September 18, 1993
Saturday
Saturday morning I called Zhorik to ask where to head. I had doubts about the wisdom of a trip out to VychMekh. The papers needed for talking about the present and future sat in the office above the Terem. Hauling Proma’s books all the way to Nagatino made no sense. Zhorik agreed, suggested heading to the Terem and waiting for him after lunch.
At three-thirty we were sitting in the corner, sipping coffee, sorting through papers. I had no idea what an assortment matrix was, and felt gloomy about it. For Zhorik, who kept tossing out terms, this concept seemed to matter as much as revolutionary conscience and terror had mattered to Lenin.
Zhorik dug through papers, glanced into his planner, eyed the little pocket calendar lying nearby, muttered something unintelligible, scribbled in his notebook, and eventually pronounced «Proma Impex» a bunch of sharp operators, no slouches… heroes, in a word. Then he asked what terms Gena and Yura were working under.
I reminded him that a week ago his advice had been not to pay much, but to inspire with a bonus. Reported that we’d based our scheme on «Vlad Trading»’s model — a hundred and fifty bucks a month plus a one-percent-of-sales bonus each. If things went well, the guys would clear three hundred bucks a month. Fantastical money for a student!
Zhorik smirked, went quiet for a couple minutes, and concluded the scheme wasn’t aimed at boosting sales, so it was wrong. He didn’t give a damn what sum was fantastical for a student and what was realistic. Salaries had to be tied to results, not conjured out of thin air. You had to grab the bull by the horns, not the udder, especially since a bull doesn’t have an udder! Here’s the proposal: a weekly base of thirty dollars, plus a bonus of the same amount for hitting the plan, and ten cents on every dollar over plan. So… two workers. That’s five cents each!
I did the math, had doubts:
– What’s the point? It comes out to roughly the same thing. Around three hundred a month. Why the extra complexity?
– Because the scheme has a purpose. If the guys sweat over plan, they’ll strike it rich, believe me! Five times what you were proposing. I think they’ll sweat plenty. And about growth: the plan will climb every month right behind sales. Set next week’s plan at 20 percent above this week’s. Clear?
– Not quite. Next week I have to hit three thousand six hundred?
– You’ll hit it, no doubt about it. Problems start once you’ve exhausted the client base. That’s when we’ll adjust the plan monthly, no more often. By then we’ll be at a hundred grand a week.
– What? A hundred grand?
– That’s right. Something to aim for. Whether it happens or not is a separate question. Your job isn’t to sell a box of liqueur and call it a day. No! Your job is to land ten or twenty new clients every week, each one a paying optimist committed to a long-term partnership!
– Won’t work. Not enough capacity. We’ve only got one «Gazon» and no proper warehouse.
– We’ll sort it out… No room for pessimists and misanthropes here. Sounds like Nastya’s got an empty basement. Hold on, I’ll be right back.
Zhorik vanished. Came back a minute later, arm in arm with Anastasia Igorevna. Both sat down at the table. Zhorik rummaged in his briefcase, pulled out papers, laid them in two stacks in front of Nastya:
– Pour us something! You owe me for this one!
Nastya pulled the stacks closer, lingered over the title pages, and broke into a smile:
– Worth every kopeck for this. Misha, two «Hennessys»!
– A bottle! – Zhorik corrected, leaning toward Nastya. Looked like he was counting on a mutual deep kiss. Didn’t happen.
Anastasia Igorevna twisted free and, having pinned Zhorik’s peck to her cheek, jumped up and hurried off to the bartender. Zhorik was upset:
– No rush to shower me with thanks. We just did a big thing: registered Semyonych’s share over to Igorevna. Now Nastyukha’s queen of the place.
A whirlwind kicked up. Nastya was giving orders for the coming banquet, staff darting about like falcons and strutting like peahens, I was full of anticipation, Zhorik was complaining about «Russian Horizon.»
The previous week, dividends had been paid out for the second time, naturally with a frenzy, lines, and «you weren’t in this line before!»
Unlike August, the trick hadn’t worked. Growth had flipped from a positive trend to a negative one. The amount of money brought in barely exceeded what was paid out. In October we’d be handing out everything brought in during September. We don’t need a business like that! There were two ways out.
The classic one: disappear. Like it’s written in the books: farewell, my friend, without a hand, without a word, don’t grieve and don’t furrow your brow.
The trendy new one: pour money into TV and press advertising. As they say, blow a three-fingered whistle straight to grandma and God’s soul, then pull in new depositors and use their money to settle up with the old ones. But there’s a problem. Oleg Semyonovich reported a mob of outfits had sprung up with insane, chocolate-coated terms. Promising a thousand percent a year!!! Competitors had shown up, damn them all!
– What competitors? – I marveled.
– Haven’t seen it on TV or in the papers?
– Don’t watch the box, don’t read the press. No time.
– Well, count ’em: Vlastilina, Khoper, Telemarket, Russky Dom Selenga, Tibet, MMM, and God knows who else.
– Hm.
– No «hm» about it. This is quiet horror. If the plan had been to rake in the cash and quietly disappear, no argument there. We’d have tripled the deposit rate and kept shearing the sheep. But it’s a shame to bail — we’ve sunk forty grand into the office, privatized the plant, the booze business is taking off. I’ve got a feeling «Proma Impex» will be up and running by year’s end. So, we cut the dividends and quietly steer the fund toward a graceful shutdown. Oop! They’re calling us to the table.
Nastya had set up a table across from the bar with drinks and snacks, seated the staff. Zhorik and I settled into a corner.
Nastya, at the head of the table, gave commands:
– Let’s start! Pour it out!
Bottles of vodka and champagne were uncorked, splashed into shot glasses and wine glasses. Mine and Zhorik’s snifters filled with cognac.
The poured drinks settled in their glasses, and Zhorik jumped up, proposing a toast to a new kind of leader, risen from the ranks, and simply to Nastya, a wonderful woman in every sense.
The staff seconded the toast. We drank. Snacked.
Then the bartender Misha delivered a flowery fifty-word toast of his own. Agreed. Drank. Snacked.
The kitchen and bookkeeping staff chattered excitedly, expressing confidence that everything would keep getting better and more wonderful. Nobody objected. They drank. They snacked.
