July 23, 1993,
Friday
By Friday noon we’d signed up our sixtieth shareholder. The staff had really thrown themselves into it, roping in relatives.
I locked the vouchers in the safe and shut myself in the office with Marina, where we worked out a scheme for paying dividends. It came out that to get their multiplied investment back, a depositor would need to fill out six forms and provide seven documents, to be processed by five staff members — Natalya, Oleg, Konstantin, and two clerks on duty in the trading hall. We decided to figure out office hours later.
Zhora hadn’t wasted any time. He brought in directors, bankers, and other businessmen, ran long negotiations. Where he found them, I have no idea — I wasn’t brought in on the negotiations and had no clue what they were about. I knew, from what Zhora told me, that the fund’s checking account would get thirty thousand dollars richer next week. That was his boast when he gave his report on the week’s work: from sixty institute employees and their acquaintances, we’d taken in one million two hundred thousand rubles and two hundred and ten vouchers.
— How are we going to pay out the dividends? — I asked.
Zhorik smirked. He didn’t seem to be planning on paying out anything at all. Or was he?
To the direct question, Zhorik gave a short answer:
— Not clear yet. First we get the flywheel spinning. Don’t worry. If we don’t slack off, there’ll be profit. We’ll pay the dividends. And you don’t slack off either. Tell the staff not to scatter.
Half an hour later Zhorik walked into the trading hall and bellowed: «W-wrapping up for the d-day! Time to l-let loose!»
He nodded at Gleb, who vanished and came back a minute later with an armful of bags full of booze and snacks. The girls were sent to the kitchen to set things up. The men moved into the conference room.
Out of the bags came four bottles of Martini, four of vodka, and six of wine. Tables were pushed together, chairs arranged, plastic cups filled to the brim...
The girls hadn’t slacked off either, laying out cold cuts, cheese, and other snacks on plastic plates, returning to the conference room bathed in glory — the providers!
The banquet opened with a toast from Zhorka:
— Raising this vessel, I don’t see a workforce in front of me — I see a gang! A gang capable of making its own life beautiful. A gang that depends on no one and nothing! Only on itself, on its own brains, and on the will to work! Work and earn! Doesn’t matter at what, doesn’t matter how! In our times, only one thing matters — «how much»! So let’s drink to that «how much» being so enormous we can’t even picture it! Like the sun! To the sun!!!
The flowery toast was met standing, with enthusiasm.
We drank. Sat down. Had a bite. Zhorik glanced around, remarked quietly: «Depressing. Buy a stereo system before the next booze-up.»
By nine in the evening the staff had scattered home. Zhorik drove me home. On the way he explained that corporate drinking parties were an integral part of modern business. They smooth over communication problems, informally clear bottlenecks in the work, and cement and bond the team together. All in all, a great sit-down, but no relaxing — tomorrow’s a day off for the landsknechts, but we have to work! Show up around noon.
— How? It’s Saturday.
— No, Roma. For you and me, Saturday’s always a working day. We need the chance to sit down with a clear head and think things through, without getting distracted by the daily grind. What we’ve pulled off this week, and what we’re going to pull off next.
