"I'm too tired!" I whined as I was dragged down the noisy, traffic-y ring road to the Tchaikovsky Symphony Hall. Here I go, I thought, for one of those expensive naps.
The concert starts with a Beethoven violin concerto, amazingly lovely. (Yawn.) Then a contralto Texan, a Tchaikovsky competition award-winner, sang and her voice was insane, and everyone who wants to be a singer should have huge red hair--it looks great on stage.
Then the entreact, as they say in Russian, intermission. I ran up and down the marble stairs of the concert hall to increase my chances of staying awake for whatever the second half might drag me through. I am the worst classical music-concert attender!
The stage is packed with violins, first through tenth, and a gong and a guy tuning his kettle drums. This is the Russian National Orchestra--think any of them are any good? Peter and I have no cash, so we can't buy a program, we have no idea what's coming. They make an announcement: turn off your cell phones and the next piece will be: Musorski's Pictures at an Exhibition. One of my all-time favorite pieces! The first few notes are so tenderly played and wonderful, tears come to my eyes. And I really like pieces that include someone playing the triangle. "That was like a religious experience," said Peter as it ended.
Afterwards, out on the sidewalk, a woman behind us flips open her phone, "We just got out of the concert and our mood is 'sup-pairr.'" "Here's Bulgakov's apartment," Peter shows me, "wanna go in?" Since I'm reading or trying for the third time to read The Master and Margarita (it's not him, it's me) it's idiotic not to go in.
The Master and Margarita takes place in the 30's, wasn't released in the Soviet Union until after Stalin's death because it is so dense with social commentary, and is as fantastical as The Wizard of Oz--it's a cult classic. If you are one of the cultist, my apologies for my poor description of what is for MANY, their Pictures at an Exhibition in book form, only more.
Inside the apartment-museum: original manuscripts, Bulgakov's desk and typewriter, photos of him smoking cigarettes, and his syringes? You can drink coffee or tea at tables with satin-covered chairs and just hang out, as two people are doing, over empty cups and cigarettes. The long-haired young woman gets up and plays an old piano in one of the rooms. She flies though a gorgeous Scarabin piece, "That's all of it that I know," she says, stopping abruptly. Then she started singing and playing something Elton John-ish, beautiful. "Is this normal?" I asked Peter.
I seriously consider using Bulgokov's bathroom-- it's open to the public-- just to say I did.
The museum has interesting hours, it's open from one in the afternoon to one in the morning. I'm going to go back there with my The Master and Margarita and sit there and read it, like a total geek.
We walked the rest of the way home and after we got back fireworks started. Just another night out in Moscow.
Outside Bulgakov's apartment, a guy stops to smoke a cigarette and pet a gray kitty.
