September 8–13, 1993
I dove into small-wholesale trading. First thing, I drew up a list of the booze we’d bought. Printed three copies, handed one to Yurik with instructions to call around wholesalers. Have him introduce himself as a market-stall trader from the sticks, come to the White-Walled City to see what’s what and how much. Write down whatever he heard in a notebook, then consolidate it into a report on competitors’ current prices. Something for our own price list to build from. Assigned Gena warehouse duties in Khryakino. According to Zhorik, the plant workers were already aware of the changes. They’d abandoned the production process, sat around doing nothing, cracked sunflower seeds, scratched themselves, and waited for investors.
I called in Vasilich and teamed him up with Gena: «Your job is to set up a wholesale warehouse in Khryakino, with unloading, storage, loading. Until it’s set up, don’t show your faces here.»
Along the way, I doubled Vasilich’s pay. He fought off the deputy warehouse director title with three words: «No damn need!»
Then I switched over to pricing, checking against Yura’s reports and tearing at the hair on the back of my head. Turned out some items were cheaper to buy in Moscow than in Poland.
I sank into the problem… trying to figure out why Polish «Bärensiegel» was one and a half times more expensive than the Romanian version and twice as cheap as the German one, how the same «Cabernet» differed between Bulgarian, Polish, and Hungarian bottling, and on, and on, and on…
Against the backdrop of these fresh headaches, my old duties felt like picking at a molar with a toothpick after a poppy-seed bun. The week flew by like a single day.
The second week opened with news: «The truck’s arrived! Customs clearance tomorrow!!!»
Yurik and I sat down to put together a price list. Gena crammed a haystack of documents into his briefcase and headed off to Fima’s.
