The Man from Samarkand

We didn't see a lot of elegance in the former Soviet Union thirty years ago. And the fact that we were there in January didn't make it any lovelier. Old women shoveled snow off the Moscow streets. Our hotel was less than posh. There were lines of people waiting to get into the "departments" of the GUM Department Store, lines to select from a very limited supply of pots or belts or cheese, and lines to check out.

Not much elegance - until you entered the subway. The Metro stations in Moscow were gorgeous: marble floors polished to a shine, huge ornate crystal chandeliers - and all of that for about five kopecs a ride (about a dime). If it weren't for the constant hum of the trains, the smell of diesel, and the squeaks and honks as the cars rolled to a stop, you'd think you were about to enter a great concert hall. The trains are deep underground, so the long, steep escalator ride allowed time for one to take in the ambiance of the station.

One night Steven and I found ourselves coming back up the escalator, marveling at the spotless grandeur of the Metro station as we headed back towards the hotel. We noticed a man riding a couple of steps above us. He seemed about half as tall as either of us, even with the tall fur hat he was wearing. His skin was the color of a walnut husk, and just about as furrowed with lines. And he kept staring at me - almost leering, it felt.

Shortly he spoke to us in broken English. He looked at me straight in the eyes and told me what beautiful teeth I had. Now, I've heard some lines in my time; few have involved dentistry. But when he said this to me, he smiled - and I saw exactly why he might admire my teeth. His were yellowed and snaggled and in need of repair. I stood a little closer to my friend.

He told us that he hailed from Samarkand. Somehow he was able to guess that we did not; we must be from the States. "Ah," he said, "you must be millionaires." What a card! I don't know about my classmates, but I was there because of the benevolence of Austin College's financial aid office. He had no way of knowing what a precarious financial tightrope I maneuvered in those days. But he insisted - "Everyone in the United States is a millionaire." (Now I know he was right. In comparison with most of the world, each of us is wealthy beyond measure.)

"I want you to go home and talk to the other millionaires," he said, "and tell them to buy up all the guns." This was after the end of Vietnam, and just days before Jimmy Carter's inauguration; we self-centered college juniors didn't exactly have world peace in the front of our minds. We agreed to do so, laughing nervously, hoping against hope that the long slow escalator would somehow suddenly, magically, catapult us to our destination. Then the man from Samarkand reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet. "I want to give you something."

"For the girl with the beautiful teeth," he said. It was a postcard, an artist's rendering of a red rose on a moss green background. On the back were words in faded Cyrillic lettering. If they'd made hand sanitizer in those days, I probably would have whipped it out about then. I planned to take the card to humor him, thinking I'd ditch it later as soon as I could.

"I was one of six brothers," he told us. "All five of my brothers were killed in World War Two. Now it is just me, and I am alone. This postcard is a New Year's greeting from my only son. He sent it to me from Germany, where he is in the military now. I wonder whether I will ever see him again." Steven and I became uncharacteristically quiet. "Go home and find the millionaires, and tell them to buy up all the guns." This time when we said we would, we meant it.

I'm a little longer in the tooth these days, but I still have that postcard. If you happen to be a millionaire, or if you happen to know any, well, I made this promise...