Harry Harrison! Harry Harrison!

by Harry Harrison

  How could we forget the happy pineapple seller in the mercado shouting his welcome to the passing girls? The fruit was so cheap—and so ripe and so good. He would slice the top and bottom of the fruit with a wicked machete, then square the sides. Then he would hold it aloft and call out, “Piña piña para la niña!” Pineapple, pineapple for the lady!

  After Mexico we returned to New York, then decided to move to Italy. Once again we did not think about the language. At this point, my narration is stopped by a hand on the arm and the question of why? Why move to Italy? I can but answer that: it seemed like a good idea at the time. Elsewhere you will find a more satisfactory explanation. Italy was a great fun. We felt at home the moment we stepped off the Naples ferry in Capri. We had the advantage of speaking conversational Spanish—the two languages are very much alike. The grocer in Anacapri, where we settled, cheerfully corrected us.

  “No, signore, ‘pan’ es español. ‘Pane’ en Italiano.”

  “Pane…?”

  “Bene!”

  Now we could eat bread. Pane, simple enough. I must take a moment to reassure the linguists and the purists—I hear their teeth grinding together. I know that my grammar is simple and probably wrong, my spelling impossible, my accent very regional. I can only say that I get by with no complaints from the locals, the barmen, grocers, and all the rest of the casual conversationalists. Life is too short for me for linguistic perfection. I happily settle for conversational Esperanto, Spanish, Italian, Danish, Norwegian, German, and French.

  We left Italy only because Joan was pregnant and the Italian doctors more than incompetent. Back to New York, where our daughter Moira was born—and the world became a far brighter place. It seemed logical at the time to move to Denmark, and move we did. It was supposed to be a three-month visit … seven years later we were still there. A good idea at the time … By hindsight we never thought about learning Danish—in the beginning we seem to have learned it by osmosis. We were just settling into Denmark when Joan met Muriel Overgaard. She was English, a Geordie, her husband Kaj was Danish. Four-year-old Todd soon made friends with Thomas; one of their three sons. They were of an age and became close friends. They talked English, though the occasional Danish word would slip in. Thomas was already bilingual; Todd soon joined him. It was easier for Moira, whose first language was Danish. (Her first English word was to our Danish babysitter in Italy.…)

  All our Danish friends spoke English. The shopkeepers and others did not. One does not pick up Danish by ear; it is not that easy to hear with its five umlauts and glottal stops. However with the help of Danish tutors we soon caught up with the kids—or could at least talk to the mob of them when their friends came round. We skied every winter that we could in Norway and discovered that to our American ears Norwegian and Danish sounded very much the same; add one more language.

  We went through France in the summer, on our way to Italy. Joan’s high school French worked fine and I tried to catch up. I bought a book titled Learn French in Seventeen Easy Lessons and practiced on the poor French next time we took our annual trip south. I got by. German was easier; I simply spoke Yiddish that I had picked up in New York when I shared a studio with a Viennese jeweler. That’s enough languages to get by in most any European country. Knowing those, along with Esperanto, we were able to roam Europe and never look back.

  RUSSIA

  Alexander Korzhenevski, my Russian agent, said to me: “Harry, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you are the most popular author in Russia, and also the most stolen!” I didn’t know anything about this at the time, and I didn’t believe him about my being the most popular. As a result of the Cold War, the Russians never signed up to the international copyright agreement. We talked about this, about how the West stole Pasternak, Lukyanenko, and Solzhenitsyn, and how the Russians stole science fiction. All of my books were stolen—published in unauthorized editions for which I received no payment. Only certain books were officially translated. Other books were seen as anti-Communist. They were illegal. Deathworld 3 was regarded as anti-Communist, so that and other books were translated by fans, copied and bound by fans, and passed around by fans. That is true fanac, you know! Some copies ended up in libraries. So originally, when they were forbidden by Communist authorities, my books had been published in samizdat editions, but now they were being pirated by professional publishers.

