Steven Doran Sound-Writing, session 2 I step out of the Metro on Arbatskaya.

The guidebook said this was a bohemian district, a description which in this instance appears to indicate that the buildings feature colour, and goes some way to e plain the e cess of portrait artists on the street. The buildings and the portraits are both ugly, but that!s I like. It!s August in Moscow, a time of year when the whole of the city apparently is resurfaced. Skryabin!s house is on a side street off of Arbatskaya, and to reach it I have to clamber over upturned pavement and building materials to reach the entrance which, given issues with accessibility, I!m very glad to find open. Immediately upon entering I go up a flight of stairs to a landing where I give my money to a woman sitting behind a desk. She gestures me through to a parlour, in which the only remarkable features are a grand piano and a desk on which there is a ring of coloured light bulbs" presumably a mechanism for demonstrating Skyabin!s synesthetic note"colour associations. #ollowing behind, she shuts the door, and indicates to me one of two chairs positioned against the wall. $%ou sit. Skryabin play.& She proceeds to press a button on a 'D player, before sitting down herself in a chair opposite. The op (( preludes being to play )some of the little Skryabin I know* and so I sit and en+oy the moment of calm and hoping the oddity of the situation will develop further. I make it to prelude four )my favourite* at which point the 'D begins to skip on the augmented chord in the first bar. The moment of calm is broken, and I so I look e pectantly at the lady in the chair opposite. She doesn!t react. To diffuse the tension and to distract myself from what has become an uncomfortable situation I get up to look around the gallery. There is a second room which I go into, in order to avoid her ga,e )of course, I had no idea whether she was watching me or not*. It was a bedroom, although I can hear running water from behind a further door which is shut. I go over to open the door, and as the 'D skips I am thrilled by how this museum visit has taken a turn towards the e traordinary. A great cry rends the air- Somewhat fearfully, I open the door to a bathroom. The smell of lavender comes to me, reminding me of some $bain moussant& I bought my mother for her birthday. The woman in the bath seems to have poured in the whole lot at one go. $It.s that man-& she booms in a #rench accent, from the midst of a cathedral of white froth. $I was giving him another chance, and then this...& She brandishes a book by /ushkin )I can.t tell you which one. Although my reading of 'yrillic had become fairly serviceable, the plastic bath"time reader.s cover was steamed up, and it doesn.t matter anyway.* I mention that I had visited his e "house less than an hour ago" clearly the wrong thing to say- She shouts some 0ussian vulgarity and dives under the foam. $It was very attractive1 Tur2uoise, and it has a vine1 and a Mme 3utterfly rose on the wall.& I offer weakly. The lady re"emerges from the $mousse&, her face softened )at which point I realise the music is back on course*. $My favourite rose,& she announces, $Is the Mme /ierre 4ger.&