June 29, 1993
Tuesday
In the morning we drove out to Cheryomushki, to the NIIFizMatSpetsNauk institute. Shook hands with the director, who listened with half an ear to Zhorik’s speech about a mathematical America. As soon as Zhorik promised that in eight years the first interplanetary mathematical symposium in the history of the universe would be held right there, the man waved a hand: «Go see the deputy for general affairs. Dmitry Yefimovich has the information you need.»
— Lousy thing, being an old fart and a Komsomol member rolled into one, — Zhorik summed up as we left the office. — You just met a man who doesn’t need dollars, or francs, or Deutschmarks, or any other hard currency. Leksanych got all the pleasure life had to offer back in the days of mathematicians’ best friend, Comrade Stalin, when he was the institute’s Komsomol organizer, and his knees have been shaking ever since.
We walked through the empty corridors in silence, but at the end Zhorik dropped a warning:
— Yefimych is a fighter. A flint of a man. Don’t be surprised by anything.
The fighter turned out to be an old man of about fifty. He grasped the point in an instant, the second Zhora said: «We’re here from Leksanych about the lease question. What papers do we need for the contract?»
Yefimych worked his lips, suggested that maybe no papers would be needed, no guarantee there’d even be a contract, needed to run the numbers, as they say, oats are pricey these days. Glanced at Zhorik.
— There’ll be oats, — Zhorik stated flatly, and added: — Tomorrow. And clover too, because it’s green.
— No need to rush. Let’s think it over first, and then, maybe in a week or so… — Dmitry Yefimovich started circling.
— We’ll meet tomorrow, — Zhorik cut in firmly. — We’ll discuss our mutual interests and settle on a price, then you can deliberate till the cows come home. Pleasure meeting you. See you then.
— See you then, — the property manager answered, blinking.
We went outside. Not a joyful feeling. Heavy and gloomy, if I’m honest. Zhorik was cooking up some scheme with no obvious upside in sight. I asked right away:
— Why do we need an office here? We were planning on Nagatinskaya.
— To get set up at VychMekh, we need money, which we don’t have. We’ve got bodies, we’ve got a ring, and no money.
— So what? — I asked, puzzled.
Zhorik jabbed a finger back over his shoulder at the building behind us:
— That’s where we’ll cook up our starting capital. I told you about Fowler’s scheme: money makes money. Any business starts with starting capital. If your capital’s a hundred bucks, your business is going to be the same size, a hundred bucks, two hundred tops. And we want to do something serious. Need to hustle up a little million to start… or even just a hundred grand. But where from?
— No idea.
— Good thing I do. Head home, I’m going to swing by a couple of newspaper offices.
