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| Fifteen Dollars |  | |  | |
by Bob Thurber | |
(For my good friend, Andrew)
Nearly noon on a Saturday and no sunlight, no sun at all, just haze and
murk and mist, but he -- this Russian thug, this egg-headed gorilla --
he gets a good look; oh, he gets a better than decent view, long enough
to make an assessment. He's a coy Cossack.
Frowning, snarling, grinding his throat. He spits phlegm at the street,
then makes me an insulting offer.
I'm no good with accents so I'm thinking maybe I didn't hear him right.
A voice in my head says: walk away, Bobby, just walk away.
But I'm also thinking: what the fuck, take the money and run.
Whatever the amount. Isn't that the reason I set out so early, why I
walked all morning through dirty Moscow streets -- to make a quick
sale? I'm here because things have gotten critical and I'm desperate to
get home, back to America.
Part of me is actually considering this brute's ridiculous offer as I
hurriedly roll the painting up. And that's when he grabs on to one end,
seizing the canvas like he's grasping a lifeline. He shouts in English,
"Done. Okay. Good deal. Very good."
I'm off balance, one foot on the curb, one foot in the gutter, the
rolled up canvas between us, and he's got a grip that could pull a boat
to shore. He starts tugging like I'm a dog on a leash. He shouts at me
in Russian and my head feels like it's been whacked with a shovel.
I'm barely holding on with one fist, fearful the whole thing is going
to tear. From the scars on his face and the blue tattoo on his neck,
I'm sure he's one of them. Another Russian street thief. A black
marketer. I'm absolutely certain he's in their service. But really he
could be anything -- a grown-up street urchin, possibly even a
legitimate art dealer. He repeats his offer, stating the amount in
German, then French, then in something that might be Mandarin Chinese.
I'm bug-eyed, mouth open, shaking my head, hanging on with two thumbs
and four fingers. He's already holding most of it, more than I am, in
hands greatly over-proportioned to the rest of him. He could twist my
head off with hands like those. He could snap a limb without effort.
So I think about letting go. But then he starts turning his body,
twisting away, pulling the canvas to his face, smelling it, and just
that quick I'm holding nothing, no part of anything. I'm shaking my
head at him but I'm thinking I don't know. Why not? Fifteen, did he
say? I don't know.
I carried it downtown thinking fifty. I swore to myself no less than
twenty-five, rock bottom. So I tell this gorilla twenty five. I say it
in English. Then repeat it in Russian. He looks at me and smiles.
He has a round hole of a mouth with crooked yellow teeth, and a fat
black mustache, a mustache thick as Stalin's. I let go of my end. I
wipe my hands like I'm patting dust off my fingertips. I keep shaking
my head.
In English he says, "Fifteen, fifteen, fifteen!"
I don't say yes. I don't say anything.
He starts walking, clutching the rolled canvas in his big fist, holding
it at arms length, high-stepping like he's leading a parade.
He moves the painting above his head, allowing a section to unroll
against the gray Moscow sky which looks ready to burst with snow. He
leads, and like an idiot I follow. We walk toward the river until the
stench is like a sewer. I try to remember the correct translation for
No Sale, No deal.
How do you say Fuck Off in Russian?
He stops and allows the thing to unroll full length. Then he folds the
canvas in half which I cannot believe, then in half again which I
cannot believe. He tucks it under his arm like a newspaper. Despite his
heavy black boots, he makes walking look effortless. With his round
shoulders and long arms, and squat little legs he moves faster than me.
As we cross the cobblestone square that curves up to the bridge, he
waves to a dozen people loitering up ahead. A few of them wave back.
He introduces me as his American cousin. I don't smile. I can't spell
or pronounce the name that he calls me. A few people laugh. Two women
speak to me simultaneously. They use the name, varying the stress of
syllables. They have remarkably nice teeth, all of them. But I'm
thinking about time, my investment. I'm thinking how this painting took
a while to create. It took all of my morning and half an afternoon.
Fifteen? How much is that American? What's that work out to be per
hour? But then we turn the corner and it turns out he is talking
strictly American. And cash. No paper trail.
Beneath a canopy he brings out a fat envelope held with a rubber band.
He picks and chooses among a mix of foreign currencies, selecting only
U.S. Dollars. Then I'm thinking, yeah. Okay. Sure. Why not? This is how
it's done. This is how I'll get home. Little by little. One painting at
a time. Good deal. Fifteen dollars and a plan. And I'm all ready to
shake on it. I'm prepared to make a pact with an ugly stranger. Because
the sum seems right. Fifteen feels like an adequate amount for one
day's work.
He is all smiles. There's no wind, but a chill floats off the water.
I want to ask if fifteen is the going rate, if this is a good place and
time. Because I'm thinking that I could come back tomorrow. I could
paint another, bring another, sell another. Every day another.
The money would add up quick. In time I'd get faster at making them.
But when he spreads the money across my hand, counting in English, it
doesn't seem like such a good deal. The crumpled American dollars feel
like oily rags. The price isn't just, the world isn't fair.
America is a disease. I still love my country, but what can you get
there anymore for a measly fifteen dollars?
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Bob Thurber wrote every day for twenty-five years before submitting any
of his work. His stories have appeared in numerous publications, 15 anthologies, and received a couple dozen awards. Most recently, he is the recipient of The 2006 Meridian Editors' Prize, and The 2007 Barry Hannah Fiction Prize. For more information, visit: www.BobThurber.net
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