17
. Pavel came at 11:30 the next morning. Ilya had just gotten up and was sitting in the living room eating the breakfast that room service sent up, a boiled egg in a brightly painted egg cup, sliced cucumbers, and a pot of strong black tea. Our room, thanks to Pavel, was a large, two-bedroom suite done almost entirely in stiff new red velvet furniture that was a modern imitation of the mahogany that clogged Mosjoukine’s apartment. The Hotel Sputnik, in spite of its name, was trying its best to appear more czarist than Soviet. Ilya was ignoring me, reading or pretending to read the morning paper in Russian. Pavel came pounding in with greetings in French and kisses for me, a crushing hug for my brother. He swept me out of the room with one huge arm around my shoulders. Ilya, he said, he would come back for. When we were again in his car and vaulting out into traffic, he said, “I’ve checked out this Father Ivan you’re going to see. He’s the talk of Moscow, or so mygirlfriendKisasays.ShehasatasteforallthismonarchistOrthodoxbullshit.” “What did she tell you?” “First, that he’s a schema monk.” “A what?” “Schema monk. Yeah, I had no idea what that was either. It’s a sort of monk superstar,aspecialhighrankgrantedbythebishoptoamonkwillingtosurrender his life to save people’s souls. He becomes a walking icon, wears some kind of special robe with crosses and other mystical craziness on it. Kisa called them ‘Angels in the flesh.’ Apparently a schema is usually very old, someone who has struggled long and hard in the monastic life. Does that sound like your guy?” 17 156 I remembered Mosjoukine carrying the naked sword dancer offscreen in Casanova. “No,” I said, “except he is old.” Pavel shrugged. “Maybe it’s not the same guy.” “Maybe not,” I said, knowing Pavel—and Ilya—were right to doubt the connection between Mosjoukine and Father Ivan. The more I heard, the less possibleitseemed .ButIlyahadn’tseenourfatherinnearlythirtyyears.Maybethat was long enough for even Mosjoukine to become a living saint. “Here,”Paveltookonehandoffthewheelandtossedmeacellphone.Icaught it. “Just press one. It’s preset for my number,” he said. “I’m going to drop you off and when you are done, call me and wait inside the monastery until I come. This is a bit out in the country, and call me a city boy, but I never think you can trust the damn peasants.” It didn’t look like we were out in the country. It looked only a little less built up than Belleville or Batignolles, though the street was narrow and filled with the deepest potholes I’d ever seen in a paved road. The monastery took up a whole block, with a high wall around it topped with a wicked combination of curved spikes, barbed wire, and broken glass. Pavel slammed to a stop in front of a large wooden gate. A small door, set in the larger one, stood open, and a monk in a long black robe stood there helping a steady stream of people, mostly old women, step over the threshold. I’d been wondering how I would explain who I was looking for, but now it seemed all I had to do was follow the crowd. “Okay?” Pavel said. He had one foot on the brake, the other on the gas, and the engine was racing. “Somebody will speak either French or English. They get all kinds of pilgrims.” “Okay,” I said, opening the passenger door, stepping out. “Don’t forget the phone!” Pavel said, then he took his foot off the brake and, like a gas-powered meteor, he was gone. The monk spotted me and held out his hand. He had a long black beard and equally long hair that was parted firmly in the middle. His hair was shiny with grease,likeeitheritwasagainsthisfaithtowashitorhehadslickeditdownwith holy Vaseline. He wore a large silver cross on a chain around his neck. He said something in Russian and, holding my elbow, led me inside, through an inner courtyard. The pavement inside held the melting snow and the spring rain like a wading pool. We splashed through one long muddy puddle. We passed a line 157 of old women in babushkas and men with canes, sprinkled here and there with a teenager in jeans or a better-dressed woman in a fur hat and coat. The monk took me to the head of the line, using one elbow to push a man on crutches...
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