I've decided that I'm going to attempt to learn Systema, an obscure Russian martial art, which I first discovered in a small city where by rights no such thing should have existed, were it not for the persistence of a bulletproof instructor whose thickset neck spoke volumes. Fascinated though I was by the potential to learn how to kill an opponent in 30 seconds or less, I abandoned the class after one lesson, not relishing being groped, even in the name of self-defense, by the bearded misfits in attendance. Apologies for putting it so bluntly.
But the cachet of acquiring secret powers of destruction – or less reprehensibly, of building unflinching resistance to life's vagaries – simmered in the back of my mind. The chance, now, to study with the originator of the System, Ryabko, holds undeniable appeal.
The school is near Belorussky vokzal, and as usual with Moscow train stations, the area is derelict, inhabited by vagrants. I walk down a side alley, reaching a dead end. An old Soviet-era truck idles in the background, the driver leans out to flick a cigarette. This should be the right address, but the only visible door has been riveted shut with a metal bar. Reassuring.
As I continue along the eerily quiet street, trying not to look lost, three men materialise beside me. Three beasts of pumped-up muscle. The leader of the pack asks if I'm lost. “Er, I...” I'm such a useless liar, especially in a foreign language. “I'm looking for a women's...ah...Systema class. Is it nearby?”
“What a coincidence, I happen to be a teacher there!” Mr Alpha Muscle glibly responds. I don't believe him for a moment, but all I can produce is an insipid “Oh, really?”
“Really. There's no class today, but why don't you give me your number, I'll let you know.” Again, blatantly a ploy to get my number. I know this. Yet the conditioning to comply kicks in, and I catch myself giving out digits. This is absurd. I stop and raise a skeptical eyebrow. He confesses that he doesn't work for the school and laughs, without malice. Nonetheless, my sense of foreboding grows.
“Don't call me, there's no point in calling me.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm married.”
“Does your husband know Systema?”
“No.”
“Then, nyet problem!”
He laughs again, a simple laugh that makes him seem so much like an innocent peasant youth. He would really be very good-looking, if it wasn't for his small yellowing teeth. I'm aware that, in a stupid superficial way, I would trust him more if his teeth were white.
“Let me show you the way to the class.”
I don't want to follow him, but am somehow hypnotised into submission. There is an entrance at the other end of the building. We go through a turnstile, the kind they have in jails, heavy metal rails rotating floor-to-ceiling. It locks shut behind us. He starts to lead me across a courtyard overgrown with weeds and sickly trees, an unlikely headquarters for the guru of Russian self-defense. I note the irony of the situation for future reference, when I'm capable of appreciating it. Just as I resign myself to certain martyrdom, my guide points at a gold plaque on the wall which reads “Systema Ryabko”.
While we wait in the hallway, Alpha continues his aggressive flirtation, reaching over to remove my glasses. I wave his hand away. Then, feeling perversely grateful that he has turned out to be a decent human being after all, I take them off and smile. He blinks admiringly, announcing with customary hilarity: “Tvoyi glaza...oni...ryzhye!” Your eyes...they're ginger!
Ginger. At least he didn't say brown. Finally, he departs.
Meanwhile, I'm asked for my name, and ushered in hushed reverence to the office of the master himself. Short and broad, he presides in a leather chair like a mafia don, resplendent amid dark wooden furniture. To my surprise, every inch of wall space is covered with icons and photographs of prominent Church figures: the Patriarch makes another appearance, arm-in-arm with our hero. The window-ledge overflows with icons, still more lean against the desk. It becomes almost comical, the place is practically a monastyrskaya lavochka, a monastery gift-shop. Ryabko, however, assures me that religion is an individual choice, and that Systema is guided by a philosophy of self-knowledge. He chats with me in a benevolent way while we wait for the female instructor to arrive. She is a classic mushroom-gathering Russian blonde, give her braids and a sheaf of wheat and she could advertise communism – no, not from a colourful poster, but as one of those massive statues with upraised arms, the concrete call of the motherland, 82 meters high over Volgograd. She leaves the scent of steel in her wake.
“Go and change.”
The apprenticeship has begun.
