I have seen the future and it is Russia’s past, although not necessarily the bit I expected, certainly not the communist era, which has almost been airbrushed out.
On my jolly holiday to St Petersburg and Moscow, I spotted one public statue of Lenin, one of Marx. Lenin, of course, still has his own private tomb in Red Square, in which he lies like Sleeping Beauty in a glass box: a short chap, red beard, bad nails. The sentinels shout, “No photos! Keep moving!”, and we were hustled outside to the necropolis that lines the Kremlin walls. There a tourist was kneeling down, gently brushing the snow off flowers left for someone who died aged 34. “Excuse me,” I said, pointing at the Cyrillic plaque, “is that Yuri Gagarin?” “Cosmonaut!” replied the fellow, with a big smile. “You want me to take your picture?” And so I have a photo of me and mum standing by the grave of the closest thing the Soviet Union ever got to a genuine saint.
