I wondered, yet again, why I did not consider climate and cuisine when I was choosing a regional expertise. Nonetheless, I would be returning to Russia in the upcoming months, so I reached for the Moscow News to catch up on the latest scandals, fiascos and highlights making news back in the land of Putin and permafrost.
A story about a new cultural attraction in St Petersburg caught my eye. A unique museum was opening amidst much fanfare with a controversial exhibit featuring Russia’s most legendary letch and holy man, Grigory Rasputin. `Now this is the Russia I fell in love with,’ I remembered, as my thoughts drifted to my own close encounter with the infamous Mad Monk.
I was living in Yekaterinburg, Russia, a gritty industrial and mining town in the Ural Mountains (like Pittsburgh, without the glitz). I was one of a handful of ex-patriot Americans and Brits working on developing markets, exporting consumerism, and other diplomatic business. Winter nights were long and cold, but we made do, sweating it out in the banya and swizzling Baltika beers.
When the snow finally melted and the sun started to warm this forlorn place, we decided to take a road trip. We would journey east from Yekaterinburg, across the thawing tundra, to Tobolsk, once the capital of Siberia. We would stop along the way in the tiny village of Pokrovskoe, the hometown of Grigory Rasputin.
At the turn of the 20th century, Rasputin was a local mystic with the powers of a seer and healer. He preached (and practiced) that the way to divine grace was through sin and redemption. That means getting rip-roaring drunk and engaging in sexual orgies, and then praying for forgiveness and giving thanks. Then doing it again. Go figure, the doctrine was a hit. Rasputin attracted quite a following, and it was only a matter of time before he took his show on the road to the capital.
In St Petersburg, high society was receptive to Rasputin's teachings. Despite his heavy drinking and sexual scandals – or perhaps because of them – he earned the adoration of an army of aristocratic ladies. Even more notable, Rasputin endeared himself to Tsar Nicholas II. The healer seemed to have the power to ease the pain of his son Alexei, the heir to the throne, who suffered from hemophilia. It was also rumored that the tsar's wife Alexandra became one of Rasputin's devotees.
We were not sure what to expect in Pokrovskoe, but it was worth a short detour to investigate the humble roots of this peasant-turned-priest who was at one time the most powerful man in the Russian Empire.
Jimmy agreed to drive as a way to get out of taking the train. He was used to traveling in high style and he liked his creature comforts. (He normally spent his vacations in Paris, recuperating from Russia with expensive French champagne and stylish French boys. Clearly, sharing a grungy toilet with a train car full of strangers was out of the question.) And so we piled into Jimmy’s maroon Toyota packed with food and alcohol to last us the duration of our journey.
Bob rode shotgun because he was the navigator. Bob was a natural leader - a real Boy Scout type - who was constantly organizing adventures for us. His Russian was flawless and he seemed to have friends and acquaintances everywhere we went. I rode in the back with Lady Caroline. She was not really royalty, but her Queen's English and fabulous parties had earned her the nickname.
Our foursome had perfect driving weather. In mid-May, it was the first weekend when it really felt like spring. The sun was shining, the snow had melted and the trees were beginning to bud. As we rolled across the countryside, vast fields had been ploughed and planted, but the new life was still hidden underground, awaiting some assurance that warmer temperatures were here to stay.
As Bob and Jimmy disputed which dirt road was the correct turn off the highway, Caroline and I were in the backseat engaged in a much more important task - recalling the lyrics of the silly 1970s song by the Euro disco phenom Boney M.
Rah Rah Rasputin, Lover of the Russian queen
There was a cat that was really
gone
Rah Rah Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine
It was a shame how
he carried on.
The bumpy, narrow road finally emerged out of the woods, and we followed it across an overgrown field to a cluster of little wooden cottages. This was vintage Siberia. The dusty road was lined on both sides with log cabins that appeared to be still standing from Rasputin’s day. Some were colorfully painted with patterns stenciled on the shutters and potted plants in the windows. Others looked like they would not survive another Siberian winter.
Our car crept slowly through the village, and we peered out, looking for some sign of life. Chickens darted across the road; alas, there was not a human soul in sight. Caroline spotted a lone man in a field behind his house. He had stopped his work, and was standing – hoe in hand – staring suspiciously at our foreign vehicle full of foreign people.
Bob rolled down his window: `Is this Pokrovskoe?’ The slack-jawed farmer just nodded. `Isn’t it the birthplace of Rasputin?’ Bob queried further. Another hesitant nod. `Well, is there some museum or something to see?’
The farmer finally found his vocal chords and directed us toward the end of the street. `There is some kind of house-museum,’ he confirmed, `but I think it is closed.’
