The time is post-USSR. The place is the aptly-named town of Minus.
The book reeks authenticity and is autobiographical. Little wonder, then, that the author looks so god-damned miserable on the back cover…
Roman Senchin is an unfortunate Russian refugee from Kyzyl - “Several Russians were stabbed to death, and a lot more were just stabbed, including my father.”
He is the present-day Gorky. His book is not an easy ride. Spare him some sympathy, though. We might not like it, but at least we don’t have to live it.
However, just for the time being…
…you will experience Senchin’s life right there alongside him, drinking the same samogonka, the optimistically and romantically named “Gypsy Girl” - “I haven’t heard of anyone being seriously poisoned…”
The book, like the town itself, is claustrophobic and oppressive - “In Minusinsk, the rhythm is laboured and sluggish, like blood in old veins…”
This is not to say that you will not be thoroughly absorbed by the book. When you finally put it down, you may well be glad that you have, but it will leave you wondering about Senchin and all his friends, “Where are they now!?”
I know that I just cannot leave the story behind after the reading.
As you progress through the book, you will become Senchin. You will see his friends through his eyes - “His pinched little face looks like a thoroughly desiccated skull…” You will inhabit the same stinking, noisy, hopeless hostel. You will lust after the same girl and you will hope, always hope, that she will be there when you look for her. “I need to look into her eyes. I’ve needed to look into her eyes for a very long time.”
It’s a hugely voyeuristic journey into the life of a man. The object of Senchin’s desire - and she is very much an object - wears her hair in a green velvet band - “They sell them in the market at ten roubles for five.”
The author’s casual and understated reportage of domestic violence and homophobia in Minus says far more than hyperbole ever could. These things are simply a way of life.
“…she had a miscarriage with only a couple of months left to go. Perhaps Sanya overdid it one time he was drunk.”
“We’re wary of getting too pally with the male actors…because most of them are queers.”
Senchin himself was on the point of being seduced by one such “festive” thespian and recalls, “I didn’t punch Lyalin like you’re supposed to if you’re a man.”
Well, apart from wife-battering and gay-bashing, there are other, smaller cultural details which the non-Russian Slavophile will find fascinating.
On cards - “Lyokha, let’s play Durak.”
On “narkotiki” - “Actually, I like Kuzmich and Managa a whole lot better than taking a joint.”
On drinking - “I flick the side of my neck to indicate a need to imbibe.”
I am so glad that this is the only example of Russki Sign Language in this work. It could all have been so much nastier…and a whole lot ruder…
Wendy Muzlanova |
Think of Russia today and you'll more than likely think of Roman Abramovich, or the cash-rich, slightly villainous characters that abuse the staff on holiday.
But before all that, I remember Michael Palin's visit to post-Soviet Russia as part of his Pole to Pole series, in which he blunders through a bizarre ritual of coupons and storefront counters just to get hold of a bottle of vodka. This was the Russia that the oligarchs left behind, and it's this same sense of a caged, future-less nation that informs Roman Senchin's Minus.
The novel follows a lapsed anarchist and theatre stagehand, also called Roman, who nightly shifts every kind of scene but his own. He's part of a generation of nomadic nearly men in the Siberian town of Minusinsk, existing day-to-day on a staple diet of potatoes and moonshine, the deceptions of childhood a long and distant memory. The ideological fervour of the past has also been and gone, replaced by the stark, unsentimental nihilism at the heart of both Romans – narrator and author.
Senchin has been widely celebrated for his 'New Realism' – the novel is filled with detail, from the cigarettes and alcohol of choice to the way meat is stored in between window frames as the winter sets in. As a result of this near-photographic clarity, any device remotely resembling plot – the promise of a robbery, or a drugs arrest, even a murder – is quickly shot down, negated. And it all fits neatly with the book’s 'illusion vs. reality' theme – that other staple of Russian literature and history alike – be it on stage or in the street.
While you can't help but feel like certain expressions have been lost in translation, Minus remains fascinatingly bleak and laden with knowing irony, a Lonely Planet Russia in every sense.
James Hogg |
