The Warlock Rewritten

Anyone Remember What Happened in Russia That Year?

In 1991, I was invited to attend Volgacon, a Russian sci-fi/fantasy convention at Volgagrad (formerly Stalingrad) in the Soviet Union.  I accepted with delight ? or tried to; my phone kept connecting to a high-pitched squeal; I didn?t know, back then, that a fax machine was trying to pick up.  Finally I sent them a telegram and bought my ticket.

A week before I was supposed to take off, my travel agent called to ask if I still wanted to go or if I wanted to cancel and get a partial refund.

?I?m still going," I said.  "Of course."
?You haven?t been watching the news today, have you?? she asked.
?Well, no.?
?Why don?t you watch CNN for half an hour and call me back?? she suggested.

I said I would, hung up, turned on the TV, and found that the Gang of Eight had just taken over the Soviet Union, and Gorbachev was under house arrest.  Somehow, though, I had a hunch it wouldn?t last, so I confirmed my ticket, expecting the logical result ? that I would have to cancel at the last minute.  I didn?t ? the Gang was out in a few days, and I took off as scheduled, heading for the U.S.S.R..

I arrived in the Republic of Russia.  While I was in the air, the Soviet Union had been dissolved.

I made a stopover in London, hoping to cancel my jet lag, and went to see a musical.  Jet lag won, though, and I woke up too late to catch my plane.  I went to the airport anyway, managed to catch another flight to the U.S.S.R. (er, Russia), and landed in the international airport.

I managed to connect to the domestic airport to catch a flight to Volgagrad, thanks to an obliging taxi driver who asked me several penetrating questions and took the windshield wipers off his car, tucking them inside his jacket before he escorted me to the airline desk.  That was my first inkling that Russia was in a recession.

I got off the plane in the dark, about 1:00 am, saw the Volgacon banner but, of course, no one to meet me.  I found a taxi driver who spoke English and referred me to another driver who was willing to accept my rubles, though I didn?t have the full amount.  He took me straight to the hotel.  I found out later, from my hosts, that I had been very lucky... but they wouldn?t go into details.

I went up the steps to find the hotel door locked.  I went around to the side, found another door, and knocked on it until someone came to see what the racket was.  I said ?Volgacon? several times and the name of my host; she let me in, looking very leery, and called the organizer of the convention.  He came down, looking braced for trouble (I found out later that the Gang of Eight had reinstated the law that made it a crime to run a business, which the con was technically doing).

?Boris Zafgorodny?? I asked.
?Da...?
I pointed to myself.  ?Christopher Stasheff.?

He gave me a bear hug.

Apparently, they didn't know I was coming; my telegram hadn't gotten through (well, it eventually did - I just got there first!).  Boris woke up the translator and had her meet us in my room.  That?s how I learned that most of the other guest authors had canceled, and I was one of only five who had persevered and come to attend.

It was really unfortunate for them, but lucky for me ? made me look a lot more important than I was.  Terry Bisson, for example, was fresh from winning both the Nebula and the Hugo, and a few other awards. He and his wife had taken the train down from Moscow, along with a translator; I, being a train buff, turned green with envy.  I asked how the ride had been.  They said, ?Cold and damp and absolutely wonderful.?  Along with the Russian guest authors, the convention turned out to be a success, even though there were so few of us from the English-speaking world.

So I arrived, too late for the welcoming committee, too late for the ride to the hotel, but miraculously in one piece.  That was only the beginning of one of the most exciting weeks of my life... but I?ll tell you more about it in later posts.