Gorbymania lives - Mikhail Gorbachev

National Review, Nov 25, 1996 by Matthew Scully

"MAGICAL," "dazzling," "electrifying" -- these are among the words employed over the years to describe Mikhail Gorbachev. And those eyes, we've been told -- watch those eyes. "Everyone," as Gail Sheehy put it a few years back, in The Man Who Changed the World, "is struck by the gleam that blazes behind his dark eyes . . . as if with the intensity of his belief he had burned his image into their own retinas, and they will never be quite the same."

Running the risk of permanent retinal damage, I decided to have a look at this mysterious being when he passed through town the other day. Was Gorbymania just another case of liberal hero-worship, or was there something truly formidable in the man himself?

My investigation began at the Borders bookstore on L Street and 18th. An item in the paper had announced that Gorbachev would be signing copies of his Memoirs. I wondered what sort of turnout there would be. Back in 1989, when there was still a Soviet Union and he was still running it, he stopped his motorcade a few blocks from here and incited a stampede of pedestrians wanting to see and touch him. Did he still have the old stuff?

Arriving, I found a line winding out the door and disappearing around the corner. There were eight hundred people, according to Borders, a number rivaled only by Jimmy Carter and Roseanne. The first in line, a college student, had arrived at 4:30 A.M., sitting outside the door in bone-chilling temperatures. It was now 12:30 P.M.

At such moments I always say a silent prayer of thanks for my press pass: "The publisher and editors of NATIONAL REVIEW will appreciate any courtesies extended to the Bearer." The story there is that the Bearer, just before leaving NR a few years ago, waited to catch publisher and editor in a distracted moment, got the card signed and stamped, and from that day has enjoyed all the courtesies Washington has to offer The Media. Presidential events, all sorts of assemblies and conferences, buffets. It's the Washington equivalent of Politburo membership back before glasnost.

Here at Borders, having a press pass meant arriving at half past noon and being swiftly ushered through the scruffy masses to my place right near the desk where the great man would soon be sitting.

Gorbachev was running late. I hadn't even cracked his 769-page Memoirs, so while I was waiting, I dipped in. Might be some clues there into just who this man is. I opened it at random and began reading. "A key element of the food program was the social development plan for the countryside. . . ." Well, maybe it's best digested in the quiet of one's study. Besides, just then I noticed behind me the "Russia" shelf and, looking out on the crowd, a picture of Stalin. It was the cover of Stalin: Triumph and Tragedy by Dmitri Volkogonev. And there was Robert Massie's The Romanovs. While Gorby can hardly be blamed for the fate of the Romanovs or the reign of Stalin, there is surely some deep irony here. You know, Stalin, Communists, massacres, Cold War over now. Something along those lines.

What's really interesting about these events, of course, is the press itself. There are the jaded ones who think they have a right to whine if a world leader who could once have had people like them squashed or imprisoned arrives a few minutes late for an appointment. There are the ones fresh out of J school, still impressed by events like this. And always there is one thirtyish woman with a harsh aspect and edgy demeanor who was passed over for the anchor job, is now in a personal crisis, and can usually be found ordering about whatever poor soul has been assigned to shepherd the media. The victim in this case was a security guard who had orders not to take "anyone" else down on the special elevator to the special press area. "Look," she explained, "I'm with the media. I have to get down there!"

I listened to the banter among the other reporters. "What are you doing here?" says one to another. "I thought you'd be with Dole or something."

"Nah, I'm back here for now and then I'm doing Little Rock. It's the beginning of the next campaign."

And talk about credentials: The guy doing Little Rock and the next campaign wore a pass saying: "WHITE HOUSE: GO ANYWHERE, DO ANYTHING." Now that's a pass.

"Quiet, there he is! Stand back! Mr. Gorbachev, look over here! Mr. Gorbachev, how does it feel to be back in Washington? Mr. Gorbachev! Mr. Gorbachev!"

He had materialized from behind some shelves near a back entrance. There was a hush and then a frenzy. But when everything had settled down, the first thing I noticed was a nice show of courtesy. After signing each book, Gorbachev set down the pen, looked up, smiled at the person, and offered a handshake. None of that disdain for the task we've seen from other bigshots. Gorby likes this, likes America, likes crowds. As well he should: there were about as many people packed into Borders as voted for him across the vast Eurasian land mass in the last Russian election.

Each person stepping away from the desk was then interviewed about the experience by reporters: "It was such an honor to shake that hand. I can't believe it! . . . He's so charming, so human! . . . This is the man who changed the world! . . . This guy ended the Cold War. . . . He actually reached for my hand. And I said, 'Mikhail Sergeyevich, I am honored to meet you!"'