I'm married to Putin

Valeria Novodvorskaya - about hopelessness

I get up in the morning, and suddenly it dawns on me: after all, I have been married to Putin for almost 10 years, and what is happening between us is classic Russian family life. He doesn’t bring me a salary, but I don’t cook dinner for him and don’t wash his linen. We live like Steve Oblonsky and Dolly, we don't say hello, we don't talk. And the house is common: 1/8 of the world. Or darkness. When I saw him for the first time on the screen in 1999, he somehow looked badly, mysteriously at me, and I realized that he had his eye on me.

I didn't even want to marry him. I was waiting for an overseas prince, or at least Borya Nemtsov. But you know how we do it in Rus': first, “Mother, mother, what is dusty in the field?” Well, mother teeth and speaks: they say, the horses played out. And then: “Mother, mother, the image is being removed, mother, mother, they bless me.” And as usual: “Dear child, the Lord is with you…” Of course, I didn’t say “yes”, I didn’t go to the altar at all, that is, to the elections, to the ballot box. But they didn't ask me. We were not married in a church… We were wooed and married by an aggressively obedient majority. And the best men were members of United Russia. And instead of Mendelssohn's march in the Wedding Palace, we played the Soviet anthem... It turned out worse than in the joke: Putin didn't have dinner with me, but he dances me. the Chechen war was our first wedding night. This is how we have been living ever since: I can’t stand him, and he can’t stand me. I can break all the dishes as a sign that I want a divorce, but he won’t even pay attention.

I, like every Russian woman, find relief in complaining about a bad husband. I go to radio stations, to rallies, to editorial offices and complain. Like, my husband should retire or immediately go to Nuremberg, and I will go for Kasyanov or Nemtsov. I already complained to Bush, and to Obama, and to the European Union. “I don’t want,” I tell them all, “to live with Putin. Separate us." And they sign agreements with Putin. What do they care about my women's tears? And I'm not the only one, my husband has 300 more wives and 700 concubines, and all are Democrats. And we cry and sob together, but no matter how we cry, Putin remains with us. And others cannot understand why Putin is not to my liking. He doesn't drink vodka, he doesn't smoke. Without bad, that is, habits. He does sports. And so powerful! He looks to the left - the hostages of the "Nord-Ost", poisoned, fall, he looks to the right - the kids in the Beslan school are burning down. Recently, I almost conquered an entire superpower, Georgia is called, but the American adversaries interfered. And he is not afraid of anyone, especially God. He judges his enemies, the malicious Yukosites, right on the Execution Ground. They say that I should be flattered. I answer them all: “It is better to gush water than the blood of Chechen babies ritually sacrificed on the imperial altar. I would like something quiet, decent, European.” And we live on.

I would like to run away with my lover: to the States, to France, to England, where all good people run. But then our child, and the whole house - everything will go to him. Divorce is not included. Only through the Central Election Commission... Marriages are made on ballots.

And then, this husband without bad habits is not a breadwinner. He drags the last of the house to his friends. Either Lukashenka, or Chavez, or Kyrgyz patients. And what kind of woman, again, needs a husband who cannot earn money and with friends thinks for three - if not vodka, but the remnants of colonialism?

I know he will outlive me. He is young, athletic, and I am old, sick. And it’s scary: our wretched child, which the nanny dropped on her head in the hospital, with cerebral palsy and mental retardation, named Russia, will get it, and there will be no one to even feel sorry for the orphan ...

First published in NT #46, 47, December 21, 2009