July 13–15, 1993
For three days I ran around with Vadim between law firms, commercial banks, notary offices, tax inspectorates, and other government institutions. Wheedled, groveled, sucked up: collected signatures and stamps, filed documents, and got hold of certificates.
Tuesday morning, Zhorik caught us at the checkpoint and jabbed a finger at the Ford Taurus: «This heap’s yours!»
Vadim and I grabbed Zhorik by the elbows: neither of us had a driver’s license, no way to go cruising around.
Zhorik shook me off, waved his freed hand: «Get your license photos done by tomorrow,» then shook off Vadim too, with the words «You too,» and vanished into the checkpoint.
We stayed behind by the Ford, happy and sad at once. The sadness didn’t last long.
Zhorik had hired a rumpled-looking guy to be personal driver for the two idiots. The guy introduced himself as Alexander Fedotovich, a driver with twenty years’ experience, knew Moscow like the back of his hand. Zhorik tore off to the third floor to draw up a power of attorney. A notary rented a couple of rooms up there.
Vadim and I felt a lot better.
We headed to the checkpoint. Had to sign the vehicle registration log and get the document confirming the right to drive onto the lot…
While Vadim gave the security guard a long-winded explanation, I signed for the pass, went out to the car, came back to the checkpoint, where Vadim was on his third round of explaining that we were tenants, the company «Interbik,» that the vehicle belonging to us was a Ford Taurus, state registration number…
Damn them.
Went back to the car, kicked the tires. Stopped by the right rear one. Hummed under my breath: «Ah, the Buguruslan tachanka, all four wheels…» Drifted off into memories of a class reunion the year before. I’d come home for winter break, sat around with a loud crowd. Someone, drooling with excitement, went on about the wondrous town of Buguruslan, where the guys were easily pulling a grand a month, either off the oil business or off some Kazakh smuggling racket. My classmate had no idea exactly which, but the main thing was «don’t chicken out on going for success.»
Vadim came over, brought me back to Moscow reality. Explained what business registration actually meant and divided up duties, I’d hold spots in lines, Vadim would prep the paperwork, Fedotych would drive us both around Moscow’s centers of bureaucratic power.
For three days I propped up walls in institutional corridors. In the evenings I’d shut myself away with Zhorik and report on the day’s work. Reported that I’d spent the morning at the pension fund on Varshavka, then at the medical insurance fund nearby, then at some fund in Kuntsevo whose name I hadn’t caught… Zhorik nodded, topped off the cognac. Asked questions: «Like it? Got the energy? Tired? Should we keep pushing forward?» I answered, out of habit: «yes-yes-no-yes.»
In the second half of the conversation, Zhorik gave his report. Ran into some guy who used to deal in computers, now hustles Czech crystal on Kuusinena Street, there’s an angle there. Talked to another guy who used to sell computers, now imports parts for Ikarus buses from Hungary, worth turning that angle over. Also set up a meeting with a guy who used to assemble computers, now hauls in shoes from Romania, fat angle, that one.
We drank to the countries of the socialist bloc, to cooperation with the democrats, and to prospects threatening to turn into a fairy-tale reality. The guys Zhorik kept mentioning were living like kings. We couldn’t afford to sit around.
We’d get into Bucephalus and roll home. Zhorik drove carefully, never drew the traffic police’s attention. On the way, he’d grumble unflattering things about Lyubka-the-hooker and Fedotych-the-lazybones.
Alexander Fedotovich, the hired driver for the Taurus, worked strictly until six PM. Refused to put in overtime, even for extra money. At six sharp he’d park the Taurus next to the director’s Volga and head home on the trolleybus.
Zhorik didn’t like it. He grumbled on the ride: Lyubka had palmed off some lazy old geezer, an insolent geezer at that, because he’s a fossil, and fossils don’t work for cash, they work for an idea, and there are no ideas these days, just bare pricing, and pricing doesn’t interest the old fool, so the Taurus just sits there idle, gotta find a young guy instead, but the young ones are just as insolent, take Romka here, thrilled out of his ass, brought home a cab driver to ride around in a Mercedes, and that’s just not right. Gotta do something about it… We’re here! Hey, student, wake up! This is your stop!
I’d get out, Zhorik would drive on. Without my noticing, he’d acquired some other place to live. He’d show up at the apartment in quick raids, once a week, arrive after midnight, eat a couple of sandwiches for dinner, go to sleep…
