One For the Road September 2010, Horizons magazine

Dancing to Irkutsk

Just as the opening chapter of Patrick Süskind’s Perfume relates the rather ignominious birth of Grenouille, his genius lead character in a fish market in France - under a table among the entrails - so Rudolf Nureyev, dance’s greatest son, first saw the light of day in a spot unbefitting of so celebrated a fellow – in a fetid third class carriage somewhere near Lake Baikal on the Trans Siberian Railway.

The story of Nureyev’s knock-and-drop (his Mum allegedly tripped over an Omul

 head [a salmon common in the lake] and gave birth prematurely), always fascinated me. Add my background in dance and a love of rail and you have the makings of a first class daydream; one day I would travel the Trans-Siberian and pay homage at the Spot of the Omul.

Fast forward eight years. I am sitting in a fetid third class carriage clack-clacking across the Urals surrounded by multiple Omul heads and all manner of other indescribably disgusting food. It smells like Süskind’s fish market. My rose-coloured spectacles lie shattered on the wooden floor. I’ve had three Imodium tablets to stave off the need to visit the euphemistically named toilet at the end of the corridor. It’s cold, the old crow next to me is scrubbing her dentures with a scouring agent, and no one has had a wash in four days. I know, I’ve been with them for the duration.

This is the Trans Siberian before Putin’s capitalism. The world’s greatest railway is a used, abused, scarcely operational cattle truck rank with the flotsam and jetsam of Communism’s forgotten millions.  And yet I’m having a lovely time. The impromptu barynya song and dance sessions swell the breast of even the deaf and the infirm (there are many) and there’s a don’t-mind-the-dribble-on-your-shoulder camaraderie you’d never find on the 7.30am from Fish Hoek. I have even managed to find someone to talk to, a young woman heading all the way to Vladivostok who spent three years in a Netherlands convent and is fluent in Dutch. So we pigeon Afrikaans and get by. Happily, Irena has heard of Nureyev (most haven’t, his name mud in Russia after his ‘leap to freedom’ defection) and asks loudly to the crowd for information on the exact birth spot. An energetic donnybrook follows, resulting in various Omul being flung and the old crow losing her teeth in a bowl of peasant shi soup. But finally Irena can report that indeed the ‘consensus’ is Rudi was born not two hours away at Irkutsk.

Now all part of the adventure, a carriage full of Russia’s finest disembark in a melee of colourful, limping chaos, keen to see where this famous son they know nothing about a few hours ago, was born. At the end of the concourse is a bust that I make for, Irena and the mob close behind. A plaque under the head reads, loosely “Triumph of Russian dance.” They cheer. A few minutes later we are back on board, the crowd chowing down on their dried fish, happy at their astute geography and national dance prowess. I’m subdued and preoccupied, but don’t say anything. Instead of Nureyev, above the words is the head of another dancer, an altogether less controversial one. Mikhail Nikolaevich Baryshnikov. The victors certainly do own history. 

PS. In 2008 the Baryshnikov bust was replaced with a likeness of Nureyev. Nothing has ever been said about the swop.


Published in the September 2010 issue of Horizons for British Airways