3. The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming

The next day I returned to the Lowry Theatre, which is located in the Salford Quays. This newly developed area is part of the Manchester Canal, which, over one hundred years ago, was built as a direct route from land-locked Manchester, forty miles, to the Irish Sea. Now it is an upscale center for restaurants, stores, theatre and condos. I walked around to the back of the theatre knowing that’s where the circus would be loading in if they were here yet. I saw their truck. There were a couple of people sitting in the loading dock smoking so I knew instinctively that they were Russian. As I approached they looked me over wearily.
“Dobre din.” I greeted them. “Eskin? Uh…flyers?” I made some ridiculous gestures with my hands that I thought conveyed the physical allusion of aerialists but which they somehow misinterpreted as me having an underarm rash. The only other Russian phrases I could remember were “I love vodka” and “You’re very beautiful.” Neither of which would have served me well at the moment. Some of the stagehands came out from the back of the truck, and stood guardedly on the loading dock above me. I continued my pantomime. “Evgeny? Irena? Here?”

“Nyet.”

I knew that they weren’t going to be performing here in Manchester but I had hoped that they would be around to help with the set up. They’ll begin their tour next week in Nottingham; not far from Grantham. Well. Another wasted day.
“Alina Eskina?” I looked up to see a woman peeking from behind one of the beefy stagehands.
“Alina is here? Uh…Vot?” I couldn’t believe it.

Alina was the 10 year-old girl that “adopted” Jennifer and me when we toured with the circus throughout Japan. In the eyes of the Russians we were interlopers. They were three and four generations’ circus families. Not only that but we were making them tailor their acts to our big Vegas-style magic show. The resentment was palpable. And then one day during rehearsals, Alina literally crossed the circus ring and started to interact with us. She didn’t speak English and our Russian was about the same but somehow we managed. After she broke the ice her parents slowly camr around. We became wonderful friends with Evgeny and Irena, and through them, the rest of the performers.

That was almost 13 years ago. We tried to stay in contact but it proved nearly impossible. They traveled most of the year and I had no e-mail address for them. After a while the letters and calls stopped. I hadn’t seen them since our last night together in Sapporo. Last year I got a wild hair and decided to see if I could track them down. It took some time but I finally got an e-mail address for their nephew and through him a phone number in Moscow. For months I tried calling to no avail. Finally, late last year, I reached them. Evgeny and Irena were home. Alina was on the road doing her solo aerial act. They said to come visit and I said I would. That’s why this trip was originally supposed to be Moscow. Then, just before I booked my flight they called to say that they had just gotten an 8-month tour in England and it started in Manchester. The writing was on the wall. I was going back to England.

“Alina is here? Uh…Vot?”
“Da. Jez moment.” Said the woman, whom I assumed was one of the performers. The workers looked at me suspiciously.
“Alina…droog.” I tried to explain to them as I patted my chest. I sounded like Tarzan. “Droog” is Russian for “friend”. Don’t ever use Comrade. Trust me. One of the guys reached down and offered me his hand.
“Come” He said as he lifted me up onto the loading dock. “Ochen priyatna.” Please to meet you. They waved me in the direction of the stage. I stepped through the curtain and into a bee’s hive of activity. The stage was crisscrossed with wires, cables and rigging for the various acts. I understood now why the Eskins trapeze act had been put off a week. They were having to adapt the acts to perform on a traditional stage instead of in a ring that can be set up in a bigger arena. I sidestepped my way to the far side of the stage and stood there, out of the way, as much as possible. The woman returned and shrugged her shoulders. I held out my arms. “Spaseeba.” I waited around for a little while longer. Just as I was about to leave I hear,

“Vanya?!”

A big smile spreads across my face. As you might have surmised there are only a few people that call me Vanya, and only one of them is here in Manchester. I turn to see; not a plucky little 10-year old girl in a purple warm up suit but a tall, beautiful 22-year old woman wearing jeans and a leather jacket. She runs over and gives me a long, tight hug. I let her. My face is buried deep in her long, dark hair. After what seemed like minutes I take her by the shoulders and hold her away from me to look at her.

“Wow. Ti ochen kraseevaya” (It doesn’t mean “I love vodka”).
“They said a man was looking for me. I asked, is he Russian? They say, ‘I don’t think so.’”

I’m not sure what surprised me more; how she looked or how she spoke.

“You speak English.” I stammered.
“Of course. What you think?”
“I think it’s wonderful to see you.”
“Da. Me too.”

She said that she had to test her rig and told me to have a seat in the theatre and I could watch. She brought out a steel-tubed cube and hooked it to a cable rig to the ceiling. She stepped inside of it and from off stage unseen crewmembers lifted her and the cube 15 feet into the air. She deftly manipulated herself within it, checking balance and rotation, and then they lowered it back to the ground. Alina stepped out, walked to the edge of the stage and swung herself down to where I was sitting in the front row.

“We go now?”
“Sure. If you have some time.”

As it turned out, she didn’t have much. They had a company meeting before tonight’s show so we walked across from the theatre to one of the restaurants that are situated around a wide, round, open-air plaza. We ordered a couple of coffees and settled in to an awkwardly happy reunion. She said that she spoke to her mother on the phone that morning and asked, “Mama. Why you not tell me Vanya in Manchester?” Irina said that she forgot. I told her how shocked I was when the stage crew asked if I was looking for Alina Eskin.

“I thought you had gone back to Moscow. I was looking for your parents.”

Alina said she was shocked when she walked on to the stage. As soon as she saw me she knew who I was.

