The Little Old Lady from Listvyanka

 The Little Old Lady from Listvyanka                                 June 2016
-Saving Face

       

A week exploring the culture, temples and gardens of Japan before flying to Vladivostok, Siberia, to embark on the lengthy trans-Siberian railway, seemed another wonderful opportunity. The tranquil temples and gracious gardens presented particular pleasures for my gardener’s soul.
At one ancient, sculpturally perfect Shinto shrine, I hurried from the tour coach, carrying only my video camera, unwisely leaving my raincoat and umbrella. At the wooden temple entrance, we were discreetly offered plastic bag overshoes to prevent marking the beautiful floors.
      At the end of the visit, rain was steadily falling, so I wrapped my vulnerable video camera in one plastic overshoe and placed the other one on my head.
As I proceeded towards the garden exit, a group of Japanese businessmen exclaimed loudly, seemingly at the sight of a foolhardy foreigner flaunting their customs of reverence and respect. One of the dark suited men calmly collapsed his large black umbrella, rapidly rolled and presented it towards me, with a deep solemn bow.
      "Oh, no thank you,"said I, gesturing towards the bus park, in embarrassment. "I have my own umbrella on the bus, and it is my own fault I did not bring it with me." Another deep bow and umbrella presenting, and another refusal and explanation from me. In desperation, I tried to walk away and was stopped by our tour guide.
"If you do not accept his umbrella, this man will lose face with all his business associates. It will be a deep humiliation for him to be prevented from assisting a foreign visitor.” By this time, a number of curious bystanders had assembled. So, to avoid giving offense to the increasingly saddened Japanese man, I took his proffered umbrella, bowed, muttered “Amigato” and hastened to hide my conspicuous sodden self in the haven of the tour coach back seat.
      As I stowed the large black umbrella in the overhead luggage rack, my own bright floral pattern blue umbrella reproached my foolish forgetfulness.
      At each of the many stops and excursions made during the next three weeks, the sight of the sombre black umbrella, lying discarded and unwanted, revived my guilty thoughts of that polite Japanese man, and how I had deprived him of his umbrella, so needlessly.
      A major stopover on the Trans-Siberian railway was Irkutsk, on the shores of the famous Lake Baikal, where we spent three nights. The black umbrella had to be stowed in yet another luggage rack. After a drive through traditional Taiga forests of the Siberian wilderness, we visited a quaint rural village, named Listvyanka, a popular visitors’ stop because of its picturesque wooden cottages with carved, brightly painted window shutters and doors.
      We were approached by a little old lady, a typical babushka, with apple cheeks and floral headscarf, very soon started an indecipherable loud lament. She followed us back to tour coach refuge and hobbled along the sides crying and pleading, without outstretched arms. It was a disturbing sight and upset us all.
      "Do not give her any money" ordered our stern overseer. "She has the same story for all visitors. Her cow was killed in a road accident and her life is in ruins."
      It was hard not to feel sorry for the pitiful old lady. Well, I know how to save face. I took the Japanese umbrella, stepped out of the bus and offered my unwonted gift. The little, lined face wreathed with sudden smiles, the outstretched arms soon snatched the prize, hoisted it high, hastened away down the red rutted road.
     That was my last sight of the little old lady, hurrying home to Listvyanka.

 

 

Please note that these texts have been transcribed as they were written, punctuation etc intact.