Summer 1994
In summer, sales flatlined. Free time opened up: mornings to evenings spent on my practicum at the department, then arranging my personal life.
First order of business — I got myself an Ericsson mobile phone. Second — I set Karabas’s working hours to end at eight p.m. At five past eight I’d jump behind the wheel of the Durandal and cruise the boulevards, hoping to meet the one, hand raised at the curb.
Tired old women and mincing girls flagged me down, angling to squeeze onto the back seat. A couple of times I picked up perfectly nice girls, but the conversation never clicked. They got spooked by the whole setup and stayed silent, like they were being interrogated by the Gestapo.
I didn’t know what to say beyond: «I don’t even like the ‘Six Hundreds.’ Now the Torus, that’s a real car! But the coolest ride for Russia is the Moskvich!»
My passengers took me for a hired driver playacting at being a free spirit. And all I wanted was to strike up a chance meeting, set up a date, bring flowers, ask her to the movies... whatever else it is people in love are supposed to do?
Right!
Fall in love, of course, lose my head, write bad poetry, wait for the phone to ring, call and call back, get nervous, suffer, ache with anticipation. Ah, how nice it would be if I only knew where a man meets the one woman meant for his whole life.
A month in, I switched tactics and started hitting clubs and restaurants.
Failure again!
Going out required a companion: girls traveled in packs. The only people who noticed me were prostitutes. One of them admitted to me the next morning: it was obvious right away — expensive shoes, came alone, sober.
What was I supposed to do?
I couldn’t just drag myself into a restaurant with a whole crew. Zhorik had abandoned me, and my friends scattered to their rented apartments after work. To top it all off, I suffered a final, decisive humiliation.
Out of old habit, I stopped by the café Cher Ami. The place I’d once mistaken for an artsy grand café turned out to be a dive. The people relaxing there were con artists, greedy hyenas, pouncing on anyone capable of buying a round. They fawned over their sponsors, rubbed cheeks, and faked warmth.
I redirected my attention to Proma. I cut the alcohol division from six managers down to three. Who else to cut? The company had bloated — managers no longer fit into offices that had seemed spacious back in winter. We were importing everything under the sun: diapers, batteries, paint, office supplies, confectionery, costume jewelry, and on and on. Headcount had quadrupled, revenue had doubled, expenses had grown sevenfold. Profit had shrunk to nothing.
