Society cream enjoy bunfight at the Kremlin

BORIS YELTSIN wanted to postpone the Congress of People's Deputies because he thought it would waste time needed for practical reform. But he should have known better. The deputies of Russia would not miss their twice- yearly Congress for the world.

These grey-suited factory directors, jowl-faced collective farm chairmen and peroxide-haired token women, all elected before the collapse of Communism, fly into Moscow from their dreary provincial bases for an orgy of talk and a running buffet inside the palatial halls of the Kremlin.

For the rest of the population, who have to watch them bickering and pontificating on television, it is truly excruciating. 'This is the cream of our society,' said Oleg, a translator, with bitter irony after having watched the morning session when the deputies thrashed out procedural matters in between listening to a stern lecture from Mr Yeltsin about their responsibility to the long-suffering people of Russia.

Sitting in rows behind little desks, the deputies resemble nothing more than a class of unruly 15-year-olds. At the front sits their harassed form master, the Speaker of Parliament, Ruslan Khasbulatov. He is firm with the naughtiest boys but not exactly loyal himself to the headmaster, Mr Yeltsin.

'Now let's get on,' he says, but is immediately interrupted by a nudge from his neighbour on the platform reminding him that he must check whether there is a quorum by having all the deputies key into the electronic voting system. 'Are you presssing your buttons or not?' demands Mr Khasbulatov. 'I can't make it out. It looks as if the system has gone down.'

It has, so while the engineers work on it he lets the class discuss whether all Congress sessions should be transmitted live on television and who they want to nominate for the resolution-editing commissions. Forty-five minutes later, the deputies have come up with lists of candidates representing all 14 factions of the Congress and more. 'That's enough,' says Mr Khasbulatov. 'We don't need a hundred. Now let's vote on it. Are you pressing your buttons? I can't make it out. Oh, we haven't got a quorum now. I see people leaving for lunch already.'

'Absolute idiocy,' exclaimed Viktor, a businessman who tuned in for an quick update. 'It's like watching Brezhnev, only in his case there was some excuse because he was an old man, after all.'

As the deputies stream out and head for the dining hall, the Western television crews pacing the corridors target the few English speakers for a sound-bite. Here is the liberal Galina Starovoitova, much loved as a talking head by the British media, bemoaning Mr Yeltsin's compromises with the industrialists. And here is Oleg Rumyantsev, another radical, calling for fresh elections. But wait a minute. What is this he is saying about tough state power and sanctions against regions wanting autonomy? It seems Mr Rumyantsev has become a hardliner in some respects. It is very difficult to work out who is really who in Russia these days.

The information desks of the various factions might help. Here are the Communists of Russia and the Agricultural Unionists and the Consensus for the Sake of Progress faction. But I need some fresh air.

Outside, in 20 degrees of frost, the police holding a small group of Leninist pickets at bay are in a mood to joke. Do they expect their lives to improve as a result of the Congress? 'No chance. Come back and ask us in 100 years.'