We parked our car in front of a large but dilapidated wooden house surrounded by a high fence. Jimmy did not want to get mud on his Hugo Boss jeans so he refused to get out of his car. The rest of us piled out and peeked over the fence: the yard was overgrown with weeds and littered with bottles and trash; the house was badly in need of a paint job, not to mention some new windows and a roof repair. A huge padlock decorated the front door. The place was not only closed, it was completely abandoned.
`It’s probably closed for Sanitation Day,’ I remarked, referring to the very Soviet system of randomly closing museums for cleaning every month.
We circled the house, but found no trace of the magic that fueled Rasputin’s mystique. Disappointed, we climbed back into the car. But before Jimmy could turn the car around, Caroline again spotted our farmer friend, running down the road toward us, wildly waving his arms to get our attention. `Wait,’ he implored, as he approached the car. `Wait five minutes, and you will meet Rasputin himself!’
With the promise of lunch, Jimmy was persuaded to wait five minutes. The guys unpacked our picnic and sent Caroline and me off in search of drinks. Our friendly neighborhood farmer promised there was a cafeteria on the next street, so we wandered among the little houses, smiling politely at the curious faces that were now appearing at windows and in yards.
Sure enough, we found the cafeteria on the next street. It looked much like the other houses in the village; we recognized it only by the sign above the door. A half dozen goats grazed in the front yard. They looked up lazily as we approached, but did not budge from their tasty patch of grass. The door was open, so Caroline and I paid the goats no heed and went inside. Apparently, the cafeteria was not open for business: the counter was bare; a few chairs were upended in the corner; and a lone goat feasted on a pile of garbage. Appetizing.
So we left the goats in peace and made our way back to our friends, who were already wolfing down the cheese and salami sandwiches we had brought with us. We were so distracted by our feast, that we did not notice the dirty, disheveled peasant who approached. He tapped on my window, and suddenly I was staring into the maniacal eyes of the Mad Monk!
`Excuse me, please,’ the peasant apologized. He introduced himself as Viktor, but he was a dead ringer for Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin.
Sandwiches in hand, we clambered out of the car to meet the modern-day mystic. He extended a grubby hand to me. I had no choice but to give him my sandwich, which he grabbed with two paws and devoured.
Viktor had a mangy head of dark hair and a full black beard. Both were peppered with sticks and leaves and other unidentifiable scraps. He was dressed too warmly for the spring day in heavy boots and a worn, quilted jacket that was tied with a rope belt. His smile glinted with gold, and he reeked of body odor and alcohol.
The only characteristic that was not consistent was that Rasputin was known to be some six and a half feet tall, while this guy, at five-foot-four, was shorter than I. He ushered us into the gated yard and stood up on the doorstep.
Now he towered a head above us: `That’s more like it,’ we agreed.
There lived a certain man in Russia long ago
He was big and strong, in his
eyes a flaming glow
Most people looked at him with terror and with
fear
But to Moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear.
From his perch on the doorstep, Viktor proceeded to regale us with stories about his licentious look-alike. `This is where Grigory Yefimovich was born,’ announced Viktor. `It was actually his aunt’s house, but his mother gave birth in this room right here.’ He pointed to a window on the second floor, through which nothing was visible except an empty vodka bottle sitting on the sill. Apparently, the communists - fearing competing cults - had long since torn down Rasputin's home, which had been across the street.
`It is no coincidence that I resemble Grigory Yefimovich,’ our friend explained. `You see, my great-grandmother was a maid in the Rasputin family house.’ His eyes twinkled. `So more than likely, he is my biological great-grandfather.’ I couldn’t tell if he really believed it, but it was hard to argue this claim.
Rasputin is notorious for being a ladies' man. That he was the `lover of the Russian queen’ may not be historically documented fact, but there is no question that he had a cotillion of classy chicks – high-society types – who were seduced by his animal magnetism and charismatic personality. And perhaps by some other charms.
Viktor lowered his voice. `Of course you have heard about his penis?’ We shook our heads; we had not heard. Viktor’s eyes widened. `The penis of Grigory Yefimovich was 30 centimeters long,’ he claimed. We all paused while mentally calculating the conversion from the metric system. I will spare you getting out your calculator: it’s 11.8 inches, just a hair under a foot long. Jimmy let out a low whistle.
We were all impressed but I was skeptical: `How do they know that?’
