The sun shone out of a clear autumn sky. It was warm and I was tired. I was in my favourite part of town, Theatre Square. The Bolshoi Theatre in front of me. The Kremlin back to my left. A fountain without water. Benches beckoned.
It was 1992. I was in Moscow for research, but also trading art for a gallery in Auckland. I was between appointments in archives, the studios of hopeful artists. I sat on an empty bench. Cast iron tracery legs. A gently curved back. Made in the good old days.
I thought over the complications of exporting art from a country falling apart. The Communist system was discredited, running on empty. The rouble was worthless. I had American dollars in my pocket. My contacts were scrambling to keep hold of an old reality and trying to guess at the new.
A young man came up to my bench and looked across at me. I looked at the fountain. Paying no notice, but noticing. He moved closer. He started to speak. He was talking to me. I turned. He smiled but looked unsure of himself. Shielded his eyes from the sun.
"I’ve got a truck coming into Moscow this evening."
"Fruit and vegetables."
"Fresh."
Was I interested?
I wondered about the new life in this country. Capitalism as raw as the black market. Oligarchs were minting themselves. I had American dollars. Did I look like I was ready to trade? Could I make a fortune with fruit and vegetables? In 24 hours? I knew the chances were on the aero side of slim. But he who doesn’t risk doesn’t become an oligarch. I decided to let this opportunity pass.
"I’ve got no outlets," I replied.
"No contacts in the trade."
He looked as if he expected refusal. New at the game. As green as I. We smiled at each other before he shifted off. I felt on a page of a Le Carre novel.
Best day? Best is always the unexpected. When you are taken for whom you didn’t think you were. I got to my feet and set off to trade art.
- Peter Stupples is a senior lecturer in art history and theory at Otago Polytechnic Dunedin School of Art.
Your best day
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