October 4, 1993
Monday
We sat in the little room, gaping at the television. CNN was carrying a picture of the Novoarbatsky bridge with a tank firing point-blank at the White House. Pasha, who had served two years as an artilleryman in the Soviet Army, accompanied the shooting with a caustic commentary: they’ve recruited a bunch of rickety weaklings out of the classifieds, they can’t even put one on target…
Zhorik burst into the room, euphoric from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet:
– Couldn’t have worked out better! Romka, get your things, we’re going to VychMekh!
On arrival at «Russian Horizon,» Zhorik’s first order of business was to have a sign hung on the doors: «Closed for technical maintenance.»
His second was to assemble the staff.
His third was to announce that the North American investors were frightened by the battle in the center of Moscow, didn’t want to invest in the fund, and were babbling incomprehensible words: force majeure, transaction forbidden, tsigel-tsigel, no lyulyu, and other assorted rubbish. The shareholders’ money would be returned… later… after the fighting. September’s dividends would be paid out on the personal responsibility of the manager, which is to say Zhorik. Everyone take your workplaces and await instructions. Oh yes, almost forgot. Wages will be paid in full, bonuses too, exactly as promised. And the very last-final-concluding item. Anyone who wishes may transfer to the newly forming «Vatrobank» at their current salary. There’s nothing left to catch at «Russian Horizon.» The Yanks have bailed.
The staff dispersed. Zhorik shut himself in the office with Marina and Natasha and talked over important, secret matters. Then he went to Lyubochka to compile a list of shareholders who had to have their money and interest returned without fail. On his return he set the fund’s employees a task: draw up a list of relatives and close friends who had entrusted their savings to the «Russian Horizon» check fund. We’ll sort them out.
At first I trailed after Zhorik like a tail, then settled into Seryoga’s cubbyhole. I studied the empty smoking area outside the window and wondered why I’d been dragged here from Kalyazinskaya. Zhora had it all worked out without me: dumped the problems on the investors and struts around like a gander. And I’ve got a heap of problems with the booze.
I wasn’t bored for long. Zhorik burst in with a report:
– It’s done! We pay fifty percent to the serious people and close down with no claims against us.
– Hold on. You promised not to cheat anyone.
– Yeltsin promised plenty too when he was running for president, and right now he’s blasting away at the people’s elected representatives out of a tank.
– Yeltsin has nothing to do with our fund. Let’s skip the demagoguery.
– You want to be holier than the Pope? Fine. How much did your parents lose in ninety-one?
– Well… They had eight thousand in the savings book.
– So the state is allowed to bend your folks over? To promise on its own severed hand that savings won’t vanish, and then, after they vanish, act like shit happens? The president is allowed to fire cannon at the deputies you voted for?
– Uh… – I couldn’t find an answer.
– So there it is. They’ve dispersed the deputies in order to write the laws to suit themselves. Everything written before this has become toilet paper. A new time is coming, and in it nobody will defend our interests. The only hope is your own strength. Incidentally, Moiseich sent a fax to say he’s not coming. He’s changed his mind about working with us. Got any ideas how to get a garment factory off the ground?
– None.
– Then the fund gets closed either way. Forget about the factory. And break promises, however you turn it.
I couldn’t find arguments for a fight. I confined myself to the thought that since force majeure had occurred, let Zhorik clean up whatever Yeltsin, the government and everyone else had made of it. I work honestly.
– There’s a fat opportunity come up, – Zhorka went on. – We can move to the building next door, «Metallsnab.» I was drinking with the director the day before yesterday. We’ll lease the third floor and the warehouse. We drag the gang over from Kalyazinskaya. Think about what to set up and how. You’ll make your own boys heads of departments. Divide up the posts yourself. Departments up to the roof – sales, warehouse, transport, purchasing, whatever else. Add Kostya and Marinka from the fund to them. Sharp kids, they’ll come over to you. The rest of the fund’s people we’ll place with Vadik at the bank. Clear? Head down to the «Terem,» work out the what and the how with the boys. And don’t forget! The day before yesterday we agreed the Taurus is under you. Remember? March off to Vasilich! And don’t drive under a tank!
He fired all this off in one breath and was gone.
I stood there with a heap of scattered thoughts. Turned what I’d heard over in my head, laid it out in points and sub-points, and once I’d grasped the outline, hurried off to carry it out.
First I looked into the security room and spent five minutes watching the tank on the television, standing in the same place, firing the same way, with no prospects for the parliament. Then I called Vasilich. He already knew he was shortly moving over to the Bucephalus. He commanded: «Sit yourself behind the wheel. We start right now!»
And so we did. Kicked up dust all the way to the «Terem.»
I, full of myself and steaming with tension, worked the wheel and two pedals. On the right sat Vasilich, anticipating my every move and advising me not to hurry, to look around, to look around again, and only then to stroke the little pedal and shift the steering wheel.
We reached the «Terem» without incident. On independent driving I scored a solid C. On Vasilich’s prompting I tucked my left foot underneath me and tickled the brake and the gas with my right. Changing lanes gave me trouble, I jerked the wheel too hard, but I adapted. After my father’s Moskvich, a car with an automatic gearbox and power steering felt like a child’s toy.
On arrival at Kalyazinskaya I installed Vasilich at a table in the «Terem.» Let him have lunch and wait out the end of the working day with fragrant tea and an assortment of pastries. I went up to the second floor and announced: «Proma» has got a floor in a huge office! And a whole warehouse! Fifteen hundred square meters!!! Remember the hangar in Nagatino they were carrying furniture out of? It’s ours now! Hurrah!!!
Having lived through the collective rapture, I sketched out a plan of subsequent action. And got seriously stuck. Possibly for the first time in my life, a question had arisen concerning a going concern with a turnover in the many thousands, and only I could answer it. Zhorik had stepped aside. The weight of decisions had crashed down on my shoulders. Right! Calmly! Point by point…
