MOSCOW STATIONS

Venedikt Yerofeev, Stephen Mulrine

• Publisher: Oberon Books
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781783191321
• eBook ISBN: 9781783196319
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: British Drama
• Index: Literature

An account of the cultured alcoholic and self-mocking intellectual Yerofeev's heroic odyssey from Moscow to neighbouring Petushki. The production successfully transferred to the West End (1995), where Tom Courtenay's performance and the play received much acclaim.
Cast size: 1

An empty stage.

VENYA: Everybody says: “the Kremlin, the Kremlin.” They all go on about it, but I’ve never seen it. The number of times I’ve been drunk or hung over, traipsing round Moscow from one end to the other, and I’ve never once seen the Kremlin. For instance, yesterday – yesterday I didn’t see it again, and it’s not that I was particularly drunk. I mean, as soon as I came out onto Savyelov Station, I had a glass of Zubrovka for starters, ’cause I know from experience that as an early morning tipple, nobody’s so far dreamed up anything better.

Anyway, a glass of Zubrovka. Then after that – on Kalyaev Street – another glass, only not Zubrovka this time, but coriander vodka. A friend of mine used to say coriander had a dehumanizing effect on a person, i.e., it refreshes your parts but it weakens your spirit. For some reason or other it had the opposite effect on me, i.e., my spirit was refreshed, while my parts went all to hell. But I do agree it’s dehumanizing, so that’s why I topped it up with two glasses of Zhiguli beer, plus some egg-nog out the bottle, in the middle of Kalyaev Street.

Of course, you’re saying: come on, Venya, get on with it – what did you have next? And I don’t know exactly. I remember I had two glasses of Hunter’s vodka, on Chekhov Street. But I couldn’t have made it across the ring road with nothing to drink. I really couldn’t. So I must’ve had something else.

Anyway, after that I walked into the city centre, ’cause whenever I’m looking for the Kremlin, I invariably end up at Kursk Station. I mean, I was supposed to go to Kursk Station, and not into the city centre, but I made for the centre regardless, to have a look at the Kremlin even just once. I knew I wouldn’t find it. I knew I’d end up at Kursk Station.

I’m so annoyed now I could almost cry. And it’s not because I didn’t make it to Kursk Station, or because I woke up this morning in some godforsaken entry. (I’d sat down on the entry step, pressed my little suitcase to my heart, and fallen asleep just like that.) No, what’s bugging me is this: I’ve just worked it out, that from Chekhov Street up to that entry I must’ve drunk more than six roubles’ worth – but of what, and where? And in what order? And did drinking it do me any good? Nobody knows, and nobody’ll ever know. I mean, to this day we don’t know whether Tsar Boris killed the Crown Prince Dmitri, or the other way round.

Anyway, when I came out this morning into the fresh air it was already dawn. And if you’ve ever fetched up unconscious in some entry, and emerged from it at dawn, well, you’ll know what a heavy heart I bore down the forty steps of that godforsaken place.

Still, everything’s going to plan. If you want to go left, Venya, then go left, I’m not forcing you to do anything. If you want to go right, go right. Just wrap up against the wind and go quietly. And breathe only when you’ve got to. Breathe so your feet don’t keep grazing the back of your knees…

Oh, vanity of vanities! Oh, transience! Oh, that most impotent, shameful time in the life of my people – the hours between dawn, and opening-time!

I’d better find a pillar to lean against, and shut my eyes tight, so I won’t feel so sick…

ANGELS: That’s right, Venya pet, just you shut your eyes tight, and you won’t feel so sick…

VENYA: Oh, I know those voices! It’s them again! The angels of the Lord! Angels, is it you?

ANGELS: Of course it’s us!

VENYA: Oh, angels, angels – do you know something? I feel terrible!

ANGELS: That’s right, Venya, we know you do. But it’ll be opening-time in half an hour. Of course, there’ll be no vodka till eight, but tell you what – why not try the station buffet?

VENYA: Yes, yes – I’ll do that, I’ll try them right now. Thank you, angels!

ANGELS: Your good health, Venya! Feel free!…

VENYA: Now, wasn’t that nice of them? And it’s just as well I bought the presents yesterday – I mean, no way can you go to Petushki without the walnuts and sweets. No way. Actually, it was the angels reminded me about the presents, ’cause the people I bought them for remind me of angels, yes.

So, when did you buy these presents yesterday? After the two glasses of Hunter’s vodka? No, I was in no condition to buy presents after that. Between the first and second glass, maybe? No, no way. There was a thirty-second gap between them, but I’m not Superman. Besides which, Superman wouldn’t have managed a second glass, he’d have collapsed after the first. So when was it then? Oh, sweet Jesus, how many mysteries there are! An impenetrable curtain of mysteries! Was it before the coriander, or between the beer and the egg-nog?

“No alcohol here!”

That was the woman in the buffet, looking at me like I was something the cat brought in. No alcohol! Nothing to drink! Mother of God! The angels said this place was swimming in sherry!

“Do you want to order? We’ve got beef stroganoff, cabbage soup, cow’s udder…”

What about sherry?

“No sherry.”

That’s funny – you’ve got cow’s udder, but no sherry?

“Udder yes, sherry no.”

And she left me. Dear God, why are people so rude? And why are they especially rude, just when they shouldn’t be, when you’ve got a hangover and all your nerves are exposed, when you’re feeling weak and pusillanimous? I mean, why? I tell you, if the whole world was as weak and frightened as I am now, and as uncertain of things, it’d be a far better place.

“Right then, who’s asking for sherry?”

A man in white, towering over me.

Honestly, I wasn’t really asking… I mean, I don’t mind if there’s no sherry, I’m quite happy to wait… I’m going to Petushki, to see my girlfriend… Look, I’ve bought some presents… I’m from Siberia, you see? I’m an orphan… and I just want a drop of sherry, so as not to be sick…

Well, that was a mistake, the sherry again – that set him off. He grabbed me by the collar and frogmarched me right across the room – oh the shame! – right across the room, and flung me out into the street. And my little suitcase with the presents, they flung that out after me.

Out again. Out into the howling wilderness, the grinning jaws of life! What happened next – between that station buffet and opening time, the tongue of man cannot express. I’m not going to try. I have a better idea. I’d like to dedicate a minu...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half-title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Characters
• Moscow Stations