COLUMNISTS

Deidre Dare

Along with the Russians, I now believe that life is indeed long, grim, solitary and miserable.

That is to say: I've gone native.

Up until recently, I had always misunderstood a common expression and thought the world was a "doggy dog world." My doggy dog world was a world filled with innocence, playfulness, mutual cooperation and joy in being part of the pack.

Dear Reader: imagine my dismay when I discovered that the saying is "dog eat dog" world!

For a while, I held out hope for the doggy dog world, but those hopes have been as dashed as Alyona Ivanovna's brains in "Crime and Punishment".

I had a series of desperate crises that led me to seek the aid (in various forms) of my loved ones. The alchemists had a better chance of turning lead into gold. To the extent anyone was willing to lend a helping hand or even give an encouraging word, so much grovelling was required and so many recriminations had to be endured that it was reminiscent of scenes out of Abu Ghraib.

It occurred to me that perhaps people succeed in this world not because of the other people in their lives, but despite them.

I went into a very dark, bitter and pessimistic mood.

That is to say: a Dostoevsky mood.

While reconnecting with my old friend Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, I recalled an idea I'd had a few months ago which would at least alleviate one of my problems: cash flow.

But then I was faced with my own version of Sophie's Choice: silver, jewellery or fur?

That is to say: what should I pawn?

With much anguished hair tearing and renting of clothing, I finally decided upon my ruby ring. In the end the ring was chosen for the simple reason that it was the most expensive item I owned.

Such an excursion in Moscow, I felt, should not be made by some Western chick in an extravagant fur coat alone. A Russian man would definitely be a necessary accoutrement on an adventure like this. Therefore I recruited the Truck Driver to accompany me.

As we walked up the old Arbat, the Truck Driver explained to me that pawnshops are called "lombards" in Russian and are richly woven into the history and literature of the Motherland.

"So!" I exclaimed, "I really am going native!"

"It depends," the Truck Driver answered with a smile. "Are we really pawning your ring or are we planning an axe murder?"

"Let's see how it goes," I drily replied.

We had decided between us that we would accept half the appraised value of the stone.

Our first stop was a state-run lombard. These types of pawnshops are like big, empty banks. From the first window, we were directed to another window and then to a third. After a gemologist examined the ruby, we were offered exactly 2 per cent of the gem's worth.

Much discussion in Russian ensued, while I stood by trying to look nonchalant. I have no idea why I thought "nonchalant" was the way to go, but there it is.

"What happened?" I asked the Truck Driver as he took my hand and led me back onto the Arbat.

"She was very helpful and suggested we try a private lombard instead. She recommended one up the street."

"I guess we can't axe her," I laughed. "She's too kind a person."

The private lombard consisted of one weathered man and one weathered desk in a tiny room.

Much discussion in Russian ensued, while I stood by trying to look desperate. I have no idea why I thought "desperate" was the way to go, but there it is.

We were offered 20 per cent this time and again turned it down. But the nice old man directed us to yet a third lombard where he thought we might get more. No axing opportunities there either.

The third pawnshop looked exactly how I expected a pawnshop to look. It was crowded with objects of all sorts (suits of armour, statues, silverware, guitars, etc.) and had a long glass counter filled with jewellery, behind which stood a knowledgeable-looking pawnbroker.

Much talk in Russian ensued, while I stood by trying to look pretty. I have no idea why I thought "pretty" was the way to go, but there it is.

The upshot was that we were offered 30 per cent of the gem's value and again turned it down. This guy wasn't getting the axe either because he compassionately explained to us what the problem was.

Russian ladies don't like coloured stones. They turn their noses up at rubies and emeralds - they're only interested in diamonds.

I've learned a lot from my traumas with those close to me and this little lombard escapade of mine.

That is to say: a kiss on the hand may very well be quite Continental, but it turns out that diamonds really are a girl's best friend! 

xxoo

DD

For more of Deidre Dare's writing, go to: www.deidredare.com