Petrograd Fell

On my passport, it says that I am a film-maker. I am not a
film-maker. At least not anymore.

Strictly speaking, I didn't make films. I made documentaries. I was a
documentarist. If that's a word.

I travelled all over the world telling stories, and the stories I told
were all a preface to this story.

This particular story.

As such, you could say I'm a collector of prefaces. That feels more
appropriate than film-maker or anything else.

You won't recognise my name, but it's possible you've seen some of my
work. I did a piece on the UN Peacekeeping mission in Rwanda. That was
shown on BBC1 after the Nine O'Clock News. I collaberated with a Czech
on a film about Sarajevo. I did a really interesting piece about
language - called In Continent - that had a limited cinema release and
won awards.

I've been working - successfully - for about ten years. Which means
that I went through the formative understudy period, the initial
misunderstood and underfunded period and into the reliable greenlighted
project period.

The reason all of this changed - all of this stopped - the thing that
divides the preface from the life - is Engels. Not Friedrich - born 28
November 1820, died of cancer of the oesophagus 5 August 1895 - Engels.
He is the sharp edge of an axe splitting my life very definitely into
before and after.

Engels is not his name, although the people who know him know him as
Engels. He works - famously, successfully - under another name. I'm not
here to write a celebrity kiss-and-tell, however.

We were introduced at a party (I don't even remember for what - my
memory is keen, normally, like a rat, but this party - it's a wiped
tape - I couldn't tell you) by a friend of mine, a cameraman called
Stoop. I was talking with my wife, Grace -

sorry Grace sorry Grace sorry sorry sorry, sorry Grace sorry sorry
sorry -

- and Stoop appears with another man. Pete, Stoop says, like you to
meet Engels. I hold my hand out - which isn't something I normally do
(I don't shake hands), but civility often dictates at functions like
this (I remember we were in a huge hall with a domed ceiling, there was
a chamber group playing, there were a lot of people milling about - I
recognised film stars and pop stars and journalists - serious
journalists - and politicians). Engels shook his head. Engels - this
little man, this little man who wasn't wearing a suit, holding a small
glass of something (water, probably, knowing him better, as I do) -
indicated (by extending the index finger from around the glass into the
air and raising an eyebrow) that he didn't shake hands.

I quietly took the affront on board (civilised society again : you
adopt ways of dealing with anything that doesn't sit right, you make a
mental note - a detail that accretes as you learn more - you adopt a
mask, you don't relax).

There was an awkward pause. Stoop smiled. Grace looked at me and then
Engels before coughing. I looked at my shoes and at my glass. Engels
didn't really move. I even think he kept that finger out in the air,
the way you would if you mistakenly believed the old rules for drinking
tea.

Engels said I fuck shit up.

Petrograd fell.