One of my favourite stories about the literary life in Russia twenty years ago. And about the weight the literati had in people's consciousness (no, not anymore, not in the land of Z).
I remember this story from time to time.
The original Russian post (with more stories about “the tour”): https://un-tal-lukas.livejournal.com/1373089.html
![Near Moskovsky Train Station [in Nizhny Novgorod] we fell into the clutches of a police patrol. [poet Evgeny] Lesin, staggering with a bottle in his hand, for some reason rubbed them the wrong way.
“Let’s see your papers,” the chief thug said with an ugly grin.
“You’re an asshole, a piece of shit, and a bitch,” Lesin replied, as usual [, quoting a well-known Russian explicit poem about the toughness of poet's life].
“Well, well,” the chief thug smiled even more coldly as he examined our passports. “Moscow and Petersburg, is it? And what’s the purpose of your visit?”
“On tour!” I blurted out.
“Oh, is that so!” the man brightened up completely. “And who exactly are you, then?”
“He’s a poet, and I’m — his manager,” my subconscious answered for me.
The faces of our tormentors fell and grew bored. The passports were handed back, the tickets too, and they stopped beating Lesin over the head with a truncheon.
“Sorry for the trouble,” the chief thug snapped a salute. “Do come again!”
___
Olga Lukas. Gorky and Kids. Post from 20.02.06](/proxy/post_attachment/959774/64b8199189.png "Near Moskovsky Train Station [in Nizhny Novgorod] we fell into the clutches of a police patrol. [poet Evgeny] Lesin, staggering with a bottle in his hand, for some reason rubbed them the wrong way.
“Let’s see your papers,” the chief thug said with an ugly grin.
“You’re an asshole, a piece of shit, and a bitch,” Lesin replied, as usual [, quoting a well-known Russian explicit poem about the toughness of poet's life].
“Well, well,” the chief thug smiled even more coldly as he examined our passports. “Moscow and Petersburg, is it? And what’s the purpose of your visit?”
“On tour!” I blurted out.
“Oh, is that so!” the man brightened up completely. “And who exactly are you, then?”
“He’s a poet, and I’m — his manager,” my subconscious answered for me.
The faces of our tormentors fell and grew bored. The passports were handed back, the tickets too, and they stopped beating Lesin over the head with a truncheon.
“Sorry for the trouble,” the chief thug snapped a salute. “Do come again!”
___
Olga Lukas. Gorky and Kids. Post from 20.02.06")