Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“Look, don’t worry, I am only having a go at you. Truth is we’ve been traveling quite a bit and just got back last week from visiting cities less attractive than this. We’re just finishing up a big report as well,” Richard said as he took a chair.

“Alright, I won’t take up more of your time, but we had talked about me maybe attending a government auction when the chance came up. I could really use that chance now as I am trying to… well let’s just say my options are narrowing and I don’t like one of the options. I need to manufacture another good option to make my thesis work. Otherwise, I may miss the opportunity to publish in June,” I explained.

Andrew leaned back in his swivel desk chair and spoke to me and the ceiling at the time. “Well, coincidently, and it’s a good thing you came by right now, as we are leaving at four-thirty, because tomorrow mid-morning in the Yarkmarka…, do you know where the Yarmarka is, there just across the first Oka river bridge?” He paused as I nodded my admission. “…the provincial and city governments will be selling off their grocery store holdings.”

“Well now, must have had an angel on my shoulder today!” I beamed.

“Maybe it was a devil!! This one is going to be controversial as Yegor Gaidar himself will be there with Governor Nemtsov. But that’s not the kicker. The kicker is that the bidders had to pre-register before hand to be vetted and somehow a local mob boss has made the list next to a number of groups of employees hoping to stage some ‘management buyouts,’ as we are calling them in our reports to the mother ship,” Richard added.

“A local mob-boss? Would that happen to be Mr. P.?” I asked already knowing the answer.

“Oh, I can’t remember all these Russian names from the Chinese ones, let me check.” Andrew turned his chair around to open a dossier on his desk. “Let’s see now,” he muttered as he scanned his lists. “A one Mr. P. indeed. Why, do you know him?”

“Met him. Don’t know him,” I qualified my comments.

“Do tell. How did you come to meet him? We understand he is not the most accessible fellow,” Andrew revealed.

“Don’t know what you mean by that. He was showing off like a peacock last weekend at his Monastery here just up the road. It was a disgusting display if you ask me,” I said with disdain.

“Well, he doesn’t take appointments is what we understood from the Major’s Office. He evidently put down a deposit of cash for the auction instead of having his books or credit examined to be sure he could purchase what he may bid on. We understand it was quite a bit of money,” Andrew continued.

“Did anybody ask where the money came from?” I queried.

“It’s in escrow at INKOMBank — solid enough bank being the national reserve bank and all,” Andrew confirmed.

“Sorry, I meant, did anybody go over his tax returns to understand where the money came from?” I clarified my question.

“Import business. He evidently already owns a few stores where he sells home electronics and a car lot where he deals in used cars from — Japan was it?” Andrew looked to Richard.

“Korea,” I interjected.

“You seem to know him well,” Richard mused.

“Sounds like we know only what Mr. P. wants us to know about him. I learned what I know on the dance floor at his holy house of disco. You learned yours from the Mayor’s Office I guess?” I concluded.

“Spot on,” Andrew made a motion of poking a dot in the air with his pen.

We all hummed and hawed for a few minutes taking in the revelations.

“Can I attend the auctions as an observer? An academic observer from the University?” I requested.

“Anybody with the stomach for it can attend. It’s a public auction to keep in line with transparency and whatnot, keep the officials accountable, etc, etc.” Richard explained.

“Will you both be there?” I asked.

“Occupational hazard I’m afraid,” said Andrew turning back to his word processing.

I gave a searching look to Richard to understand Andrew’s reluctance.

“The communists always protest in large numbers. It’s a bit unnerving,” he explained.

“Communists? Weren’t they outlawed by Yeltsin in 1992?” I was puzzled.

“The party was outlawed, that is correct, but these are mostly the younger pensioners waving the Soviet flag and holding pictures of Lenin and Marx and getting up in people’s faces. It’s a bit bothersome. Because Mr. Gaidar will be there tomorrow the demonstration we understand is getting some national flavor and support from other regions. It’s supposed to be rather large tomorrow,” Richard explained while Andrew avoided the topic.

“OK, I’ll be there. What time does it begin?”

On Friday morning, I caught the metro from Proletarskaya and rode it until Moscovskaya, the train station. The metro from there crosses east over the Oka and into the lower old city where I hadn’t spent much time, as the river had been frozen, and the walk up and down the steep bluff was not the for faint of heart for one wearing wool and fur. The ice from the river was all but gone now at the beginning of April. The first boats were moving up and down river: flat barges, mostly, nothing too tall yet for fear of not slipping under the bridges as the tributaries were over full with melting snow packs and the Volga was swelling. The hydrofoils, or as the locals called them ‘Rockyetiy’ would soon be running up and down and crisscross, connecting river villages to the cities. Then would come some larger container vessels as soon as the water table fell a bit. Then at the end of April would come the fleet of river cruisers carrying tourists and holiday makers from Moscow to Volgograd and back. The Volga was slowly waking up from its winter hibernation.

From the Moscow train station, I walked up the west bank of the Oka River, parallel to Soviet street to the exhibition hall, passing a five-story tall statue of Vladimir Lenin, so courteously pointing the way for me. As I approached the broad square in front of the Yarmarka I saw a fleet of black Volga and Chaika limousines, a hoard of police vans and black clad riot police and a large group of civilians in a semi-circle, surrounded by the riot police. The civilians were waving red and yellow flags with different years commemorated on them. Some had the hammer and sickle and other the letters of CPSU (Communist Party Soviet Union) embroidered on them. The group wasn’t chanting as much as they were screaming and yelling, making an uncoordinated ruckus. I supposed that Russians had yet to learn how to effectively use their new freedoms to protest. It appeared that the riot police had corralled the group of protestors and weren’t letting them go much further or cause much disruption to the events. I could not get close to them without having had to push police out of my way or politely ask to be let through.

The Yarmarka is an impressive building from outside and in. On the outside, it is an architectural piece that one would expect to see on Moscow’s beautiful Red Square. It is an old building that was built by the merchant community of Nizhniy Novgorod in the 19th Century as an exhibition hall for their manufactured goods. A long, noble building with a thick fortress feel, perhaps mirroring the Kremlin opposite it across the river on the bluff. The red brick facade is filled with windows, letting natural light pour in with the exhibition hall behind that and taller by another story with a line of long, tall arches enclosed with glass, much like in English or French railway station, but with a very Russian style. I wondered why they didn’t make this building the train station as it would truly impress the visitor as they arrive in Nizhniy.

I stood in the main entrance hall looking for a directional board that would tell me in which room today’s auction would be held. There was no information being volunteered for the unfamiliar visitor to find. Except for the protestors and limousines out front, I wouldn’t have thought that anything was going on in the building at all that Friday morning. I tried to open a few doors in a long corridor on the left and right, but all the doors were locked. The office windows were dark. I stepped out again on to the square to see if there was a less obvious entrance being used. As I stepped out in front of the fountains on the square to view the facade better, I watched a motorcade approach of two black Volga sedans, one in front and one in back of a dark burgundy colored Mercedes stretch sedan with black tinted windows, including the windshield. Completely bullet proof. They drove almost right over my feet. If I hadn’t stepped back along the flank of the fountain they very well would have driven right over me.