Sixty Degrees North (21 page)

Most famous among his idiosyncrasies however, was the tsar's passion for what he called ‘monsters'. For as well as collecting books, historical objects and art, Peter also gathered ‘natural curiosities', alive and dead. These included dwarves, a hermaphrodite, Siamese twins, a multitude of deformed human and animal foetuses, a two-headed lamb and many other gruesome artefacts, which he pickled and put on public display. As his fascination with this collection grew, Peter declared that, by law, his subjects were required to donate to him any such ‘monsters' they encountered. Many of these specimens can still be seen in the Kunstkammer on Vasilevsky Island.

It is difficult to think of another, comparable figure to Peter in recent Western history. A man who achieved so much at so great a price; a man whose myth – great as it is – is more than matched by his reality; a man who founded
one of the world's great cities, but who did so in the most unlikely of locations. But here he is, Peter, in what is now called Decembrists' Square, facing out towards the river. Rearing up, his horse stands upon that symbol of evil, the snake, trampling the creature beneath its hooves. And yet, in a quirk of the sculptor's ingenious design, which has ultimately become part of its ambiguity, the horse is also supported by it – held in place, literally, by the serpent's coils. The statue celebrates a glorious emperor, but also a horseman of the apocalypse.

In Russia the question of who is the hero of Pushkin's poem is perhaps more complicated than it is for Western readers, who would tend, particularly today, to side with the trampled underdog. For here, the conflict is not just a narrative one, it is the central tension of Russian politics. Individual versus state, freedom versus power: these conflicts were unresolved for the poet, and they remain unresolved now. After centuries of repressive feudalism and more than seven decades of communism, it seems surprising, to Western minds at least, that Russians would be so quick to return to an autocratic style of government, repeatedly re-electing a leader who is in many ways akin to the leaders they left behind in the early 1990s. But the popularity of Vladimir Putin is undeniable. Despite protests from some quarters, and despite some suspicious election results, there seems little doubt that Putin and his style of democratic authoritarianism is supported by the majority of the Russian people.

As we sat on plastic chairs outside the Kazan Cathedral one afternoon, nursing bitter espressos procured from a coffee van, Mikhail Volkov told me something that, at first, I found shocking. ‘Sometimes dictatorship works,' he said. ‘Sometimes you need that kind of order.' I looked at him, unsure if he truly meant it, or if he was just trying to provoke me. I didn't respond, but waited for him to go on. ‘Russia is
a huge country,' he explained, ‘and dictatorship might be the best thing for now. Putin created order out of chaos.'

Mikhail is an English teacher and occasional tour guide, in his late thirties. He is tall and handsome, and wears a baseball cap over his close-cropped hair. Intelligent, well-travelled and socially liberal, he doesn't conform to any stereotype I might have held of a typical Putin supporter. Speaking slowly, in almost perfect English, he seems to enjoy my surprise, and pauses dramatically before saying anything I might consider controversial. ‘In the '90s we had chaos,' Mikhail told me. ‘Everyone was just out for themselves. The big oil companies were privatised by individuals who made a lot of money – they were the oligarchs, like Roman Abramovich. People were just trying to get a house and a car of their own by whatever means they could. Then Putin came in and he said, “I know what you've been doing and how you made your money, but now you're going to have to play by the rules. And they're my rules”.'

The transition from communism to capitalism in Russia was certainly a chaotic period. Many people saw their standard of living fall dramatically during the 1990s, as inflation and unemployment spiralled, while others made enormous fortunes from assets that had previously belonged to the state. Corruption was rife, and the safety net of the old system was replaced by an overwhelming sense of alienation and vulnerability. People could no longer rely on the certainties they'd once known. For more than seventy years, the country had – in theory, at least – shared a common goal, and a common set of values. Each citizen was – again, in theory – equal in worth to all others. When the Soviet era came to an end, though, all that changed. For those who did not experience that change first hand, it's hard to imagine the sense of disorientation that must have been felt by so many. It's therefore hard to imagine the relief with which Putin's arrival in politics at the end of the '90s was met.
Here was a man who offered an antidote to that disorder and disorientation; who seemed to promise a return to common ends and common means; who claimed that strong state power was the only guarantee of freedom.

And yet still it surprised me, the extent to which Mikhail was, if not exactly enthusiastic about what was happening, at the very least willing to overlook its flaws. He praised Putin, his achievements and style of governance, and dismissed his critics as irrelevant. He bemoaned the lack of political engagement across the country, but did little more than shrug his shoulders at the abuses of power of which he was in no doubt the government was guilty. He was angry about the re-emergence of the church as a political force in Russia, but refused to condemn Putin for exploiting religion for political gain. For Mikhail, as for many other Russians, the preservation of order and stability trumps all other concerns.

To the outside observer, this country can feel like a chaotic and unruly place. But that sense is not exclusive to those looking from elsewhere. Russians too are deeply aware of it. Perhaps, as Mikhail suggested, the country's size is partly to blame. It feels too vast and too disparate to be managed. But what's notable, regardless of the reason, is the extent to which, despite the upheavals the country went through at the beginning and end of the twentieth century, the nature of politics and power in Russia has remained the same, concentrated to a very great extent in the hands of one person. This is a country in which democracy is viewed by many as too unstable a system, the constant flip-flopping of power inconsistent with the desire and demand for order. It is a country that seems, constantly, to be battling with itself.

