Three station part two Sasha and I took the pedestrian underpass from Kazan Station because the more distance between us and the Cat in the Hat better

And it was reassuring to find two uniformed security men sitting in the walkway,even if one was reading a comic book and the other was asleep.The shop stalls in the tunnel were shuttered except for one window displaying mobile phones.We emerged in front of Yaroslavl Station.It was 3 a.m.,and all the civilians had retreated to the waiting rooms and ceded the night to vodka zombies,prostitutes,and teenage gangs too spaced from huffing glue to notice us.Incredibly,with one step into the waiting hall we reentered the normal world.There were cafes,a bookshop,a playpen,closed,to be sure,but evidence of normal life.Normal people were asleep in chairs.Healthy babies curled up on their mother's laps.In some parts of the world people share a river with crocodiles.You just had to be careful.But there was more.Returing through the underpass we came upon two men robbing a drunk.One lifted the victim by the neck while the second went through his pocket,although the way the drunk flopped back and forth made the task difficult.We had to get around them to the action and me.The security men stayed seated and watched with mild curiosity,they were paid to protect the window of mobile phones,nothing else.What happened took ten seconds.Essentially,the thieves took the money and ran.They wrested a roll of bills from the drunk inside jacket pocket,let him drop,and vanished up the stairs to the street.The drunk spat blood and sighed.He rolled to a sitting position and waves off any help.At night?At three Stations?Nothing happened.




Diaghilev Amid clouds of smoke,strobe lights,and the deafening beat of house music,the new lords of oil,nickel,and natural gas arrived at Diaghilev with women as mute and beautiful as cheetahs on a leash.In this cacophony a millionaire could expand and relax.For one thing,no guns are allowed inside Diaghilev.The club had a 40 man security force,and any customer who felt in drive need of protection was assigned a personal bodyguard.A bomb dog had sniffed the chairs,and a security briefing had alerted the staff about special needs,such as guests from Iran who did not want to be photographed drinking champane with scantily clad models.I had followed Yegor through a back door.How Yegor arranged my visit I did not know,but the chief of security was not pleased.The club incorporated relentless sound,color,and motion.Psychedelic visions splashed across screens and vodka bars.A UFO and a crystal chandelier contested air space,and a contortionist added a touch of Cirque du Soleil.It was a simple system.Face control admitted more women than men and only enough guests to achieve critical mass.The more people who were turned away the more people who wanted to get in.The real Diaghilev was the fur-trimmed impresario who founded the Ballets Russes a hundred years ago.First of all,he was a showman.He would have loved this.




New Russians climbed to their VIP tables,waving to fellow New Russians and Celebrities.Television personalities and Eurotrash leavened the mix,and soon the floor was so crowded people could only dance in place,something six-foot models in six-inches heels managed gracefully.Yegor kept asking a question I finally understood over the din,Are you happy?Did you get what you came for?I didn't knwo.Was this what millions of Russians died for in wars and prison camps?Had they foced down a KGB coup and dismantled an empire so a few gluttons could party through the night?Gogol had likened Russia to a troika of speeding horses,not a Bentley in a ditch.Suddenly,the speakers went silent for a booming,I love Moscow!On the runway an American singer had taken over the microphone.She was black-not many in Moscow-and she sang the blues.The boys on the VIP tier went on chatting at a shout and pouring each other cognac.Then the entire crowd joined in one refrain in English,What are we supposed to do afrer all that we've been through?I had no idea what song it was.They sang it over and over.What are we supposed to do after all that we've been through?Soon after Diaghilev was,in a time-honored tradition of nightcluns,gutted by fire.Now it is better than hot,it is legend.



On my last night in Moscow Yegor showed me the future.We drove beyond the Garden Ring and followed the river to the dark industrial area,where we parked and walked along the chain-link fence.If this was the future.I wasn't impressed.Look up.Yegor said.I don't see anything.Look higher!Aganist the night stood a ladder of lights so high I couldn't be sure where it stopped,until a red beam crawled to the edge of an open floor somewhere near Mars.Moscow City he said.A cith within a city.It was a magic beanstalk,a complex of 14 building,including the Russian Tower,at 113 floors projected to be the tallest skyscrapper in Europe.A giant crane performed a pirouette at the top of what will be the Moscow Tower,A mere 72 stories high.Work was going on day and night.A floodlight revealed figures in yellow vests clambering over the load the crane had delivered.From what the seemed an incredible distance we heard the stutter of a rivet gun,the clap of metal plates,even voices,creating a curious intimacy.Buildings were in very stage of construction.Those already completed resembled silver spaceships about the depart.The scale was enormous.The excavation alone could swallow the pyramids of Giza.The complex is planned to house City Hall,offices,and luxury apartments with views halfway to Finland.This is the advantage of being in Moscow after dark.In the daytime you see only architecture.At night you see blazing ambition.