January 1994
Alina didn’t call, and good riddance! No time for her anyway. Sales had stalled.
«Zero at the till, minus in the personnel file,» that’s how Zhora summed up Proma’s state when I showed up at the office after my exam, the last of my student life.
Zhora had thought better of boiling over and raging. He wandered around the office, double-checked the warehouse-stock figures and the expected deliveries, and left.
I laid out the papers, pounded away at the calculator keys. Didn’t believe the numbers I got. Turned on the computer, went through January’s sales data. Same result – turnover had dropped to five thousand a week. The cost of running the office and paying salaries exceeded income about threefold. For the first time, «Proma Impex» was operating at a loss. I fell into gloom, at a loss for how to react. Maybe run an ad? Maybe cut prices?
My hand reached for the phone:
– Hello, Zhora. I’ve got questions.
– I’m in shock myself. We’ll talk later. Trying on a suit right now, then I’m off to TsUM, back in a couple of hours.
I gasped for air and chased figures across the monitor. My mood swung from «all is lost! chief! all is lost!!!» to «we must do something, Gleb Yegorych! We must do something!!!» and back.
At half past five Zhorka barged in, looking strange. I blinked and realized this was the first time I’d seen him in a business suit. The spitting image of Georgy Albertovich, a thriving businessman in a suit and tie!
Seemed like, trying on the outfits, he’d worked out a whole set of measures for fighting the crisis.
Not at all!
Zhorik hummed: «Trying hard to look like Gary Cooper, super-duper!», then immediately asked:
– Did moths get to your little suit?
– No. Hanging in the closet.
– Why don’t you wear it? We’re about to run a reorganization! Remember, we talked about it at the Terem?
– Talked about what?
– Switching staff over to business attire.
– What for?
– It’s for the business. I’ll explain later. Let’s go.
We went out to the lobby, where the staff was clustered. Zhorik cleared his throat and greeted them:
– Greetings, eagles, she-eagles, and you fledgling interns too.
Having heard the answering murmur, he continued:
– Things at the firm are sorry. Not work but a load of moaning. From now on we live the new way. Fines are introduced for lateness, smoke breaks and pointless phone chatter; what they will be, Roman Viktorovich has not yet worked out, he will draw it up this week. Now the main thing! From tomorrow all men come to work in suits and ties. Ladies in business dress. No Adidas or Reebok, no blouses or cardigans, no sweaters or pullovers, no gaiters or sweatpants. Understood? Any employee whose appearance disgraces the firm will be fined. Is that clear to everyone?
The staff gasped, and upon being dismissed, vanished from sight. Went back to their desks.
Zhorik pulled me aside:
– Come in a suit tomorrow.
– What for?
– To inspire by example.
– What for?
– There you go again, like a parrot.
We went back to my office, Zhorik shrugged off his jacket, perched on the edge of the desk:
– Time to end the democracy. We’re bringing the traders down to a single common denominator. The office looks like a gathering of thugs out at Mosrentgen. No sales at all, discipline’s slipping. Everyone playing computer games and comparing salaries. We’re instilling order.
– Why dress them up in suits? Doesn’t affect sales.
– Affects it plenty. I’d like to dress them all identically, in some kind of uniform with epaulets and ranks, but that’s for later. Let them get used to this first. Suits are needed so there’s less wandering off and more order. When you strip a worker of his individuality, free thinking disappears from his head. He becomes part of the machine and starts thinking the way the regulations prescribe. In matching uniform, they’re not a rabble, they’re a mobile unit, and what does a unit need? Right, a commander. That’s you. And another thing. Stop being soft with the staff. Your subordinates are your own possessions, tools you use to make money. Remember the law. He who holds the weapon, meaning the money, is the master. He without the weapon is the slave. You were there. Remember?
Zhorik hopped off the desk, spread out my report. Ran his eyes down the pages, muttered: «Wonder if after March eighth it’ll be the same crap, or worse.»
I sat down on a chair, not following Zhorik’s train of thought. Zhorik went on:
– For January we’ll write off about twenty grand in booze. Not much hope for February. There’ll be a spike before March eighth, and then, poof. The next one comes around the May holidays. In summer people lap up beer. Not our line. What do we do until September?
– I don’t know. What happened?
– Market saturation, that’s what. I called around to your competitors. Cheap booze up to your eyeballs. The drunks who survived have gotten smarter. Refuse to drink cheap swill, a bright label doesn’t work anymore. And they still don’t have money for the good stuff. A vicious circle with no way out. The Giffen effect isn’t kicking in!
– What do we do?
– Hell if I know. Get ready, we’re going to go think it over.
An hour later, over cognac at the Terem, we tried to figure out how to keep going. Came up with nothing except sending me off on vacation. Hadn’t been home in a whole year, time to head back, visit the parents, see some friends, and then – back into the fray! Maybe things would clear up…