  The first time I met Alex I remember asking him how he learned to speak English so well and he said it was very important for him to know English because he was an engineer. I asked him what kind of engineer, and he didn’t want to talk about it, but finally he told me he was working on weapons, on atomic weapons for tanks: “A very dirty gun.” Thanks a lot! But years later I realized that’s what you need to take care of publishers—an atomic weapons engineer! Many years later and he is one of only three agents in Moscow who handles science fiction, and they work together, and they’re all ex-atomic engineers! They have a Mafia, and that way they can squeeze things out of the various publishers.

  After Alex became my agent, he asked me if I wanted to come to Russia, and he said, “We’ll pay everything.” That’s when I first found out that Garry Garrison—the Russians have no aspirate H—didn’t have to go through customs: they took our passports and came back with our bags and everything. We had a private car waiting, which took us to the hotel. It was a really posh American hotel where you could have breakfast cooked to order. The doorman in the lobby was about nine foot nine, an armed guard. During the day they stayed out of the way, but at night they walked with us and went up in the lift with us. They didn’t say anything.

  When they set up the interviews for the media, they had a big black-and-white thing in the lobby with letters on it saying “Garry Garrison at 2 o’clock” and I put on my jacket and tie, and my medals, because it was the fiftieth anniversary of the Great Patriotic War. We had television and radio and the newspapers, all in one giant room, and they interviewed me. Afterward I was a little tired, but I was signing books, and there was the doorman with a book: “Will Garry Garrison sign book for Igor?” So I signed a book for Igor. And that was the first time I realized that it wasn’t just a normal turnout, and maybe I was popular in Russia!

  A lot of people from various magazines came round to interview me. One had three or four million copies sold a week, a boys’ magazine. A women’s magazine came to interview Joan—they didn’t want to see me, they wanted to know how the wife of Garry Garrison lived. The publisher arranged everything: I had a suite in the hotel to do interviews. I had a car and a driver, and I had a very good translator, a woman who was very religious and kept taking me to churches! I kept saying, “I don’t want to see another church! I’m an atheist!” I managed to get to some of the places I wanted to see.

  Somewhere along the lines there, I don’t remember how, we ending up going to a convention in St. Petersburg. My agent Alex got train tickets, and we went on the “vodka express.” It was nice, six or eight hours, with sleeping cars and one bar car. We had caviar and vodka all night! And that was the start of the weekend. We had three days in St. Petersburg.

  It was the worst hotel we ever saw in our lives. Joan wanted to turn it down; she said, “We can’t go to a con here.” We got up about seven or eight in the morning, and were drinking vodka by eleven, and the hotel started looking better and better! It was still a dump but most of Russia was very broken down then as a result of the war; everything was either very old or very new, and the very new was not that good.

  There was a book fair in St. Petersburg, nothing to do with the con, but all Russians read science fiction, and that’s where I found this out. I did a book signing, and there was a long queue. And all my stolen books with the tirazh printed in the back. By law in Russia you have to show the number of copies printed. There are no returns in Russia, books are printed and sent out from Moscow, and they go away and never come back, so what you print is what you sell. And the tirazh for these books was one hundred thousand, two hun
dred thousand … and one guy had a book with a stated print run of four hundred and fifty thousand copies! That stops you. And no money for Garry Garrison! But they kept bringing me vodka and my agent passed out next to me! We were drinking vodka all night, and everyone passed out. We had a big banquet and everyone passed out. Russian hospitality is not to be underestimated.

  * * *

  The year was 1993 and the location was San Francisco. This was the site of the annual World Science Fiction Convention. One reason I was looking forward to this annual convention was because of the chance to meet up with Alexander Korzhenevski, my “Russian agent.” I liked Alex; he seemed a straightforward guy. And he was bolshoi, which always helped. This means “big”—but it has other nuances. Big in spirit might be one interpretation. I don’t know what literary magic he was working but he had sent contracts for me to sign: always a good sign. As soon as the introductions were over he mentioned in a low voice that he had some money for me—and should we find a quiet place to pass it over?

