MOSCOW -- Already the environs of Bolshoi are very telling. Downtown Moscow recently got a cheap face lift, and all its one-time numerous kiosks that supplied the Russian capital with the mercurial atmosphere of a grand bazaar are gone or, rather, have been displaced into dark alleyways and underground crossings.

The shabby but sweet garden in front of the theater has disappeared too, replaced by what the city authorities call its improved replica -- in reality, a boring and very formal installation, reminiscent of an old-fashioned ink pot, albeit a horribly expensive and gaudy one.

A more vivid sign of new prosperity, however, is a finished two-liter bottle of Johnny Walker forgotten by somebody on a sidewalk.

The crowd in front of the theater is pouring in excruciatingly slowly. The only scanning done at the Bolshoi entrance in the past consisted of ogling other people's clothes. Now, amid the threat of terrorism, three metal detectors have been installed. The new bourgeoisie try to jump the line over the loud protests of less lucky compatriots.

Middle-age women with fanatically glaring eyes ask for extra tickets; tickets are being sold a few steps away by a bunch of black marketers, but the women cannot afford the price.

Having passed the metal detectors, the crowds find themselves in a very anachronistic building with narrow zigzagging stairs, low ceilings and poor ventilation -- something nightmarish in case of a terrorist attack or, God forbid, a fire. The famed gold-and-red splendor of the door is intact, even if considerably faded. So is the huge curtain, still displaying the hammer-and-sickle emblems of the ancien Soviet Union; only the upper part has been replaced with similar fabric with Russia printed all over it.

Hammer-and-sickles also preside over the governmental box that was frequented by Josef Stalin. On this night, Bolshoi is to present a gala of a ballet festival modestly christened "Grand Pas," and the box is presumably occupied by its benefactors. No eye can miss a coquettish older male there wearing a silk scarlet jacket.

There is a good crop of black evening dresses and suits in the stalls. In the balconies, formal but cheap dress mixes with jeans and sneakers.

A festival organizer gives a short speech. It is halting, dry and uninspiring. It looks as if the man is primarily concerned about enumerating all the sponsors of the event in the right order. A referral to a casino owner among others sounds particularly touching.

Then the lights go dim, the magic curtain (with hammer-and-sickles) rises, and the performance starts. To the immense indignation of the audience, there is no orchestra playing this night -- Bolshoi fans are not accustomed to tapes.

Most of the people in the balconies are here to see the Russian dancers (those in the stalls hardly care as long as it is a gala). They don't bother with other participants like Israelis or French. Moscow music fans are a tough bunch. A few decades ago when the country was rocked by the competition of two opera singers, Sergei Lemeshev and Ivan Kozlovsky, each had his own zealous following. Some fans would shadow the singers after the theater and, in wintertime, grab the snow in the footprints of their idol and eat it. Such exploits are on record.

However, enthusiasm in the balconies is not rewarded at Bolshoi. A $25-seat fan can see roughly one-third of the stage; a seat in the stalls costs $150 (two monthly retirement pensions). The people crane their necks; some spend the whole performance on their feet.

The first act of the gala (Russian) is a disappointment. Fans say the pieces are second-rate, that the costumes are ugly and that one of the male stars has become obscenely fat (he has). During the intermission, the stall crowd and the foreigners head for the buffets serving champagne, chocolates and salami. The space in front of the toilets is clogged and so are the stairs, as smokers rush outdoors for a cigarette. Yet soon the smokers realize that they need not have worried, for the intermission lasts forever. The theater probably makes as much money on champagne and salami as it does on tickets.

The second act presents modern Western dance: Kibbutz Contemporary Dance Co. does a powerful phantasmagoria of naked bodies, and Ballet Preljocaj, a sweeping and appropriately erotic Romeo and Juliet. Younger people in the audience go wild with cheers, while the older crowd leaves, not waiting for Ghost Dances using Latin American folk melodies.

At 11 p.m., downtown Moscow is quiet and slow, although the subway buzzes with life. The kiosks sell snacks, medicines, tabloids and Chinese bric-a-brac. Numerous beggars line the walls as do monks and nuns, their donation boxes hanging on their chests with pictures of the monasteries they're from. The boxes are big and presumably heavy, but all of the monks and nuns look very sturdy. The tabloids report, though, that they are simply impostors.

In the subway cars, the air is hot and sultry: late commuters head for their destinations; maimed veterans of the Afghan and Chechen campaigns walk the cars singing something inaudible and asking for money; angry and drunk teenagers sip cheap Russian beer from green and brown bottles and harass people whose looks they don't like. A night like any other, Bolshoi or not.