"HALLO, HALLO ... ESTONIA CALLING" By Chris Mathison (1989)

(Editor's note: The author and his wife recently sponsored the first private visit by Soviet citizens in modern Japanese history.)

    Afterwards we nicknamed it "Club KGB." Now, obviously, here in Tallinn (pronounced melodiously, tah-lean) what we'd stumbled into was a joint that serviced local espionage types straight out of central casting. Not to mention all those gawking Helsinki weekenders, who either know somebody, or know somebody who knows somebody. The place to watch and be watched.

    Likewise to wine and dine. In delicious contrast to all the rubber chicken, rindy bread, rancid butter, rotten veggies and rotgut beverages we'd been staring glumly at throughout Siberia, down in Central Asian republics, by the side of the Silk Road, high in the Caucasus, out at the Black Sea resorts, and even on the ornate tables of the finest restaurants Moscow and Leningrad had to offer, this dinner, tonight's magnificent repast, had been like total czar chow.

    So imagine our revived spirits, our renewed faith in mankind, in the system of Saturday Night, when we broke deliriously out of the club and into the cold crisp midsummer night. Listen to our buzzing excitedly about having finally found where something special was definitely at in the Soviet Union. Then picture our receptiveness when a couple of eavesdropping passersby sauntered merrily up and said:

    "We love the Americans! We love the Japaneses! Let's go back to our apartment and drink champagne!"

    Perfect segue ... perfect.

    Megumi and I immediately loved these two guys, Aleksei and Vassily. They were ready to get glasnostingly down, party perestroikedly on and on into the Estonian night -- and so were we.

    Unfortunately for this little street theater, our obligatory Intourist chaperone promptly cast himself in the role of party pooper. After all, he explained, our newfound comrades-in-arms might be a pair of those dreaded black marketeers -- in search of, and willing to pay almost any price for, pantyhose, disposable lighters, digital anything, or, heaven forbid, hard green currency. Our chaperone haughtily shooed them away and ordered us back to our hotel.

    But not before I'd slipped Aleksei my meishi (business card). No time to get his address, though.

    All I could do was hum the refrain from "Please, Mr. Postman." And hope.

    Back home in Japan, Christmas finally brought the long-awaited postcard (and I sure hope all the handlers along the way got a kick out of it, too):

    "Do you remember us? We met accidentally in the street but your guide not permitted (you) to go to our place and drink champagne. It was the first time we speak to an American. We only wanted to say. ..."

    Aleksei went on to say mucho. In pages of subsequent correspondences, he fully introduced himself, his wife, (Natalja, who later started writing, too), their careers (he's a shipping agent, she's a scientific advisor), and most interestingly, firsthand accounts of all the cool changes now taking place both in Soviet society at large and inside their tiny Baltic republic.

    Lots of family news, too. Like the joyous arrival last spring of their first-born, Victoria. And humor. Like the long discourse, complete with picture, Aleksei wrote last summer on the "Tractorium Period" in Soviet architecture, a reference to all the heroic buildings built in the '30s that were actually designed to resemble those archetypal symbols of farm collectivization.

    Well, that last letter did it. Megumi and I swore we just had to become the first kids on our block to have our new Russian pen pals visit us in Japan. Besides, I wanted to personally test perestroika. Check out whether the Cold War is really over.

    Thus began the application process. After writing USSR immigration in Russian directly in behalf of the Kanaichevs, and getting some old friends of mine in the Soviet government to pull some strings, a few weeks later, on the Sunday just after the Armenian earthquake, my home telephone rang.

    "Hallo, hallo ... Estonia calling," intoned a thickly accented female voice over a roar of static. (loved it; it was just like the old days when long-distance operators announced themselves as distant places.)

    A few minutes later Aleksei came on the line and shouted the good news that Natlaja and he had received external passports, exit visas, airline tickets, and that they were now ready to tackle Japanese immigration procedures. Apparently, he explains, one cannot apply by post; one must personally appear at the Japanese consulate in Moscow, where he is headed the day after tomorrow.

    "Come anytime. Can you hear me? Stay as long as you like. CAN YOU HEAR ME?" was all I could yell over the thunderous storms of static. Was this telephone conversation being jammed by reactionary elements? I joked to my wife.

    Dun da dun-dun (opening bars of Dragnet theme).

    Perestroika may be the hit sensation that's sweeping the nation back in the USSR, but its spirit, I assure you, has not exactly swept over Tokyo's working-level bureaucracy at the Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs. They quickly contacted us and demanded more documentation than you would ever need to get sponsorship, a work visa, a marriage license, or permanent residency in this country. All for the privilege of hosting a two-week home stay. No ordinary Russians had ever been here before, and the bureaucracy just hates precedents.

    A typical exchange went like this:

    JAPANESE OFFICER: "When were they born?"

    ME: "Look, we don't happen to know the Kanaichevs' birthdays. But you must, because their visa applications are right in front of you. So if you'll just tell us, I can write it in our sponsorship forms and save us all a lot of time and trouble.

    OFFICER: "True. But I can't divulge that information to you. You'll have to get it on your own."

    Another one went like this:

    OFFICER: "You must write out a complete schedule for your visitors."

    MEGUMI: Look, we don't know exactly which day, and precisely which time, we'll be taking them to Kamakura to see Big Buddha. Or when we'll go to Disneyland. Depends on the weather."

    OFFICER: "Well, you've got to decide now. And you can't change their itinerary once it's set."

    Well, after submitting sponsorship forms, employment verifications, family histories, tax returns, sightseeing schedules, after a full day at the Gaimusho in Kasumigaseki explaining everything, everything is now set -- down to the very last minute, down to the very last detail, of their stay. Etched in stone would be more like it. Two ordinary citizens of Tallinn, Estonia, USSR, are about to embark on a private journey to visit two ordinary residents of Toshima-ku, Tokyo, Japan.

    But isn't that extraordinary?

    We're gonna uncork that long-over-due bottle of champagne and raise a toast to fast friendships forever -- that are struck up on the streets, suddenly, by strangers, on Saturday nights.

    I know exactly where and when this will happen. It's on THE SCHEDULE for the last two weeks in March. I also know that my curiosity is surging in anticipation of their visit. How will our new Russian friends react to sushi, sumo, "surround sound," Seibu, or simply the total sensory assault waiting in Tokyo? What will they make of Disneyland? Or seeing themselves in this magazine the moment they step off the plane? It is not unlike anticipating visitors from another dimension, from outer space.