Viktor smiled. It was the perfect segue to the gory tale of Rasputin’s demise. The holy man’s scandalous behavior and his influence over the queen had invoked the ire of some of St Petersburg’s aristocracy. The powerful Prince Yusupov and a few other upper-crust cronies decided that the Siberian peasant must be stopped. They invited him over and plied him with wine and cakes that were laced with potassium cyanide. Strangely, the poison had no apparent effect. The murderers then resorted to Plan B, shooting the mystic three times and leaving him to die. But Rasputin still managed to rouse himself and attempt escape. Finally, Plan C, he was bludgeoned, tied up in a sheet and dropped into the icy Neva River, where he finally drowned.
We all knew this story; but we didn’t know that the dirty deed also involved castration. Apparently, the Yusupov’s maid found Rasputin’s oversized organ when cleaning the apartment after the murder. As Viktor astutely observed: `It was not only political power that Prince Yusupov was jealous of…’
`This man’s just got to go!’ declared his enemies
But the ladies begged
`Don’t try to do it, Please!’
No doubt this Rasputin had lots of hidden
charms
Though he was a brute they just fell into his arms…
Finally, Viktor offered to take us inside the house. `There is not a lot of see,’ he warned. `The house has been ransacked repeatedly, ever since the Bolsheviks did it the first time.’ He led us around back, where the door was hanging off its hinge. He pushed his way through the narrow doorway and we followed, emerging into a dark, dusty, nearly empty room. Sunlight filtered through a window and reflected off the particles that floated through the air. A shaft of light fell on one piece of furniture in the room: an old, decrepit wooden armchair.
`It’s amazing,’ Viktor observed, `Of everything that was taken over the years, that this chair remains.’ It did not seem amazing to me that nobody would bother to take a rickety old chair. The seat was badly worn and several rungs were broken; it looked like it would hardly withstand my weight.
`This is one of two chairs remaining from a set made by Grigory Yefimovich,’ Viktor explained. `The other is on display in a museum in Tyumen. They say,' he paused dramatically, `that is imbued with Rasputin’s magical powers.’ I could hardly imagine how this chair might heal hemophilia but we listened intently as our raconteur continued. `A sportsman was in Tyumen for a wrestling tournament. He was not competitive and kept losing his matches. After the first day, he visited the museum, where he sat in the magical chair; only a few moments infused him with the strength of an ox. After that, he won every match and he won the tournament.’
We were mildly amused. Viktor continued: `This chair guarantees not only physical strength but also sexual prowess. Anyone who sits in this chair will never have trouble with the ladies.’ He raised his eyebrows. `Nu, shto? How about it, gentlemen? One hundred rubles?’ Bob rolled his eyes and walked away. Viktor turned to Jimmy. `What about you, my friend? For fifty rubles, you will have all the ladies in your lap!'
`What about the guys?' Jimmy asked mischievously. Viktor was stumped. `I think I'll pass.'
`Now it is time to leave,’ Viktor announced. `But first, we must pay our respects to Grigory Yefimovich.’ He motioned to Bob, who was carrying the remains of our picnic lunch. Bob looked confused. `Tradition says we must drink a toast,’ Viktor implored, eyeing the bag of goodies. Bob acquiesced by pulling out a bottle of vodka and cracking it open. Viktor’s eyes lit up. `Who will give a toast?'
Graceful as always, Lady Caroline volunteered. She looked at me knowingly, and together, we burst into song:
Rah Rah Rasputin, Lover of the Russian Queen
They put some poison in his
wine
Rah Rah Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine
He drank it all and
he said `I feel fine.’
So ended our brief encounter with `Russia’s greatest love machine'. Viktor requested a tip for his efforts. Impressed with his entrepreneurial spirit, we gave him 100 rubles and the remainder of the vodka bottle. At the time, 100 rubles was worth about $18, so we thought it was a generous offering. But Viktor was not impressed and he pressed us for more – a harsh reminder that this was post-Communist Russia, and 100 rubles did not go as far as it did in Rasputin’s day. So things come full circle. With the passing of communism, clever capitalists profit from a newfound fascination with Russia’s pre-Revolutionary roots.
So I was not surprised when I read the story in the Moscow Times about the so-called museum of erotica, recently founded in St Petersburg by the head of prostate research at the Russian Academy of Sciences. (Apparently the Academy is also exploring some alternative sources of funding.) The exhibit’s prize artifact is indeed Rasputin’s preserved penis, reappearing after all these years. Remarkably, even in its detached state, the Mad Monk’s massive member is still making headlines.
Rah Rah Rasputin, Lover of the Russian Queen
They didn’t quit, they
wanted his head
Rah Rah Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine
And so
they shot him till he was dead.
.JPG)
No comments:
Post a Comment