August 15/16, 1998.

On the fifteenth of August, Vasilich woke me up properly with a night call from Peru: trouble was brewing, get the senior staff back from vacation, Yuri Alexeyevich first of all, then Marina Igorevna and Konstantin Pavlovich. Have them book flights to Moscow right now, whatever it cost. I passed the order along to Yurik and the finance department. No doubt the old man was right.

A couple of days before the call I was sitting at the «Tsarskaya Okhota» with Vladlen Grigoryevich, who was taking his family out of Russia one-way and asked whether he might camp for a week or two at my place in Miami until he bought a house... Long explanations were unnecessary. I dictated the house alarm code to Vladlen, handed over the keys to the house, to Zhorka’s «Lambo» and to my own «GMC Yukon», and passed him the American «Motorola». In Florida the reigning standard was not Orthodox GSM with roaming, but the demonic CDMA.

We had a good sit-down as we said goodbye. Vladlen predicted that next week everyone left behind would be in trouble, while Vasilich and his associates would be riding high. Things would look up for the Yasenevo career men. Clearly the time Vladlen described as «everyone left behind will be in trouble» was arriving. I ought to have a quiet word with Vasilich, a genuine Yasenevo career pensioner. The old man is in the know, but where to find him? He doesn’t answer calls.

Yura, Kostya, and Marina flew in on Sunday, a few hours apart. We agreed to meet Monday at noon at the outdoor café by the Prosecutor General’s Office.

I got there early, planning to reread and touch up the press release for Proma’s fifth anniversary.

Yurik arrived at exactly 11:59. He sat down opposite, nodded to the waiter: «Gunpowder». He glanced at the bottle of «Jameson», snorted-grunted-pulled a face, laid out on the tabletop a «Motorola StarTAC», a «Nokia Banana 8110» and a microscopic «Ericsson». Well, it’s not easy for Proma’s top managers: at any conversation you must lay three mobiles on the table in order to position yourself correctly. An obligation that has become a habit. My «Sagem» in the back pocket of my jeans and the «Nokia Communicator» in my bag were considered devices for paupers.

I remembered Zhorka grumbling: «You could’ve changed that frock coat! Then again, it’ll do…» back when I’d shown up to a business meeting in a T-shirt and jeans. Mm, yes… There’d been a time when appearance meant nothing at all. Now Yurik dressed as a snowboarder in winter, a yachtsman and surfer in summer, wore whatever brands were current in the in-between seasons, and never missed a single high-profile event. That’s what status looked like!

Yura had learned Zhorka’s lessons perfectly. Good thing I wasn’t a hired manager obligated to position myself everywhere, all the time. I was flailing around in a different league: «Get rich or die trying.» Hadn’t died yet. Hadn’t made the cover of Forbes either…

Zhorka’s old prediction had come true: the smoke of the battles at the White House had cleared, and the victors had received the right to plunder. No award ribbons were introduced for the veterans. Working out «who is who» was done by indirect signs. To be taken for the owner of a holding company, I had to ride about with security in two Land Cruisers, trade the «Vacheron» for a «Roger Dubuis Hommage Condottieri», wear a prêt-à-porter suit and drop carelessly into conversation: «The Riviera has gone common. Too many Russians. If anything, I hole up in Tunbridge Wells. Not a single Russian in the district, apart from the lad from Lukoil. You’re most welcome!»

If you happen to be passing by – keep passing by!

Funny to admit – I’d never actually been to that English house. In fact, in my whole life I’d thoughtfully visited abroad exactly five times – cosmetic-surgery Los Angeles, the yacht tour, a New Year’s in New York, and three trips with Liza. The other fifty-odd trips didn’t count. A day’s routine: fly out of Sheremetyevo in the morning, check into a room, meet the necessary man, make the point that I wasn’t selling out for trinkets and could buy him outright for dollars, we’d discuss interests back in Moscow… and spend whatever time was left before the flight feeling the meaninglessness of existence, exactly like on Bayswater Road two years back: here I am, successful and handsome, and I have no idea why I’m here.

The near-term plan was to clear out to London, to finish moving Proma from the Kalmyk khanate under the British crown. And to settle in closer to Zhorik. It was rough without his advice.

I pushed the draft aside and took a swig of whiskey. Yura showed me his laptop screen:

– Just checked. We pissed away a million and a half on GKOs. Working capital will hold if we sit on payments this month. The real problem’s elsewhere, look at sales volume.

A grim trend. The bars along the timeline chart got smaller and smaller from January through August, and it was depressing to look at.

– Not impressive, – I looked up at Yurik. We understood each other without words, neither of us wanted to say it out loud. It was clear Proma wouldn’t survive another year.

– Where’d you go? – I asked, putting off the unpleasant conversation.

– Visited the mother-in-law in Carloforte, then we went to Saint-Tropez. Took Vasilich and Svetka along for good measure, they took off for Peru five days ago.

– How was the sailing?

– It wasn’t anything. Would’ve been better off going to the Kama with the guys.

– I see. So what are we going to do?

– Downsize.

– How exactly?

Yura pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen and started sketching out numbers, crossing them out right away, drawing new ones below:

– Look. First thing, we cut the payroll fund in half. Roughly like that. Then rent payments…

– Stop. Are you sure?

– About what?

– About this – «we cut wages»? The line workers will stay, but the managers will scatter. Who’s going to run sales?

– Whoever stays.

– Nobody’s going to stay.

– Oh, please, Lyova.

– You sure?

– Damn right! The ballast will scatter, about half of them. Anyone smart will realize there’s nowhere to run, it’s the shits everywhere. The labor market’s about to collapse to zero. The smart ones will stay, the fools will run. And we don’t need the fools.

– Why didn’t you get rid of the fools earlier?

– Up until this year, volumes were growing, we hired dead weight just to plug holes. Now it’s time to part ways with the ballast. That’s what ballast is for, dumping it at the right moment.

– How are we firing them? By the book, or the nice way?

– The nice way. We’ll scare people with talk of layoffs. Whoever wants out can leave right away with a month’s severance up front. But I think this is temporary. Maybe we wait for September? Every single year, come August, it’s total shit, and then everything settles back to normal.

– Not ready to discuss this… let’s do it in a couple of days.

– Okay.

Yura fidgeted with the sheet of paper, asked:

– Are we sketching anything out for real right now?

– No. I’m telling you – not ready. If we’re doing this for real, prepare the numbers: what’s going to collapse, how to rebuild it, and how much money it’ll cost.

Yura nodded, asked one last thing:

– What do you think, will the ruble fall to ten?

That was our dream. That would have been happiness. At such a rate production would have soared higher than the sun. Not one foreign competitor would have been left in the market! By our estimates, nine rubles to the dollar would have moved Proma from a withering state into a developing one.

– Hope so. Now let’s go work through with Marina and Kostya what we need to prepare for.

Yura slowly finished his tea, then vanished instantly. I was left alone with a bottle of Jameson two-thirds full, watching a happy man walk away.