“The Nine Nineties” by Anna Matveeva

Anna Matveeva, whom many call today’s first master of Russian short prose (the book was shortlisted for the Big Book 2015, after which it was republished literally in February), compiled a collection of stories dedicated to the nineties. She herself says that, despite all the creepiness of that decade, it was the time of her youth - and that’s probably why she writes about it not with disgust or fear, but with ironic, cool, but still nostalgia, as one remembers about any of one’s past, no matter what it was.

Like many other writers who, even briefly touching on the nineties, generously sprinkle the reader with confetti from the characteristic signs of the time, Matveeva also cannot resist mentioning in her stories pagers, tape recorders with a dermantine belt, furniture from Milana, Congress and More cigarettes, casinos and, of course, bandits (it is not clear why the immersion in a certain atmosphere 90s should be accompanied by a mention of the conventional raspberry jacket). But we must pay tribute - there are (almost) no gang fights here. This is a collection about ordinary, “family” or “home” people: children, spouses, or those who have not yet started a family, but, of course, are planning to. All of them are united by other, more interesting and fundamental signs of the time being described: the prevailing poverty, an invincible hope for the best and the same undying desire to leave (or at least visit abroad). The heroes of some stories succeed, and one is lucky, and he does it at someone else’s expense, the other simply runs away, deciding to stay in Paris, without any savings. This is probably also typical of the nineties, when either those who were lucky or those who managed to muster up enough arrogance and courage went up the social ladder.

It’s interesting that when creating an album of heroes of the 90s, Matveeva actually wrote a book about our present time. Reading “The Nine Nineties”, you understand that now we have more money, and we can go abroad at any time. But this is perhaps the only thing that distinguishes us from those heroes. Otherwise, we easily recognize ourselves and everything around us. The villages, even not far from the capital, stand as if they were ruined (“Mossy slate roof, decrepit gates”); the police do not inspire confidence (“...you probably should have reported it to the police, but in the nineties they talked about the police in approximately the same terms as bandits”); ours are easy to “identify” abroad (“Ada recognized Russians in Paris by their manicure—long false nails with rhinestones glued on”); We are going to study in Europe or the USA (“The mysterious adoptive father ordered me to be sent to a private school for boys in London...”); there are many more examples like this...

But I would not call these stories one of the best in Russian prose today. As one of the critics rightly notes, Matveeva really approaches each of the stories in detail, filling it with her own details and air. But, in my opinion, this still does not help to make this or that story an independent phenomenon. All of them look only like sketches, like fragments, as if pulled out of something larger. This is naturally an album with pictures from the 90s. But these are pictures, not videos; inside each of them the atmosphere is more than conveyed, but there is no drama. It exists, but every time it leaves a feeling of some kind of compulsion: for example, in the story “Zhemo” we have to find out who the stranger is who paid for the boy’s studies in London - but in fact this is not at all interesting; or in the story “Mountain Shield” they must find out who is doing dirty tricks on the heroine in her newly purchased house - but even here the denouement turns out to be too “fictional.” Against the backdrop of natural everyday life, a not-so-natural drama unfolds. It is not for nothing that the most interesting story turns out to be “Ekaterinburg”, where the heroine hatches an escape plan for a long time, runs away, stays abroad and gradually establishes her life there. But this is not even a story, but a short story of 120 pages.