One Russia, Two Chinas. George Fetherling

on some more, and some more. My vantage point was privileged, but I realized that it was also constricted. I couldn’t see Gorbachev from where I was; I couldn’t even see whether he had turned up. There were gasps now at the wording on some of the placards and banners bobbing over the heads of the crowd. I asked someone to translate. One read THE COMMUNIST PARTY OF THE SOVIET UNION EXPLOITS US. Another ran: GET OUT OF OUR POCKETS NOW! I felt compelled to see how the fellows on the reviewing stand were reacting. I needed to move to the east, but whenever I tried I was stopped by the militia police or by the plainclothes security. For the same reasons it seemed hopeless to try to make a circuitous route, westward to the museum at the edge of the square and then along 25th October Street, through the back door, as it were; that would have put the whole crowd between me and the mausoleum and I wasn’t certain I would find a sufficiently elevated spot there such as the one I already enjoyed where I was. The only thing to do was to join the parade and become one of the marchers myself. If anyone tried to prevent me from doing so, I would make a fuss and insist I was one of the cultural workers (for such is how my editor must think of me, I said to myself).

      An organization of machinists was going past. I could identify them by the logotype of meshing gears on their signboards. I stepped down and slipped sideways between the guards and was swept up in the marchers before anyone could stop me. We hadn’t gone many metres before I caught sight of Gorbachev. He was the 12th from the right, in his trademark top-coat and little grey hat. His wool scarf had an irregular pattern of red in it, no doubt to honour the occasion. He was looking impassive and occasionally he waved in somewhat the same way we associate with the Queen. I got to look at him only for half a minute before the momentum of the crowd pushed me and my fellow machinists along. I didn’t see any obvious concern on his face, but my intuition, I believe, was correct. Shortly afterwards, thanks partly to an administrative mix-up, the demonstration in Revolution Square was permitted to tag on to the end of our parade, not far behind me, and when these other marchers reached the vicinity of the reviewing stand, they produced loud-hailers and began shouting personal insults at the president, who lost his patience and walked off.