Complex Questions from Russia, 
waiting under the huge poster hanging outside, full, he remembered a phrase that Marx was said to have used, with theological niceties, the task was to walk though the nine exhibition rooms which had been filled, still only a fraction of the vast collections, with the works of monumental art, or as some would say iconic representations, standing for 20 minutes in the morning freshness of Matins, in the quiet crowd. What did they expect to see, he wrote down, a melodrama, some proof positive, or pehaps an interpretive turn, the withdrawal of God, or His harrassment, he wrote down.
Under Tatlin’s Tower, he noticed again the family that he had first seen looking up at the painting of The Dance, an elderly man and woman with their two grandsons, the boys, both of them under ten, held pencils and paper on which certain questions had been printed by the Academy, and the woman was encouraging the older of the boys to look but he was reluctant, turning his face away from the enormous green, blue and brick red canvas in front of him. 
All of them were looking for the same old Complex Questions, he wrote down, and trying to force out answers with expressions of joy, all of them, the strange men with blue faces, and those sat almost naked in their underpants, holding musical instruments but refusing to play and looking at us with insolent faces, and the women, the beauties, all of them too, and their creators, the composers, the artists and the poets, all of them or nearly all, with only a few exceptions, meanwhile the grandfather had moved off to search for the younger grandson, who had slid away into the crowd, leaving the grandmother and the older boy hand in hand looking up at the Tower, the headquarters of the Comintern, diagonally spiralling iron framework, intended to be a powerful symbol of dynamic progress, within it three enormous glass spaces, rotating at different speeds housing the executive, administrative, and propaganda offices of the Comintern, intended for a site in Petrograd or Moscow, a radio station would broadcast to the world, and an apparatus would have projected slogans onto the clouds, words which he copied down from the wall plaque.
Or was it steel, the grandmother asked, Not iron, it needed steel, all the steel in Russia. Steel, the stranger standing beside them agreed. There it is, she continued, And that is an aerial view, like the Wembley arch. And there it is, she repeated, It really looks, it is there. The three of them stood looking up, something like a charge of electricity passing between them and through them, the woman, her grandson and the stranger beside them, an excitement, and they began to laugh. Steel, he said, It was a mistake to have written down iron, bars of iron could not have held up the revolving glass spaces and the offices of the new world order, it needed steel. Anyway, the grandmother said, It never got built, and there was a pause while the three of them laughed together at the joke, continuing all the time to look up at the vast construction rising up in front of them, almost twice as tall as Eiffel’s, right there in the centre of the great city, There it is, she said, the Tower.
With the radio station that broadcasts to the world.