A Makeshift Market

Blagoveshchensk, Russia 16 December 2001

It’s Sunday morning and I am perched on a south-facing window ledge watching the day begin. In the courtyard below, a woman in a fur hat sets two glass jars on a bench and begins to wait, warming her hands inside the sleeves of her wool coat. One by one, more women arrive, greet each other, and pace back and forth to fight the chill.

Although I am cozy and still wearing my pajamas, I have begun to wait with them. A woman with a big metal can and a blue saucepan arrives and begins to dip what must be milk into the glass jars. Like the women’s breath, the blue-white liquid steams in the freezing air.

The buyers take off their gloves briefly to grasp the currency and coins they place in a pile on the bench, then gather their jars and begin to scatter. The seller pockets the stack of rubles and kopecks, pulls on her gloves, and hurries away. Nothing remains of this makeshift market but a circular impression in the snow where the milk can has been standing. The first rays of sun gleam between apartment buildings and paint the snow gold.