Valaam and Konovets
The tour operator's website advertised a fleet of rickety vessels from the 1970s, built in Czechoslovakia and Germany. I have been keeping fingers crossed for reliable German construction, and as soon as I see the bathroom in my cabin, I know that my wish has been granted. Not because it is particularly pleasant – it has been quite the opposite for twenty years at least – but because of the dire efficiency with which the toilet, sink and shower have been crammed into one small space. In fact, the whole bathroom is essentially the shower: close the toilet, turn on the water, and enjoy.
Still, it's a small price to pay for the pleasure of lolling on deck in the clear sunshine, stretched out on a chaise-longue. An unidentifiable stratum of Russian society, perhaps lower-middle class, sighing with relief, lies back with a handkerchief over its face. Large solid bellies swing over small swimming briefs as Rammstein grunts inexplicably from the speakers. I close my eyes and drift with the rumbling ship.
After several hours we reach Valaam, an island on Lake Ladoga, not far from Finland, which houses an historic monastery. The moment of glory has arrived for my improvised nun's habit. To cover my head and shoulders, I've chosen a culturally appropriate leopard-print shawl. The final touch is a pair of ostentatious sunglasses. The general effect is more 'nun with a habit', but I'm optimistic that I'll pass the censors who hover at the entrance to the religious site, on the lookout for lustful female flesh.
Approaching the dock, we notice a black yacht emblazoned with a bicephalic eagle, which we presume means that an oligarch has come to atone for his Courcherevels; but rumour spreads that it is the Patriarch of the Orthodox church, who, complete with retinue of SUVs and helicopters, has arrived to open a local hospital. I don't need to see the souvenir stalls hawking salvation and self-flagellation, to conclude that the church has invited the money-lenders back to break bread in modern Russia.
The monastery itself offers the usual combination of low arched ceilings and gilded icons, penitents and petitioners. I light a candle for no one in particular, for the sake of ritual.
One of the Americans is pulled into the entertainment that evening. The show is led by a middle-aged woman in a sailor suit that squeezes her hefty hindquarters like a lecherous drunk. She leads unwilling volunteers in anachronistic proletarian contests: who will bandage a child's head fastest? who will be first to tie a man up with a rope? It feels like a scene from a Soviet summer camp.
Towards midnight, we lay out a Scrabble board on green plastic table, blankets round our shoulders. The low immobile sun bleeds into the lake, making it shift and shimmer like crimson silk. The game ends in argument over the correct spelling of “coraled” (it's “coralled”, by the way). My fault ofcourse, I'm far too competitive. I had been in the lead, until an unscrupulous opponent, turned vengeful by my goading remarks, decided to set up another team with a winning triple letter score, on which they proceeded to play the offending word. Hubris indeed. While I pretend not to sulk, someone tells the story of how, back in Moscow, a friendly security guard recently suggested they share a prostitute. This fails to lighten the mood.
At the next stop, Konovets, I forego the tourist sites, and sit instead on the shore, letting the water nibble at my bare feet. Nature here overwhelms human attempts at divinity. The great Russian landscape artist Nikolai Rerikh knew this: his 1917 painting of Valaam, Holy Island, shows a wild rocky mass leaning against the northern summer’s eternal sunset, and as an afterthought, a tiny boat in the corner carrying two timid pilgrims.
Trailing my fingers through the sand, I can see the cruise ship bobbing toylike in the distance, keeping time with the hunchback playing the French horn by the pier. His surreal brass band of invalids creaks out a Soviet tune, whose lyrics echo faintly from my exiled childhood: “The river begins as a little blue stream, and friendship begins with a smile…”
