by Talia Carner
The conversation around the table turned to democracy and what could be expected in the new Russia.
“We have a very educated population with more women engineers and physicians than any other country,” Olga said, seizing the opportunity to reclaim a sliver of her beloved Russia’s pride. “Once we have the right tools, a real leap forward will surely follow.”
Brooke nodded. “The rug has been pulled out from under this country with no preparation,” she said. “The legal system collapsed with nothing to replace it. And the goals of the new economy have been defined, but not the means by which to reach them.”
Olga noticed that Brooke’s short, manicured nails sported clear polish instead of the expected shade of red or magenta a Russian woman—especially a successful one—would apply. “Not enough reason to collapse into chaos,” she said, and squashed her cigarette in a saucer.
“It will take strong leadership—and time—to draft a working legal system,” Brooke said, “and then to establish effective enforcement of it.”
“What about God’s law and human law? What about respecting others’ rights? What kind of new society are we building here? Yeltsin’s new machinations have brought only distrust in his leadership. He’s inciting a civil war!” Olga’s indignation rose as she picked up her coffee cup, splashing some coffee. “I’m all for progress—especially when it includes making room for our women’s development. New horizons have opened to our nation, and women will march toward them.”
Brooke touched her sleeve. “That’s why we’re here. To help them in business.”
Business. The new English word had a sweet taste. Olga rolled it on her tongue. Other new foreign words she marveled at, recently adopted into Russian, were entrepreneur and marketing. She asked Brooke, “What exactly is ‘business’?”
Brooke looked at her for a long moment as if assessing whether Olga was serious or just ignorant. “Business is creating a product or service that people need or can use. Then you develop the infrastructure to market and distribute it, and make a profit at the end of the sale.”
“What do you do?” Olga asked the young, unassuming woman who knew so much. “Are you a professor?”
“I’m an investment manager at a private firm that manages people’s money.”
“A whole company just to manage people’s money? Must be very rich clients.”
Brooke smiled, and Olga registered that the Americans smiled even when there was no reason to. Russians were born with a scowl on their faces.
“There are specializations for each business aspect,” Brooke said. “I advise clients how to invest their funds or manage their assets. Often, I coach them when we examine businesses in which they consider investing, and sometimes I counsel the management of a venture in which my clients have on-going interests.” She paused. “Am I boring you?”
“Go on, please. It’s very interesting.”
“Well, my work gives me a broad view of things, from business plans and the evaluation of financial projections for best-and worst-case scenarios, to analysis of marketing programs and the examination of distribution options.”
“Fascinating. I’ve never read anything about it. I should find a book about capitalism.”
“I can mail you some in English when I get back.”
“Of course in English. We would have nothing in Russian.” State enterprises, the only ones Olga was familiar with, abhorred the word profit as the ultimate symbol of corrupt capitalism. The black market, in which so many of her fellow Russians engaged, was beyond contempt. Yet, her wheeler-dealer compatriots must know a lot more about business than she did. “Will you teach it all tomorrow at Amanda’s conference?”
“We’ll cover only the entrepreneurial versions of the basics—small-scale research, pricing, advertising, accounting, customer service. In my workshop tomorrow I’ll explain the selling process and how to focus on the consumer’s needs—”
Olga cut her off. “You are contradicting yourself. If a business’s goal is profit, by definition it is selfish, focused on its own interest, not the good of the public, or as you say, ‘the consumer.’”
“These terms are not mutually exclusive.” Brooke’s tone was soft. “A business that cares about customer satisfaction, that is attuned to changes in mood or consumption, that takes care of problems when they arise stands to profit more in the long run.”
The long run. Who had the luxury of a “long run” when no one knew what to expect at the end of the day? “Do American children learn all this in school?”
Brooke shook her head. “Not directly, but even young children are encouraged to open a lemonade stand.”
“What’s that?”