  Quiet? Dusty bank notes pried from the commie coffers? Stalin’s loot?

  “No way!” I cried. “Let’s go to the green room where all my alcoholic peers are tossing it back! Boy, do we have something to show them.”

  So we went, pushing our way in through the crowd of freeloaders. Then I remember Alex speaking in quiet tones, these words that will ring down through history.

  “Do you take hundred-dollar bills?”

  Do I take hundred-dollar bills? Is there a pope in Rome?

  I discovered that after much discussion the banks had finally opened bank note exchanges and Alex had brought some with him. He passed them over to me, lovely, green hundred-dollar bills, twenty-five of them.

  “Quiet, everybody,” I shouted to the alcoholic crowd. “I want to introduce my friend and agent from Russia, Alexander Korzhenevski—who has brought me my first real money from that communist country.” It no longer was—but it sounded great. “Look at these greenies,” I shouted, fanning them out. They fanned nicely, impressive. I noticed that a number of writers wanted a word with Alex. I hope he got a few new clients that evening.

  And thus began my relationship with Russia—on a very happy note. It could only go uphill from there. Alex has been my agent for many years now. He no longer has to slip me hundred-dollar bills. I had the best Russian publisher, Eksmo, who produces publishing miracles. Life has been smooth and pleasant on the Russian front. Therefore it was a pleasant surprise when I received again, many years after the first visit with Joan, an invitation from that distant land.

  * * *

  Eksmo invited me to Moscow on a publicity tour. This is the sort of offer that it is impossible to refuse; mainly because I wanted to meet my publisher. Since I was no longer of an age to do much traveling, and could use a little physical assistance on the trip, I brought this up. When I told them this, Eksmo was kind enough to expand the invitation to include my daughter, Moira, and her husband, Mark.

  It was a gorgeous Moscow summer day when we arrived at Domodedovo Airport—where an unbelievable reception was waiting for us. Guided by a very official official, we jumped a number of queues and ended up in a cheerful room: flowers and drinks on the table. Our passports and documentation were whisked away and, very soon, our stamped passports reappeared, and all of our baggage. We had been met by a beautiful (and intelligent) young woman who would act as our interpreter. She was a schoolteacher who earned additional income acting as a translator. We also had a chauffeur, Sergey, who was smartly turned out in a suit and who happily whisked us around the hectic traffic in Moscow. This kind of treatment is gratefully appreciated!

  From the airport we headed to the Hotel Sovietsky it had pictures of all the old Soviets on the wall. This hotel was luxury on an international level, as good as—or better than—the hotels in New York or Paris. It was quite late and we had the rest of the day off followed by an early start in the morning. After cocktails in the lounge we strolled to the dining room but it had already closed. Because there is a two- or three-hour time difference, we were still at eightish or nineish body-time, but it was eleven o’clock at night, and we had missed a meal. So I ordered up room service: (a) they spoke good English, and (b) they had some very good stuff; I think we ordered salmon, pizza, and sandwiches. And (c) it took them an hour to bring it up, ice cold! And they wouldn’t let me sign for it, they stayed there until I paid cash for it. I had to go to the cashier at the front desk with my credit card to get some roubles to pay for room service. And it was about a hundred dollars for three sandwiches! That was the one time we bought in the hotel. Never after that!

  We were off early the next morning to one of the bigger bookshops, where we were smuggled in the back way in the freight elevator. I wondered why—until I saw the large number of readers that filled the store, patiently waiting to meet me, each one clutching a copy of one of my books. I was just beginning to realize the popularity of my books in Russia.