Nowhere else is this conflict between order and chaos so apparent as here in St Petersburg (of which both Putin and his right hand man Dmitry Medvedev are natives). This city was, from its very beginning, an imposition of order upon
the chaotic land, a manifestation of human will and imperial power. Peter the Great imposed straight lines upon the islands and swamps of the Neva delta. He imagined canals where streams had run, he drew streets through the mud. The magnificence of this city was a direct response to the difficulty of its location. It was an act of defiance, not just against Russia's neighbours but against the country's own terrain. St Petersburg was conceived as an ideal city, but for a long time it remained a battleground, where flood and fire threatened to destroy what humans had created. And frequently, as Pushkin's poem describes, it was people who were on the losing side. Today, that battle feels less like one of man against nature than of man's desire for order against the chaos he creates: the chaos of poverty and corruption, of squalor and discontent, versus the order of authoritarianism and political power, of clean streets and brightly painted buildings.

On a drizzly afternoon I visited a museum dedicated to the short life of Alexander Pushkin, housed in the last building in which the poet lived, close to Palace Square. There were paintings, letters and furniture, as well as glass-fronted displays that recreated and retold episodes from his childhood in Moscow to the duel he fought in St Petersburg in 1837, in which he was shot and fatally wounded, dying two days later. The museum was cold and dusty, and when a stray column of light pierced the windows, I could see the motes glitter like a shoal of tiny raindrops, suspended. The place was virtually empty, apart from its staff – an army of elderly women, dressed in greys, browns and beige. By each doorway in the many rooms was a stool, and on each stool sat one of these women. As I walked through the museum, I felt their eyes follow me, observing everything. I noticed too that in every room, as I replaced the laminated information sheets provided in English, one of these attendants would swoop in to check the paper and to straighten it. I sensed
a tut of disapproval following me as I walked, and I began to feel that, by being there, by lifting those sheets and then returning them, I was creating havoc.

I took to straightening the pages myself on the display cases, leaving them just as I had found them. I took care to ensure that each page was perfectly aligned, so that no fault could be found. Lingering close to the doorways I noted that the staff were still unable to resist their impulses. As I moved on, an attendant would invariably appear, approach the paper, only to find it just as it ought to be. Silently she would return to her seat, looking even more dissatisfied. Watching this strange ritual, I realised that the care I was taking was not what they had been hoping for at all. Their desire was not for straightness, it was for straightening. They did not wish to find order, but to impose it. I left them to it, then, and headed back out into the rain.

I decided to take a train to the north. I wanted to cross the parallel, which lies towards the edge of the city, but also to escape the noise and commotion for a few hours. I chose as my destination the village of Repino, almost, but not quite, at random. A resort on the Gulf of Finland, about twenty miles from the centre of St Petersburg, it seemed, I suppose, as good as anywhere. It had a museum dedicated to the artist Ilya Repin, after whom the village is named, and it would also have a view over the sea, which seemed like a good antidote to my urban weariness.

I found my way to Finland Station, the place where Lenin had returned to Russia in 1917 after his years in European exile, and where his statue still stands, draped in garlands of pigeon shit. After a discussion with the ticket vendor that was longer and more arduous than either of us would have liked, I found myself a space in a busy carriage. Squeezed in together on yellow plastic benches, my fellow travellers
were
babushkas
doing crossword puzzles and young families shouting at each other, most seemingly on their way to weekend cottages in the country.

As the train pulled out from the station, an odd procession of people began to enter the carriage, all with goods to sell. First there was a selection of ice creams, then magazines and puzzle books, fake amber bracelets, torches, waterproof overalls, Russian and pirate flags, and jumping plastic spiders. As each seller arrived, they would stand at one end of the carriage and shout a sales pitch, like an air steward doing a safety demonstration. Then they would walk down the aisle in search of customers, though few appeared to sell anything at all. Some were good at their job, managing to be both loud and charming, but others seemed nervous – too quiet, or jittery, even. Perhaps they were new at the job, or perhaps it was just the latest in a line of failed careers. The worst of these vendors seemed pathetic and humiliated, as though worn down by the effort of the task.

Rumbling north, the train passed a succession of bleak industrial estates, some of which looked long abandoned. Crumbling factories, warehouses and chimneys; acres of rust and decay. Three inspectors arrived in the carriage then, with the smart uniform and menace of soldiers. Everyone hurried at once to find their tickets.

I showed mine and then closed my eyes for a moment to rest. When I opened them again we were among pines and grey-skinned birches. Here and there amid the forest a few houses could be seen, and sometimes a gathering of
dachas
. Some of these looked ramshackle and close to collapse, many years since their last encounter with paint. But others were smart and well-tended, with roses blooming all about. These dachas have long been a part of Russian life. In the eighteenth century they were gifts bestowed by the tsar upon loyal allies, country houses and estates to which ordinary people could never aspire. But after the revolution,
when properties were nationalised, the Soviet authorities began to distribute them to community organisations. Restrictions were imposed on the size of dachas and their gardens in order to maintain the appearance of equality, and by the 1990s, when they were privatised once again, a great many families had one, usually on the outskirts of the city in which they lived. These dachas were used not just as retreats, where people could escape from the city at weekends and during holidays, but equally importantly, their gardens allowed people to provide themselves with vegetables and fruit, commodities that were often hard to come by during the food shortages that afflicted the country.

From the station at Repino I crossed the tracks to where a car park and a large modern building – half restaurant, half supermarket – stood. I looked around, in search of a direction. I was intending, somewhat vaguely, to find Penaty, the former home and studio of Ilya Repin. This is where he lived from the late nineteenth century until his death in 1930. When the area was ceded to Russia in the 1940s (it had previously been part of the Duchy of Finland, in the Russian Empire) it was named after its former resident.