Outside Pushkinskaya metro station the old and the new Russias stood almost side by side. The tall figure of a long-haired, bearded orthodox monk, in his black ryasa gown and his tall klobuk hat, stood out from the rest of the centre-city crowds. He just stood there as still as a guardsman, holding a collection box for the church of St Nicholas the miracle-worker.
At his side, children in Nike sweatshirts sported their new Mickey Mouse hats from the nearby McDonalds on Pushkin Square.
Further down Tverskaya, the former Gorky Street, the new Russia is completely dominant. The vast space of Manezhnaya Square next to the Kremlin has been excavated to provide a three-storey shopping mall, all of it underground and designed for cosy shopping in the depths of the Russian winter. Most of the big names are there: Next, Waterford-Wedgwood, Mothercare, Trussardi, Tiffany's of New York.
Nowadays there are Russians with lots of money to spend and they want the very best that money can buy. Many of them, however, are a bit short on good taste and are more likely to opt for the gaudy in preference to understated elegance. Some of the classic companies seem prepared to pander to these tastes and even Waterford Crystal displays a miniature cut-glass elephant balancing a golden ball on its head. Good value at £100.
For real kitsch, however, there is a special outlet called The World of New Russians, on the bottom floor near the nine-restaurant fast-food plaza. An enterprising young man has set up a shop in which traditional Russian craftsmanship has been adapted to the crass world inhabited by many of the arriviste business types in the Russian capital.
The Gzhel porcelain factory to the east of Moscow, for example, has traditionally produced elegant blue-and-white figures of scenes from Russian fairy tales as well as delicate ikornitsi (dishes from which caviar is dispensed). But in a special production for the World of New Russians, it has manufactured a series of stunning new items. The mobile phone, recognised as the symbol of the New Russians, is reproduced in porcelain. So too is a mock credit card from Gzhelski Ekspress and statues of small balding businessmen accompanied by their simian, shaven headed, beer-bellied and bullnecked bodyguards.
The town of Palekh to the north in the Vladimir region is famous for its black lacquered boxes with intricately-painted scenes from Russian history. The new line, specially made for the store under Manezh naya Square, includes scenes from weekends at the country houses of the New Russian elite. Naked women are shown disporting themselves behind the high walls of the ostentatious red-bricked mansions, known as Kokttedgi (from the English word "cottage") which have been sprouting in the countryside outside Moscow. Other boxes carry pictures of sleek Cadillacs and stretched Lincoln limousines; there is also one which portrays a tennis party in the countryside in which one competitor in a mixed doubles match holds a mobile phone to his left ear while he grips a racquet in his right hand.
The main customers for this type of kitsch, according to a saleswoman who made no attempt to conceal her scorn, come from the ranks of the New Russians themselves. And they pay through the nose for it too.
In search of the old Russia, or more accurately the old USSR, I took the metro to Marksistskaya station, to the apartment block in which I lived when I first came to the Soviet Union seven years ago. Pictures of the old times came to my mind as the train sped through the stations at Kuznetsky Most (Blacksmiths' Bridge) and Kitai Gorod (Central or China Town). I remembered the horrors of the 17storey building in which the Irish Times flat occupied part of the top floor. I recalled the frequent occasions when the lift did not work and bags of groceries had to be dragged up the 34 flights of stairs. I thought of the three armed burglaries and the help I got from Captain Kofonov of the police force: he lent me his best constable, Kolya from Tatarstan, to sit in my hallway with his 9 mm Makarov pistol, in case there were further unwelcome visits. I thought too of the three months after Kolya went back to regular duties, during which I slept with a knife beside my bed.
Coming up the stairs from the familiar station with its inlaid red marble stairs, I waited for the familiar scene to come into view. But the market where Azeri traders used to sell their fruit and vegetables and where at night hungry rats went on the prowl, is gone. In its place stands a glass-and-concrete shopping mall providing all the necessities for life in Moscow today, including a neat pair of black suede shoes by Gianfranco Ferre at £350.
The nearby supermarket had changed too. I counted an astonishing 77 varieties of fish on sale including huge spiny lobsters from Cuba, Dublin Bay prawns, and whole sturgeon in a display that would even put Sawers of Chatham Street to shame. The new Russia is, it would appear, here to stay. I stood in wonder at the thought that the proceeds from my burglaries had contributed in a small way to this accumulation of wealth.
