a lucky day can’t end on such a note.” And indeed it could not. Within five minutes, there stood a cab.

“Bonsoir!” I said in greeting.

“Ivanov?” the driver asked, reading from his order form. “Russkiye?” he said with a thick Moscow accent, examining my face closely.

“Yes, yes, of course,” I answered impatiently in Russian, my defenses up. “Let’s quickly find our hotel.”

“No French cabby would ever agree to take such a late call in Montreuil,” our Russian cabby persisted. “By this time, they all stick to Paris. But I gladly agreed to take the call after reading your name—at least there would be someone to talk to in my native tongue.”

Bozhe moi! If a Russian face can have such luck in Paris, just think what could happen anywhere else!