August 23, 1993
Monday
Nothing going on. While Zhorik and Lev Moiseyevich, whom I’d never once laid eyes on, were off touring Khryakino, I got worried about my studies: ought to swing by the institute, September first was coming up soon.
I dressed up like I was going to a restaurant, rode with Fedotych to the bus stop, got out. Headed to the institute like an ordinary student.
Nobody appreciated the blue splendor of my blazer. A couple of first-year girls glanced back, and that was it.
I checked the schedule at the dean’s office, stopped by the library, picked up my textbooks, and ran into Yurik on the way out:
– Romka, save me! The office got a shipment of Japanese VCRs. Staff can buy at cost. A hundred and twenty bucks. Got fifty to lend me? I’ll pay you back from my paycheck in a week!
– Sure, – I reached into my pocket and swore.
Why the hell had I changed clothes? My wallet was still in my denim jacket.
Had to apologize, explain I didn’t have the cash on me. Going home wasn’t convenient, plus I had a pile of things left to do at work. Better to swing by the office. Yurik glanced at his watch.
– Won’t work. I’m heading straight to the office, locking in the VCR. Can you swing by with the fifty before six? I owe you one!
– No problem.
When I got to the office, I asked Zhorik to advance me fifty dollars against my salary. Didn’t bother hiding the details. Told him I was helping a buddy get his hands on a marvel of scientific and technical progress called a «Japanese VCR.»
Zhorik smirked and suggested we go together. Said he wanted to check out the discount, better yet, feel the thing with his own hands, maybe it was plastic or cardboard. Real VCRs cost at least two hundred.
An hour later we were parking on Ostozhenka, in a side street across from the office.
Hadn’t been there in a while, not since my previous life — pantless, hopeless. Circumstances had changed since then. I pulled up in a foreign car, all decked out and full of myself.
Yurik and I settled in with beers in the office courtyard, waiting for the delivery. Zhorik took off, promising to be back in an hour.
We got the multicolored box right before closing, hauled it up to the second floor. Nobody paid us any mind. A couple of people nodded my way: «hey» and that was it.
By quarter past six, just Yurik and I were left in the office. Nothing stopping us from firing up the machine. We unwrapped the box, bright as a jungle fire, marked «Funai Video Recorder,» hooked it up to the TV in the director’s office, popped in a cassette I’d brought along.
Yurik marveled: «Japan!» I confirmed with authority: solid machine, no junk, holds its color. The videocassette was a special test tape — a fifth-generation copy of «Lethal Weapon.» I’d meant to trade it in, forgot in the rush, it had been sitting in my desk drawer. Came in handy today for the test. Only top-quality VCRs let you make out exactly where Mel Gibson was lying in ambush and where Danny Glover was.
All in all, I pronounced with authority, a «Made in Japan» machine was serious business. As an experienced film buff, I shared my wisdom: you’d get sick of it in a couple months, watch everything you could get your hands on, and shelve it. Promised to share the cassettes I’d stockpiled, a dozen and a half of them, nowhere left to put them.
Zhorik came back.
He listened with half an ear to our talk about Japanese electronics, stood around thinking, sat here and there, and eventually ended up at Vladislav Arkadyevich’s desk. An awkward spot, but Zhorik paid it no mind. Dug through the papers on the desk, in the cabinet, everywhere within reach. Then asked where the safe key was kept.
I warned him right away there was nothing in the safe except a bottle of whiskey and an air pistol management liked to play with, shooting crows out the window. Showed him the secret spot where the key hid.
Every guard in the office had gone through the ritual of night crow-shooting. One rule — keep the pellets stocked so no one got caught short a bullet come morning. Zhorik didn’t so much as glance at the pistol, buried himself in the papers from the safe.
Yurik and I knocked back another bottle and said our goodbyes. The freshly minted VCR owner stayed behind to keep watch, and Zhorik and I drove to the apartment.
Zhorik drove, beaming:
– Ah, Romka. Finally! Mother of God!! By God almighty!!! Big deal’s shaping up. And that Vadik of yours is a moron. Goldmine right under his feet, and he’s fooling around with middlemen. We’re not splitting seven kopecks four ways!
On the drive home, Zhorik sketched out the essence of the company «Vlad Trading.» The company imported cheap consumer goods from Europe by the truckload, on CIF Moscow terms. Using Pashka’s connections, it cleared customs at half price and sold the load immediately. The truck went straight to the buyer. Vlad didn’t even have a warehouse. Why would he?
A great business, one everyone envied. Everyone except Zhorik. He kept muttering: «What a talentless fool, what a moron!»
Rifling through the director’s papers, he jotted down not just the middlemen’s contact info, but the fax number of the Polish sender the company got its invoices from. Dropping me off at my building, Zhorik asked: «You speak any Polish?» Without waiting for a no, he mused-slash-threatened: «Looks like you’re going to have to…»
