Pensioners' Club

Zuzana and I have been giving presentations in local schools, unis, and youth centres. Considering how few people here seem to have met foreigners, we figure it’s a good way to expose people to different cultures and the like. I was slightly caught off guard when a pensioners’ club sent me a message on VKontakte requesting a presentation on ‘social welfare and the lives of pensioners in Britain and Slovakia’. Apart from the obvious fact that a pensioners’ club very decidedly didn’t fit the target audience of schools, unis, and youth centres, there was the small problem that Zuzana and I know literally nothing about social welfare and the lives of pensioners in Britain and Slovakia. But how could I tell these people that?

‘Zuzana and I know literally nothing about social welfare and the lives of pensioners in Britain and Slovakia’, I wrote back after some careful thought. I received a response before I’d even closed the tab: ‘what’s your telephone number?’ Now in England this sort of message could come across as direct, intrusive, verging on creepy. But in Russia the phone is used as it should be – as a slightly clearer and much quicker way of communicating with people. So while I, being a slightly awkward Englishman, avoid phone calls at all costs, Russians tend to try to switch from texts to phone calls as early as possible in a conversation to save everyone time. Within seconds of sending my number, my phone started buzzing.

I answered it, hoping that it wasn’t someone from this pensioners’ club. If it was, they seriously needed to get a hobby. It was. The woman at the other end of the line briefly introduced herself as ‘someone from the pensioners’ club’, and then, with all the pomp of a trumpeter at a royal wedding, announced ‘and now, I’d like to hand you over to Mr Andrey Vasilievich, our director’.

‘Theo! Hi there, how good to hear from you!’ gushed a breezy but businesslike voice. ‘Uh, well actually it was you who ca…’

‘well I hear you don’t want to speak about the lives of pensioners. That right?’ he interrupted, his voice becoming sterner. 

‘We don’t know anything about the lives of pensioners! We’ve already prepared presentations on education, the environment, and traditions. Can’t we give one of them?’

‘YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE LIVES OF PENSIONERS? Don’t you have grandparents?’

‘Well yes, I do, but…’

‘So you can talk about what they do on an average day, can’t you?’

‘Uh. I suppose so.’ My voice was probably infused with despair by this point.

‘Excellent, excellent. Good man!’ he said. ‘Well then we’ll see you in a few weeks. Oh and by the way, you can give the presentation in Russian can’t you?’

‘Erm…’ I squeaked.

‘Wonderful, see you then!’ replied Andrey Vasilievich, whose voice had become breezy again. Then he hung up.

I got another phone call when I was in a supermarket the following week. ‘Theo! Greetings! Andrey Vasilievich here! So, I was wondering what you think about me inviting the media to our little talk?’

‘The media… as in… newspapers? TV?’

‘That’s what we were thinking!’ he said, confusingly.

I had to be 'that guy' and ask him not to invite the TV in the end, although I’m seriously doubtful that any telly producers would actually be interested in showing two foreigners with funny hair lecture old people on pensions in broken Russian.

The club was an hour from work on the bus. At the exact time that we’d said we would turn up, the inimitable Andrey Vasilievich popped out of the door of the long housing block that we were walking up to. ‘THEO, ZUZANA!’ he practically roared. ‘How wonderful to see you! Wonderful!’ He shook my hand boisterously and then kissed Zuzana’s. Then he ushered us into the building with the occasional impatient shove.

While we were hanging our coats up in the main office, Andrey Vasilievich was practically bouncing from the walls. Probably in his late sixties, Andrey Vasilievich was nonetheless the most unbelievably energetic person I have ever met. He blustered around the room adjusting the positions of paperweights and wringing his hands. He garbled out an explanation of the ‘format’ of our presentation (‘I introduce you and then you do your presentation. Ok?’) and then hugged us both when we magnanimously agreed that this was, indeed, ok.

The room where the presentation was to take place was already filled with expectant pensioners. They’d bought little Russian, British, and Slovak flags, which were on a stand on the coffee table. There was a big banner advertising our presentation, and, if my memory serves, even some bunting. They’d gone to town on this presentation. Suddenly I felt quite a weight of expectation.

After we’d sat down in plush armchairs (à la talk show), Andrey Vasilievich, the host for the evening, sprung to his feet and launched himself into a Russian translation of some Shakespeare quote about England. It wasn’t ‘this scepter’d isle’, but it was along those lines. Five long, embarrassing minutes later, he’d finished his Shakespearean address, pointing to me with a flourish. ‘This is Theo, from Shakespeare’s own England!’ He stopped short of bowing, but it was certainly the most regal introduction I’ve ever had. Clearly, Andrey Vasilievich wasn’t as big a fan of Slovakia as he was of England, because he followed this panegyric with ‘and this is Zuzana, from Slovakia.’