“A kid fills a pitcher with sliced lemon, sugar, and water; gets a stack of disposable cups, and places a table outside the house. She posts a sign, asking passersby to buy a glass of her lemonade for a few cents. The child learns to approach people and to try to sell.”
“And that’s how American children earn a living?”
Brooke broke off a piece of bread left on the table. “They only get their first lesson of supply and demand. Maybe no one buys the drink because she has priced it too high. Or there’s not enough foot traffic on that street. The child learns that she needs to be creative to attract customers.”
“Maybe no one is thirsty.”
“That’s also a lesson in assessing consumers’ needs. Children who sell lemonade learn that it’s best to set up their operations during the hot days of summer.”
“So up and down the boulevards of Manhattan there are lemonade stands with children fighting each other to sell their drinks?”
Brooke laughed. “Lemonade stands are usually found in the suburbs, and each child does it for just a few days. Even if the kid makes no money, the only cost is a pitcher of lemonade.”
“What kind of a lesson is that?”
“A lesson in business thinking.” Brooke paused. “In seventh grade, I signed up for an investment class. Each student received a theoretical sum of money. We researched companies’ stock offerings, we studied their products and operations, and then we invested in the companies we chose. We followed each company’s progress or decline, sold some stocks and bought others, and by the end of the project some of us made a profit, others lost. On paper, of course, but it was fascinating.”
“Capitalism was always a dirty word here. Can it really corrupt the soul?”
“How? My soul is not corrupted, I hope. In fact, my mother is an accountant. As a teenager, I helped in the office, did some clients’ bookkeeping to earn my allowance. I grew up thinking figures and creative accounting.”
“‘Creative accounting.’ Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
Brooke laughed. “You’d think so, right? It’s using tax loopholes, deferring profits, burying income under legitimate expenses, investing employees’ pension funds.”
For a while, neither spoke as Olga mulled over the new concepts. There was so much to learn. “I’m glad you can see past the inexperience of the director of the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory and help her,” she finally said.
“Svetlana. I felt her hope.”
“Hope can’t be a business concept. It can’t be measured.”
“It’s intangible, but hope is an important ingredient in making things happen. It’s the fuel that feeds motivation.”
“There are many cooperatives like the Gorbachevskaya Street Factory. They all must learn to manage their ventures.”
“Given what we’ve seen today, our consulting is hardly enough. What you’re facing here is not only a matter of ‘managing a venture.’”
Brooke was soft-spoken, Olga noticed. She didn’t shout when expressing an opinion, not even employing the authoritative voice a knowledgeable Russian would assume when lecturing. Yet, she sounded sincere. And she knew her subject.
“Do you really want to help?” Olga glanced about to check where a bug might have been planted. The chandelier was too high for an effective micr
ophone, but one must be built into the table. No institute catering to unions, the public, or foreigners was free from eavesdropping.
“Of course,” Brooke replied.
Without fully getting up, Olga dragged her chair away from the table and turned her head away from its electronic ears. She motioned for Brooke to do the same. “A wave of terror is spreading over businesses in the Moscow region. Women’s cooperatives, like Svetlana’s, are being targeted.”
“Targeted?” Brooke opened her palms in question. “Only women’s businesses?”
Olga sighed. “Reports cross my desk every week. All businesses are fair game for one mafia gang or another, but women’s ventures are being more brutally intimidated and exploited. Maybe they can’t afford to buy better protection. Or maybe they’re an easier target for the mafia. I’m not sure. All I’ve figured out is that as soon as a women-owned factory shows promise, someone begins to extort protection money. Even after they pay, violent goons show up, destroy the place, and break the workers’ spirits—if not bodies.”
“But why? How can they benefit if the venture can no longer pay them protection money?”
“Someone ‘buys’ the ruined cooperative for a hundred rubles.”
“The mafia can’t buy a business at a fire-sale price and then run it without friends in high places,” Brooke said.
“That’s what worries me. A fish begins to stink from the head.”
