The Warlock Rewritten

I arrived in Volgograd in the middle of the night but was welcomed warmly nonetheless.  I slept longer than I should—jet lag and having caught a late flight—and rose to go in search of breakfast.  The concierge, the nice lady who had taken my passport into her keeping, gave me directions, but since I spoke very little Russian, I had to ask a few kindly souls for directions.  I finally found it, and was surprised to see that the authors and other foreign guests had a sort of mezzanine to ourselves, from which we could look down on the fans.  I was surprised to see so many, especially since, as I soon learned, the Gang of Eight had made it illegal for anyone to run a business, and running a convention technically counted as a business (nobody said it had to show a profit).  Rumor had it that they?d been building a gulag for just such offenders.  Yeltsin faced the Gang down, declared them to be illegal, let Gorbachev out of house arrest and had the Gang arrested—some, rumor had it, in the act of boarding an outbound plane.  Some of our conventioneers had just come down from facing tanks in Moscow, and were in a jubilant, even holiday, mood.  It was infectious; I couldn?t tell whether I was attending a science fiction convention or a victory celebration (probably both).

At breakfast (tomatoes at every meal), I met some of my fellow foreigners: James Hogan; Professor Larry McCaffrey (no relation to Anne McCaffrey), deeply interested in cyberpunk; Terry Bison and his lady—he came fresh from having won both the Hugo and the Nebula—and a British fan named Chris Cheevers.  They were all wonderful company, and I had to struggle to keep up with the conversation.  I did manage to impress them all with my command of Russian—I was actually able to ask the waitress for tea with milk.  More amazingly, she understood me.

Then off to the panels, though Boris came close to taking a crowbar to the locked doors of the auditorium.  Fortunately, a disgruntled custodian showed up in time to save him from breaking and entering.  We had two translators, one from Petrograd (St. Petersburg) and one form Volgograd, but there enough fans wanting to talk that a gentleman fan had to step in and help out—he was fresh from spending a year at a small Michigan university, where he had felt very welcome, but had missed home.  There was a panel on publishing, and the fans wanted to know why our books weren?t available in Russian, now that it was legal to read them.  We tried to explain about royalties, but since that came down to our not publishing in Russia, it made little difference.  Finally I said, "You want to read our books, and we want you to read them.  There has to be a way to take care of the money problem, and our agents will find it."  That seemed to satisfy them long enough for us to find publishers.

Also to the fans' puzzlement was the concept of paying taxes, which would follow from receiving payment from Russian publishers.  It seemed to be a completely foreign concept to them (you should pardon the pun), and I finally figured out why—for them, the Soviet government kept all the income from any factory or store, and doled it out to people as they needed it, sort of taxation in reverse.  At least, I think that's why we had a cultural speed bump.  A producer made an appointment with me to discuss making one of my books into a movie.  I tried to get across he concept of dealing with an agent, but he became somewhat irritated.

Afternoons were spent in activities—a visit to a Cossack village that had been kept intact as it was in 1900.  I found out why Russians were reputed to sleep on stoves—the stoves are built as beds, heavily insulated to keep from burning your anatomy, and taking up half of a room. Then came a demonstration of Cossack riding, followed by a ceremony for becoming an honorary Cossack—you had to ride around the corral, then drink a very large shot-glass-full of Vodka balanced on the flat of a sword.  McCaffrey was the only one with the nerve to try it—successfully, I might add.

Then came lunch in a large Cossack-built hall.  Every table boasted a bottle of mineral water and a bottle of vodka.  We leaned that Gorbachev had outlawed storing drink, vodka included, but that the ancient treaty between the Czar and the Cossacks basically insulated them from any blue laws while they were on their home ground, so they could have and serve all the alcohol they, and their guests, wanted.  The fans took full advantage of it.  My afternoon appointment was postponed when one of the producer?s friends explained to me that the gentleman was "very relaxed."

The next afternoon, we had a riverboat trip—on the Volga!  I stood in the bows thinking, this is fantastic!  I?ve heard of the Volga all my life, and I?m actually sailing on it!"  We docked at a sandbar/island and had a round of party games, including improvising costumes from whatever materials were on hand, such as paper plates. The translator from St. Petersburg won, but she was attractive enough for me to suspect it wasn?t the costume alone that had done the trick.  Fortunately, I hadn?t thought to bring a swim suit, so I simply took a nap on a boat seat.  I did join in for the picnic, though.

In the evening, I attended a literary party for Russian authors to meet foreign authors.  I found out that every one of them had a stack of manuscripts in the bottom drawer (literally), which they were prudent enough not to submit to a publisher until they were sure the law had changed enough to allow their subject matter.  I don?t know if they succeeded—I hope so.

We also had a visit to the memorial to the soldiers who died at the Battle of Stalingrad (now Volgograd).  Our hosts timed it so that we could see the changing of the guard (very impressive) and meet the sergeant in charge.  We talked briefly about the future, and he took the hammer-and-sickle badge from his hat and gave it to me—he couldn't wear it anymore, the Soviet Union was been dissolved.  I was very touched and honored.

Hopefully I?ll be able to tell you more about this another time—and about the local broadcasters who interviewed me.  Also, next time, I?ll tell you about my trip home—a minor epic in itself, and one that made me glad I?d learned high school French and a little—a very little—Russian.