The presentation was better than I imagined. I included a picture of my grandparents, who got admiring ‘ooohs’ from the audience, who clearly perceived them to be alien pensioners of some sort. The spectators were otherwise quite restrained, though. The only really challenging question came when Zuzana made the mistake of calling life in Russia cheaper than life in Slovakia. ‘How much does a bottle of milk cost in Slovakia then?’ heckled one woman from the back.

‘I… I’m not sure’ confessed Zuzana ‘I don’t drink cow’s milk, I drink other types of milk.’

‘A loaf of bread then. How much for a loaf of bread?’ Piped up the same woman.

‘Umm. I really don’t know. Maybe a Euro at the most?’ The takeaway from this seemed not to be so much that life in Slovakia was more expensive as that this young girl didn’t know EXACTLY how much a loaf of bread cost (in roubles) in her own country! A ripple of indignation swept through the audience. Andrey Vasilievich restored calm by standing up and asking for questions from the audience. 

A short man wearing a denim jacket and sitting at the front of the audience put his hand up. He stood up agonisingly slowly and took a shaky step forward. Then he did a dramatic pause which must have been about thirty seconds long. ‘I’ve been learning English all my life, but I’ve never met a native speaker.’ He said at last. ‘So firstly, I’d like to thank you, Theo, for being here and letting us hear your lovely English accent. And secondly…’

He turned to Zuzana, his face lighting up

‘… I’d like to thank this marvel, this wonder, this beautiful young girl. Yes, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. It’s true Zuzana, you are most delicate, most radiant…’

At this point, two women in the audience started shouting him down. Not because his praise for Zuzana was weird, but because he was taking too long to get to his question. ‘We get it, he’s English, she’s pretty! Yadayadaya. Will you ask your damn question now?’ one of them said. The audience murmured its approval. The old man swayed slightly. He turned back to me. ‘Theo. I am so excited to be meeting a fluent English speaker for the first time in my life. It’s such a privilege to be here with you, and everything you just told us was so interesting. So very interesting. About England, about your grandparents. And pensioners. And the sport bowls. And…’

‘SHUT UP YOU OLD COOT. WE HAVE QUESTIONS TOO!’ screamed the same indignant woman.

But the old man was enjoying his time in the spotlight, and he paid her no heed (I don’t think it was remotely possible that he hadn’t heard her yell, but that’s the impression he tried to give). Smiling to himself, he said ‘so anyway, what I’d like to do now, is this. I’d really like – seeing as you’re the first native speaker I’ve ever met – I’d like to recite to you – and also to Zuzana, because she’s just the most divine thing I’ve ever…’

‘YOUR QUESTION! WHAT’S YOUR QUESTION??? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MAN!’

‘…Ah well my question. Yes indeed. Hehe. My question for you, Theo, and for you also, my sweet Zuzana… my question is that I’d rather like to recite something to you both. And you can tell me if you understand this poem I’ve learned. And if you do understand it I’ll be so happy. So delighted. Oh my it would make my week, it really would.’

At this point, the woman sitting next to him was actively kicking his shins with a look of utter vehemence, but the man was not for turning…

Ten minutes later, the man in the denim jacket had finally been induced to recite his poem in English. It happened to be a poem which I was already familiar with. I’d sung a setting of it a couple of years ago in a singing lesson. So even though ninety percent of what he was saying was totally incomprehensible, I could truthfully tell him that I got the gist of what he was saying when he’d finished. He beamed for a few seconds, but didn’t sit down. ‘Could you prove that by saying it back to me?’ he asked.

‘All five minutes of it?’ I asked. ‘No, not really. Now you’ve had your turn. Let’s let someone else ask a question shall we?’

The woman who’d been leading the campaign to get him to sit down gave a triumphant cry and leapt up eagerly.

‘Theo and Zuzana. Thank you so much for your presentation. I enjoyed every minute of it. Now, if you’ll let me, I’d like to recite a poem to you in English. It’s about a mouse…’

Ten poems and zero questions later, Andrey Vasilievich was forced to wrap up the presentation. As pensioners filed out, the old man who asked the first question cornered us, took our hands, and started showering us with praises and reciting the same poem to us again. Eventually, I said that we had to go, but he didn’t want to let go of my hand. Andrey Vasilievich’s masterful diplomacy was required to free us.

We were presented with gift bags full of really thoughtful Krasnoyarsk-themed gifts. On the way out, two grandmas thanked us for the presentation and then reached into their bags and started stuffing handfuls of chocolates into our pockets. ‘These are from Krasnoyarsk!’ They said gleefully. Ooh here, have another handful – these orange ones are the best!’