“You not changed.”
“You have.”
“I grow up.”
“Yes you did.”

We exchanged thumbnail sketches of our lives since the Japan tour. She knew that Jennifer and I had married shortly after the tour ended. She couldn’t believe it when I told her that we were divorced.

“How long you married?”
“Almost 7 years.”
“Why you divorce?”
“She said she wasn’t happy.”
“What that mean?”
“I don’t know.”

She asked if we had children. I told her, no, but we sort of had joint custody of our sabaka (dog). I told her that Jennifer had remarried and was living in China?

“Is husband China man?”

I laughed.

“No. He’s American.”

Alina had to go but to her meeting but she asked me if I could come back after her show tonight; around 10:15. I told her that I would. I walked her back to the theatre and we gave each other a big hug.

“Ya lubloo Ti.” I expressed
“Me too.”

I headed back to the house. The trip takes 30-45 minutes depending on the traffic. I was by now riding on the upper of a double-decker. We were stopped at a light and I looked over and saw a used bookstore. I hopped off at the next stopped and walked back to the store. I was determined to find a copy of Bob Doe’s book. The man behind the counter looked like a small, emaciated Jerry Garcia. Well, actually he didn’t look anything like Jerry Garcia. He did have scraggily grey hair and a beard though.

“Excuse me. Would you have a copy of Bob Doe’s autobiography entitled, Fighter Pilot, about the Battle of Britain?”

“I doubt it.” He scowled contemptuously at me. “We’re democrats here.”

I had no earthly idea what he meant by that but there was no denying the scowl or the contempt. (Note to self: look up the manifesto of the English Democrats.)

“Thanks. I’ll just have a look around then.”

There didn’t seem to be anything untoward about this shop or it’s politics. As far as I could see they stocked the same books here as anywhere else. They had a section on military history and war so I’m really confused by the man’s reaction. I turned to leave and thanked the man for his help.

Naturally, I couldn’t find the right bus to get the rest of the way home. I wanted the 111 but never saw it. I knew I was in the general neighborhood so I decided to walk. After a block I gave up on that idea. I walked back toward the store and tried to decipher the route map. It was printed in English but it looked like a foreign language to me. Eventually the 111 came by and somehow I rode it to the end of the line. I knew it was the end of the line when the bus stopped in a parking lot and the driver grabbed his jacket and lunch box and left the bus. Naturally curios, I followed him out.

I explained my dilemma and he said that a new driver was on the way and I could just head back with him. This must be where the bus comes from when I take it into town so I was relatively confident that I would recognize where to get off. The new driver arrived and looked me over but wouldn’t charge me when I explained that I was lost and missed my stop. He must have surmised that I wasn’t a kook that rode busses for some weird sexual gratification.

Found the stop. Thanked the driver. Walked to the house.

Alan had been talking about getting a babysitter and going out to a pub and throwing darts with some blokes but I begged off, quite apologetically, explaining that I kind of had a date with a 22-year old Russian aerialist. He said he completely understood and wished me well. I told him it wasn’t that kind of date. No matter.

We had chicken and salad and did our work out and then I had a quick shower. Alan helped Elli with her homework and then they watched the “Nannie McPhee” DVD again. I stayed for a bit and then had to excuse myself to head back to the Salford Quay.

I got to the theatre just as the show was letting out. I stood in the lobbying and watched the river of people wash over me. They were all smiling and recounting their favorite part of the show. I was impressed. I took forever for the theatre to empty. Apparently it had been a sell out. As the last few people lingered by the souvenir table inquiry about the light up wands or the stacking Russian dolls, Alina rounded the corner.

“Okay?” She asked
“Okay.”

We went across to another restaurant and sat at a small table and ordered a couple of beers. Alina gave me four tickets to tomorrow night’s show so I could bring the kids. We caught up on her life and travels. She had performed a lot in England and lived in Birmingham for 3 years. After this stop she was going back to Moscow to work a show in a club. She said I should come visit. I said I would. She asked when. I said when it wasn’t –30º.

We moved to a booth and continued catching up. We ordered another round of beers. As we toasted each other Alina started to laugh.

“Shtoh?” (What) I inquired.

“Last time we were together you bought me ice cream. Now… beer.”

“I’m a giver.”

“Shtoh?”

“I remember.”

She was tired so we called a cab and I dropped her off at her hotel. The cabbie and I had a wonderful drive back to West Didsbury. He had grown up near the wharfs and regaled me with stories about the rough and tumble pubs. Lurid and delicious stories. One involved a bar fight where everyone got into the action. He said that it was like a Hollywood movie. The pub’s reputation for brawls was so well established that the owner nailed everything down. Tables and chairs were nailed to the floor and ash trays were nailed to the tables. On this one night, like most nights, it started between a local dockworker and an out of port sailor. Someone misinterpreted a compliment about the other’s mother and away they went. Fists and teeth were flying. People going ass over teakettle. Blood everywhere. Someone called the police and when they arrived, everyone was sitting down at a table drinking their pints, blood dripping from cuts, black eyes beginning to swell. There was no fight to break up so they left. Everyone sat and drank until last call without a harsh word being raised. Those were the days. Now the whole area has gone condo.

He dropped me off in front of the house. I thanked him for the great story.

“Thank you for a great audience.” He said

“You should write those stories down.” I encouraged

“That I should.”

I paid my fare and threw in a tip. He thanked me. We shook hands and I stepped out the door.

“Have a wonderful stay in Manchester.”