MOSCOW, Sunday 10th May, 1987 The black statue of Nikolai Gogol looked down on the four assorted vehicles of the Moscow militia. No surprise showed on his visage.

Gogol was not a golfer, so he did not appreciate his fine position on an elevated tee. Moreover, he had his back to the boulevard named after him. Had he turned round on his plinth and taken a heavy club he might have driven down the splendid gravelly tree-lined fairway and, by straining nerve and muscle, reached the gentle dog-leg sweep to the left. With draw on the ball the little white missile would be in sight and easy reach of the green with its hole, familiar to Moscow dwellers as the dusty door-swinging entrance to Kropotinskaya metro station.

There was traffic on Gogol Boulevard - one-way traffic, out-of-bounds to left and right. Gogol might have glimpsed cars, buses and chequered taxis flitting towards him on his left or running away on his right, but both lanes were hidden from the citizens patrolling the gravel. His eye would have taken in yet more symmetry, for while-painted life-boats faced each other every ten yards, console-curved close-slatted seats, Muscovites for the use of. And they were in use, including the one half-way down on the left, outside the Central Chess Club, reserved by unwritten prescriptive right for domino players who had set up a hard, flat surface for snapping down each domino played from hand.

Apart from the closed circle of' domino players the strollers passing each other on this pleasant spring Sunday afternoon were not displeased with life. Just two days earlier all the trees had sprung their delicate green parasols in unison, and the sun shone. I joined one of the queues for ice cream at Kropotkinskaya and, like the great proletarian majority, soon had 25 kopecks' worth of tub-shaped cornet, shaking my head at the thought that a week's commuting costs the local worker no more than an ice-cream treat for two. I too had no complaints and sauntered up Gogol's boulevard past the eternal domino players who objected to being photographed, as if they had been insulted. Just beyond them I sat down on a life-boat to watch the local world go by. As on a week-day there were military uniforms scurrying with tattered brief-cases, but most of the world was either courting, coyly or not so coyly, or walking slowly past me in small family groups, the women and girls not yet confident enough to wear their light summer dresses. The ice-cream disposed of, I dozed off.

Where Gogol's plinth should have been was a pinkish horizontal blur. It was still there 10 minutes later, so I staggered to my feet and ambled up the slope towards it in idle perplexity. The blur seemed to be turning into a banner of some sort but it was still a blur because of scores of people round the base of the elevated tee, which I skirted on the left to the far side, where the pale-blue clad, red-band hatted militia stood in small clumps and studied informality, exuding relaxed embarrassment. The four parked objects were a dented khaki maria, an official militsia car and two anonymous vehicles with drivers at the wheel. Still under Gogol's eye the civilian assembly qualified for a throng - an ad hoc discussion group, now and again animated, with photographer, lifted camera held high, in attendance, and a passive adult public standing or shuffling around in ones and twos, not comprehending whether the gathering was normal, downright criminal, or simply irregular - were such a thing conceivable in what claimed to be & well-regulated society. I returned to the banner held by persons as yet unseen, with their backs protected by Gogol's plinth, below the heels of his boots. The banner was of white cloth with large letters hand-prepared in red paint. I could discern three lines of writing, bul only three words. "Do they guarantee?" was the first word, "of the individual" was the third word, but the second, a polysyllabic monstrosity, took up the whole three-metre width of the banner and was unrecognisable, being in any case difficult to decipher as the banner holders were hard pressed to keep it upright, still, straight and legible. Its meaning, though, had to be 'freedom', even if it was not the usual word. I edged towards the character on the right and peered down at a long-haired serious mature student squatting on the stone verge and obstinately gripping the base of a stick slipped into his end of the banner. I was an English tourist, did he speak English? He muttered that he did not and was patently reluclant to converse with a stranger, so I left him alone: he was more familiar with the local laws than I was. He might be in more trouble than he was already if he was caught talking to a foreigner. His companions, about eight in number and not all men, were likewise sitting or standing with the banner. Awaiting their fate, if any, they had been there some time and were determined to prolong the mute demonstration. I was reminded of the old law in Britain governing nudity on the stage: it was permissible as long as the subiects remained immobile. Another Gogol touch of irony. I retreated to take a discreet photo with my discreet camera, intending to decipher the banner’s message later. Was anything going to happen? The uniformed militia kept to their side of Gogol, the demonstrators and ambivalent onlookers to theirs. Just as I was making out who among the militia was giving the orders, there was a scuffle at the banner, a burst of coordinated shouting to drown protestations, and above the shouting the coarse grate of cloth ripped. A few seconds later - no banner. The militia had not moved: action had been by a group of hefty men in black leather jackets who, I now noticed, had been screening off the demonstrators from the genuine onlookers, a physical delerrem for anyone else to get close. I had outflanked them. One hefty, and one only, wore a spotless white zippered windcheater, which detached itself from the abrupt fray and in half-a-dozen casual steps reached the elbow of the tall militia officer stationed statuesquely in front of me and to the side of the statue itself. He spoke briefly into the officer's ear and covertly passed something into the officer's waiting hand. The officer pocketed the object the size of a razor blade and nodded, satisfied. The demonstration was over. Nobody had been arrested. The crowd began to disperse of its own volition. The constitution way have been called in question before their eyes, but their constitutionals took priority and were sacrosanct. The long-haired pastel-dressed protesters made off silently down the fairway in good order, two puny sticks and a roll of cloth under an arm. Unmolested, they turned off to the right in the direction of Siftsev-Vrazhek street, haunt of Dr Zhivago buffs.

The long word on the banner ('neprikosnovennost') means immunity, so the full text was "Is personal immunity guaranteed?" Smaller letters in a corner previously unremarked gave the question a context by invoking article 54 of the soviet constitution. The demonstration had been pragmatically planned to draw upon itself the official reaction to its own slogan. Gogol, author of the satirical play The Government Inspector, appreciated not just the scene's dramatic economy but the irony of its outcome, and permitted himself a second smile, as fleeting as the first.

John Roycroft

London May 1987

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