April 15, 1996
Monday
After the weekend, Zhora gave me a new problem:
– Find yourself a secretary.
– What kind? What for?
– What kind? Answer: sharp. What for? Answer: you’re the boss, it’s beneath you to be fussing over maps, bookings, and the rest of it.
– Where do I look? Where do I put in the request?
– Ida’s busy, handle it yourself. And remember: screwing the secretary is off-limits! – Zhorik gave me a lecturing look. That is, he raised his index finger, wagged it left and right, and continued: – So find someone sharp, not someone pretty.
– I don’t get it.
– Oh, don’t play dumb! – Zhorik smirked. – Only losers screw their subordinates – in the carnal sense, not the working sense – guys who couldn’t get laid in normal life. So they go poaching where it’s off-limits instead.
– Still not following.
Zhorik walked over to the window and pointed:
– Out there somewhere is this piece of garbage logic dreamed up by pathetic bosses: if you’re not sleeping with your secretary, then somebody else is, and they know all your secrets.
– So what? – I said, surprised.
– You shouldn’t have any secrets in life. From anyone. You should be a blank sheet of paper. – Zhorik went back to his desk, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. – Look. We split the sheet in half. On the right, we write: things you can do and everyone’s welcome to know about. On the left: things you can also do, but nobody should ever know.
He drew a line down the middle of the page.
– On the right, not a single entry Ida wouldn’t back up. On the left, make your entries somewhere other than work, other than home, preferably outside Russia, and absolutely without witnesses. Best case – a desert island.
– And if there’s nothing on the left… – I started.
– Then you’re a saint, – Zhorik cut in. – Or you’re lying. Everyone’s got a couple of lines on the left.
I took the sheet of paper. A blank page, split by a line. On the right – my official life, empty. On the left – everything else, empty.
– Get it? – Zhorik asked.
– Sort of.
– Good, then. You were out in the sticks, you know about honeypots. Go find a secretary. Just don’t pick a pretty one. You’ll have problems.
– So what kind should I pick?
– Someone with a technical degree – MAI, Bauman, MPEI, – Zhorik answered. – Plain and smart. Someone who’ll grind through the work, not bat her eyelashes.
The secretary got hired through a staffing agency: Yana Pavlovna, thirty-five, glasses, a lovely voice, plain-looking, exactly as ordered. Smart, too, and it showed – she spoke briefly and to the point, and kept quiet the rest of the time.