In Siberia by Colin Thubron Page B

hoped to see. Twenty years ago plans were afoot for a whole Arctic town enjoying its own micro-climate. Named Udachny, ‘Fortunate’, it would either rise in a transparent pyramid or shelter beneath a glass dome or spread along a sealed web of avenues and gardens. It had been promised within ten years. (Lavrentiev: ‘ Siberia will become the science centre not only of the Soviet Union, but of the world .’)
    I asked: ‘Where is this town? Wasn’t there a scheme?’
    â€˜There was a scheme,’ said the General Secretary remorselessly. ‘But there is no town.’
    I went quiet, foolishly dispirited. The voices of the failed future mewed faintly, faded away. Suddenly the Secretary leant forward. ‘Look,’ he growled. ‘Look….’ I had no idea what to expect. His face was heavy with anger. ‘We have one overriding problem here. Money . We receive no money for new equipment, hardly enough for our salaries. There are people who haven’t been paid for six months.’ Then his anger overflowed. He was barking like a drill-sergeant. ‘This year we requested funds for six or seven different programmes! And not one has been accepted by the government! Not one!’
    I stared at him, astonished. I realised that all this time his bitterness had been directed not at me, but at Moscow. Far from being a passive mouthpiece, he was furious with his masters. ‘I don’t know what policy drives our government, or even if it has one! Science is now as cut off from the State as the Church used to be. As far as I can see everything’s run by mafia!’
    He delved into a box and found me a book about the past achievements of Akademgorodok. It was illustrated with bursting corn-heads and fattened sheep. ‘We used to accomplish things,’ he said, as I got up to go. Then, as if a boil had been lanced, his anger evaporated. All his face’s features, which had seemed numb or absent before, creased and wrinkled into sad life. How curious, I thought, bewildered. He was almost charming.
    â€˜The future?’ he said. ‘When we have a government that realises no country can do without science, Akademgorodok will flourish again.’
    He accompanied me to the Praesidium steps, perhaps reluctant to stay in his gaunt office. I started, too late, to like him. As I shook his hand I could no longer sense the brooding menace of the apparatchik; in its place was an ageing caretaker, dreaming of other times.
    Â 
    I walk along the Ob Sea with a young scientist from the Institute of Physics. This is not truly a sea but a giant reservoir, which sparkles tidelessly. And he is not quite a scientist (although hecalls himself one) but a research student from the once-prestigious university. He is wondering what to do with his life. The sand under our feet is not naturally there either, but was imported–two and a half million cubic yards of it–to complete the town’s amenities.
    And now everything is in ruins, he says. ‘The younger scientists are leaving in droves, mostly for business. In business you can earn five times the salary you’re offered here. Others have emigrated to the States and Germany. All the bright ones have gone.’
    Gone to the countries their parents feared, I thought. ‘And you?’
    A stammer surfaces in his speech, like some distress-signal. ‘I’ll go too.’
    â€˜To work in science?’
    â€˜No. Most of us can’t use our scientific expertise. We just want a decently paid job, and a future.’
    Our feet drag in the sand. The enormous beach is dotted with sunbathers, and some women are walking their dogs along the shallows. He says: ‘A few years ago, you know, when people left university, there was terrible competition to get into the institutes. But now they’ll take anyone. They’ll give you a flat, of course, but what’s the point of that if you can hardly afford to