The Moscow Underground

It was after dark by the time I left the office. The air was as crisp as the crunchy snow beneath my shoes. Cars zipped through the streets splashing waves of dirty slush onto piles of grey snow. I could see my breath as I walked.

Stopping for a brief dinner and to warm up, I wandered the streets late into the night. Most of the people were bundled up from head to toe. The exception were some of the younger women who were brave enough to wear skirts. Warmth is a small sacrifice in the name of fashion. The way they could nimbly navigate the streets in their high heels was quite impressive. Whereas I slid on every patch of ice available. Eventually when the cold started to seep into my bones. I headed down to the subway tunnels for some warmth.

This particular stop, Kitay-gorod, was not one of those architectural wonders like some of the other metro stations. Moscow has a number of beautifully designed subway stations loaded with marble tiles, sculptures and artwork. Often there is a political message delivered within the art itself. Usually focusing on the greatness of communism or the heroism of the working man. While some stations are very beautiful, the subway system does have a dark side. Most of the construction for these stations was done with slave labor. This particular station was built in the 1970s when slave labor wasn’t as available. Hence, it’s not nearly as fancy as some of the previously designed stations.

While meandering around the tunnels, I came across a chair and a box against the wall. It was a folding metal chair and it was the only place I saw to sit in the entire station. I decided to take a seat and sketch some of the late night pedestrians. The sketching had been going on for an hour when a dark haired guy comes and sits on the box next to the chair I was on. He watched me draw for a bit before wandering off. A quarter of an hour later the pattern repeats. He came, sat on the box, watched me draw, then left. It seemed odd that he was hanging out in the subway station late at night, but then I remembered I was also hanging out in the subway station late at night.

Eventually he spoke to me but I replied that I couldn’t speak Russian. A few moments later, a younger man in a red ski jacket walks briskly around a corner. He’s quite talkative and energetic compared to the first guy. Using hand gestures and and lots of guessing, I found out these two men were together and from Armenia. Later in a discussion with coworkers, I learned that Armenia had the reputation in Moscow as being the country where troublesome people come from. I suppose every place has their own stereotype as to where the worst people come from. People like to have someone to blame. In Moscow, it was Armenia.

The talkative guy pointed at pretty girls that walked by and gestured me to sketch them. I did some quick sketches of the people in motion. He was excited about that and he started talking to some of the people. He was trying to convince them to get portraits made. It was close to one in the morning so it was a hard sell, but this guy must have had some salesmanship charm because I ended up doing a handful of portraits.

He would point at someone, if I’d shake my head no, then he’d select someone more interesting to draw. I made a few rubles and was enjoying sketching. During all this, the guy and I exchanged some new words in our respective languages. Of course they were of the vulgar type. We were in the subway after all. We weren’t going to teach each other words like ‘annunciation’ or ‘library.’

As the night grew late, less and less people came through. The friendly guy in the red jacket heads off and returns a few minutes later with what appears to be five prostitutes. They were dressed similar to the women commuting wearing skirts and heels. But these skirts were a little too short and the heels a little too tall for normal office wear.

The clothing was the first clue, the second clue was when the less talkative man said I could ‘baba-something’ with any of the girls. He didn’t say much, but when he did, he went straight to the point. One girl wagged her finger, said ’nyet’ and instead offered up the internationally known sign for a blow job. Tongue poking cheek, hand in jerking motion.

I declined and instead I gestured that she would have to pay me if she wanted to give me a blow job. I used the international sign for money; thumb and fingers rubbing together. Since neither of us thought the other was worth paying for, no transaction took place and we all hung out amicably as I did portraits of the women.

Throughout the evening one or two of the girls walked away. Apparently they had to solicit business or to complete a transaction. I didn’t really feel like I needed to know, besides who likes talking about work anyway? Work is annoying for most people no matter what job you have.

We continued our language lessons about the human anatomy. I listed off some slang we used in the United States. The one that caught their attention the most was ‘bootie.’ It seems the word ’bootie’ is a winner in every language.

The older quieter guy kept on trying to get the girls to let me paint their ’sis’kya.’ Apparently that’s slang for breasts. I think he was more interested in seeing their breasts for himself as he kept on trying to pull the girls tops down. It was interesting to see their interactions without knowing their language. The girls seemed to find this man annoying. Since he held some power over them, they seemed to tolerate his boorish behavior. The girls declined, not because they were shy, but because we were standing in a subway tunnel and the guy was being annoying. The vibe of a creepy person transcends language. Sometimes the yuck factor just oozes out of people no matter what language they speak.

Eventually I figured I should head back to the hotel. As comfortable as I was, it probably wasn’t the safest place to be so late at night. I stood up to stretch my legs and pack my belongings in my backpack. As I’m doing so, one of the guys takes a seat in the chair I was on. It was then that I realized that I was sitting on his chair. There weren’t any chairs in the tunnels unless you brought your own.

I feel like making art is sometimes a gateway into doing things that I might not normally be allowed to do. I imagine his reaction might have been different if I wasn’t drawing and was merely sitting in his chair reading instead? Pimps aren't usually known for their generosity. That’s his work chair. I know I’d be a little annoyed if someone was sitting in my office chair. I thought that was pretty nice of them to let me use it. I guess even human traffickers show traits of kindness once in a blue moon. I offered thanks in broken Russian, said ‘Dos vedanya’ to my new acquaintances and headed up into the cold night air to walk back to the hotel.