  Eventually the staff ordered things in a practically military style. There were guards stationed to see that the customers formed an orderly line. Then they approached me with a book opened and ready for signing. After Alex asked their name I personally signed the book to them. Through the translator they could ask me a question or something while I signed, and they had to talk very fast! Before they could talk much more another guard saw them out a side door behind the table. This was a mass-production meeting and signing. Writing in the book took me only seconds, since my years as a graphic artist enabled me to write quickly without fatigue. Alex estimated that I had signed over a thousand books in the first hour. Then it was down to the hospitality room for nibbles and drinks and gifts for me of some beautiful Russian books that I still treasure. After that it was off to another bookshop with the same reception and then finally to the hotel and the press conference. Now, I have been to a lot of press conferences. Usually there is a small room with maybe a few drinks on the sideboard and a reporter or two with pad and pencil. Some questions and that is it. This is not the way they do it in Russia. Russia is very bolshoi to me. The streets are wider, the parks greener. Even the statues, like the fantastic one of Peter the Great, are bolshoi. The press conference filled one of the largest meeting rooms in the hotel. There was a table at the front where I sat facing a barrage of lights and the television cameras. Journalists from many magazines and newspapers sat at all of the tables in the room. To me, the very best part was the way everyone clapped when I entered the room. I felt very much at home. Then came the interviews and the questions, and things became very busy indeed. My daughter brought me a glass of wine, which I badly needed!

  Television, radio, newspapers, syndicates—they were all there. I spoke until I was hoarse and ready for another glass of wine. It was fatiguing but fun. I felt that I was among friends who read my books and wanted to talk about them—and me. Mark was even interviewed for television, as son-in-law of Garry Garrison! My mother was born in Riga in Latvia and her family moved to St. Petersburg, so in a sense I have Russian roots as well as Irish.

  At one point we asked the driver if we could go somewhere to buy some caviar. It cost a hundred and fifty pounds in England. In Russia we found a place where it was twenty or thirty dollars, and we brought a couple of jars back with us and eventually ate it in Moira’s sunny garden, washed down with ice-cold vodka. Much to our disgruntlement, Mark, who had previously expressed disgust at the idea of eating fish eggs, found the caviar to be delicious, so we had to share it with him! On the other end of the culinary scale, Moira and Mark ventured out to a small local supermarket to buy chocolate and wine. As Moira browsed the shelves she spotted a huge rat heading down the aisle toward her. She screamed and jumped out of its way, much to the amusement of her fellow shoppers, who were well used to the sight. The rat itself was not bothered at all and continued its journey as normal.

  We didn’t bring much else back, except the books given to me by the bookshops on Russian art or the Russian navy, very beautifully pr
oduced. We were there three or four days. Theoretically the reason we were there is that I had been invited to the Russian national SF convention, which was in the suburbs of Moscow, in the greenbelt. They had an encampment, a professional place for conventions, a sort of Russian Butlins holiday park. It had one main building with meeting rooms and a chow hall, and an auditorium. It was out in the woods, and no one could find the bloody place! Up to that point we had a chauffeur and the BMW, but on the morning of our departure to head for the convention, the chauffeur showed up with his jacket and hat and tie gone, wearing an old dirty lumber jacket, and with his girlfriend on the front seat—we had to wait for her at the tube stop. Our translator was also gone. He drove us out there with our bags. We had a sinking feeling that our world was about to change from the pop star treatment of the last few days. When we finally got out to this place, it was like an old holiday camp or something. The driver went into the reception, found out where we were staying, then drove us over to one of the buildings, carried our bags in, said good-bye, and left us there. There were two suites—I had one myself and Moira and Mark had one; they were quite nice, although Moira would disagree. She covered her pillow with a T-shirt as apparently it smelled of a thousand other heads! But—where in hell were we?!

  We had arrived there a day before the convention started. At American conventions, all the fun starts the day before—in Europe too. You have a pre-con and meet all your friends. But in Russia the convention started at noon the next day and not a moment before. There were a few people staggering around from the last convention, but apart from that the place was completely empty. No one spoke a word of English and there were no signs in English.

  We unpacked a bag or two, and then walked over to the main building, and into the restaurant. It was about two or three in the afternoon by this time, and we were getting a little hungry. There were three cashiers in little booths, three or four tables occupied, and we sat down at a table, but no one came near us. I went to the cashier’s booth—no signs in English, no one spoke English at all, no one had any idea what I was talking about or spoke German or Italian or Spanish, or any other language known to man.