November 25, 1994
Friday
«Quit sweating it!» Zhora burst into the office. «Let’s go check out some business trends. Get some rest while we’re at it!»
Late November — a nasty time of year to relax in Moscow, but why not? We drove out to a fish restaurant past the Crimean Bridge, one that had drilled itself into everyone’s brain through TV ads. We parked, walked in, and squeezed into the place, which turned out to be a disco. There we ran into some vocational-school kids I used to ride the same train car with.
Zhorik nodded at them and explained to me: «Our people, not mistaken.» Then he waved a hand toward the dance floor: go on over there.
I looked around and spotted a girl propping up the wall. Scanning every man, looking sad. I used to do the same thing at discos: sizing up the girls and understanding none of them would ever stoop to me. A kindred soul!
I walked over to introduce myself, to invite a fellow outsider into conversation, but got told to go... somewhere — didn’t quite catch where, but from the way her lips moved I gathered I was roughly the same place I’d started, just with my legs hanging off it. Made me think of Regina.
Wait a second! I’ve got a wagonload of money in my pocket now. So what’s the problem this time?
Zhorik dragged me away by the elbow:
«What the hell! There’s a whole crew here, and you’re going straight for the mama! Negotiate with the little monkeys directly. Which one do you want?»
I shrugged. Zhora dove into the crowd like it was an ice hole, and surfaced with two girls. I went off to the Hotel Belgrade with one of them.
Monday morning, Zhorik was sitting in my office with a piece of paper in his hands. He announced he’d familiarized himself with Proma Impex’s structure. Verdict: jerking off into thin air, not a business.
I might have objected, but Zhora was already issuing orders:
«Round up the whole office. I’m going to explain how the whores’ brigade contract is built. We’re going to copy it!»
«Come again?!»
«Your managers are lackeys running on rules and self-interest. The rule’s simple — don’t screw up and don’t generate losses. The interest is skimming a little something off the top for themselves. That’s kindergarten stuff, training wheels, compared to a whore’s contract. There, the prostitutes pay the mama for a hassle-free spot, and earn whatever they can hustle up on their own. The mama stands off to the side, scans the crowd, and sets the price. Franklin on the girl’s face on Friday, a Grant on Saturday. Kolya Travkin’s got nothing on that. We’re going to run it the same way. Fix a set fee for a presence in the market. By the way, how’d it go last night?»
What was I supposed to say? Sex with Violetta had been just as mechanical as with Marianna. Probably graduates of the same vocational school for prostitutes. I hit the intercom button: «Get all the managers together in the lobby. Five minutes.»
The managers, all sixty-two of them, assembled half an hour later.
Zhorik waved the crowd into a semicircle, cleared his throat, and froze. In the silence, he stated: we’re all grown men here, not sheep, no need for a shepherd. He paused. Then dropped it: the LLC «Proma Impex» would be restructured into a trading house made up of twenty-six companies. At the head of twenty-four of them would stand the division heads, formerly salaried creatures under someone else’s thumb, now genuine condottieri, free agents. The twenty-fifth, a management company, would be called «Trading House Proma.» Its director: Yuri Shako, please welcome him warmly! The twenty-sixth company, «Proma Investments,» would accumulate the trading profits and reinvest them in production. Its director-accumulator: someone everyone already knows, Roman Peskov.
The semicircle stirred, rumbled, wanted to know how the divisions would be merged into companies — that was one. And how work would be paid — that was two.
Zhorik explained the merger principle: by closeness of business line. The appliances division would merge with electronics, office supplies with novelties, housewares with household chemicals, and so on. Whoever had the higher sales numbers would be named director. Every manager would become a shareholder, receiving half the stock in their reporting company. Every company would get a credit line equal to a month’s turnover. No con games. Nobody would ever see Chicha, unless someone started acting up and causing deliberate losses.
The managers locked horns with Zhora. Some got a division with a million-dollar turnover, others sold garden-plot supplies — seasonal goods, not exactly essential. How do you split up profits fairly? Zhorik ruled: divisions with small or seasonal profits would be merged with the consistently successful ones.
How were they supposed to merge?
Breed a pack of freeloaders in the off-season, only to be torn apart come peak season?
And why would «Proma Sporting Goods» end up selling greenhouse film for dachas? Because gardening counts as a sporting hobby?
After an hour of debate, nineteen companies made it into the holding. Managers’ salaries were fixed at seven hundred dollars; senior managers got an extra hundred for the added responsibility. Performance bonuses — dividends, really — paid out monthly!
A mountain of headaches lifted off my shoulders. Only two smaller hills remained: reviewing the payment orders and tallying the funds sent from «Trading House Proma Impex» to «Proma Investments.»
Things took off like wildfire! Sales growth went cosmic — ten percent every month!
By the end of the year, «Trading House Proma» occupied every last room of «Metallsnab.» As per good tradition, we celebrated New Year’s together, and separately, both at once.
«We rented a resort for the staff, let them have their fun. Departure’s tomorrow evening, six on the dot. Call everyone, make sure they know. It’s voluntary and completely free! They can bring wives, husbands, kids, if they’ve got any. No strangers allowed!» Zhorik was shouting on the morning of December 29th, briefing his secretary Ida. «The bosses have their own schedule. Let them know the leadership’s meeting separately at the Terem tomorrow at eight p.m. sharp. They’re not going to the resort — let the staff relax without any block leaders around. Got it? You won’t mix it up?»
The veteran bosses, out of old habit, drove to the Terem in an Ikarus bus. The ones who’d been with the company less than a year didn’t know the tradition and headed to the party in taxis.