“If the authorities are either powerless or won’t cooperate, what can be done?” Brooke cocked her head as she looked at Olga. “If you were to dream of a solution, what would it be?”
“Our people are unused to dreaming, but many of us are nostalgic for simple living. I remember the Russia of my youth.” Olga’s voice warmed up. This was a chance to share the grandeur of her country, rather than criticizing it to a foreigner. “The countryside with its deep forests and bubbling springs, folk songs, and dancing on summer nights.” Olga reached for her cigarette packet again, but detected Brooke almost imperceptibly pulling back. “Don’t American women smoke?” she asked.
Brooke shrugged. “There’s a strong trend not to start—or to quit.”
Everyone Olga knew smoked even if their cigarettes were made of seaweed. She dropped her hand.
“You have a beautiful artistic heritage that I’m sure will be preserved as you move ahead,” Brooke went on, as if to bridge the awkward moment. “Pushkin, Dostoevsky, Tchaikovsky, and the Bolshoi Ballet.”
“Those are our national treasures.” Olga hoped that her listener wouldn’t bring up the Stalin years, that iron-fisted Bolshevik rule that starved millions of Russians and executed hundreds of thousands of them. “There’s no reason we should lose them with democracy. So, if I dared to dream, I would incorporate the pride in our strong values and the cultural history with a democratic, free future.” Olga raised her chin. “When the dust settles, we will survive. Women will strive. The cooperatives must make it. They must.”
“I agree that economic independence is the key to all the others, political or personal.” Brooke’s hand chopped the air. “But the extortion problem is the first that must be solved.”
The American man left his spot at the head of the table and pulled over a chair. “Dr. Rozanova, may I?” He straddled the chair, facing Olga.
“Remind me of your name, please.”
“Judd Kornblum.” He extended his hand, and after she shook it, he smiled at Brooke. “We’ve already met.” When a confused expression traversed Brooke’s face, he added, “You’re with Norton, Hills, and Bridwell, right? I lectured about Latin America for some of your clients.” His smile broadened. “Or was my presentation so unimpressive that you’ve forgotten?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry. It’s hard to place someone in such a different context.”
“Are you scouting the land for diamonds in the rough?”
“This is a vacation of sorts.”
“Last I looked, the Bahamas were the leisure destination of choice.”
Brooke laughed a beautiful throaty laugh, as relaxed as only an American woman might allow herself to be. Or a woman under the admiring gaze of a man she was attracted to. The flirting annoyed Olga. She had little patience for nonsense when so much needed to be accomplished.
“I’d like to hear your take on what the group saw today,” the man said to Olga. The lenses of his spectacles were so clear they seemed nonexistent.
Olga considered him for a moment. He was from the American Embassy. No government employee could be trusted. One had to be careful when speaking in front of someone who might be a mole. “A tragedy,” she responded.
“It’s not an isolated incident, I hear.” Kornblum scratched his chin, where a dark evening stubble showed. “The mafia can be as murderous as Stalin’s rule. Seventy years of suppression are being replaced by another era of terror.”
“I’ve just said that something must be done for ventures that are victims of extortion,” Brooke responded, seemingly oblivious to Olga’s cautionary approach.
“What do you have in mind?” Kornblum asked her.
Brooke turned to Olga. “You need a grassroots movement of citizens fed up with the mafia. As pervasive as the mafia is, can it face hundreds of thousands of people coming together?”
Olga regarded her, then raised her arms in mock protest. She liked the young woman’s daring spirit. “Women of Russia, unite! But we’ve done that already—until recently, when we lost our guaranteed seats in the Duma. That’s our congress.”
Brooke pressed on. “Do you have any suspicion of who’s behind the intimidation?”
“If criminals wore white caps, they’d look like a flock of sheep. Right?” Olga sighed. “How can one begin to find out who’s behind something like this?”
“Well, who benefits?” Brooke tossed a glance at Kornblum as if sharing with him this particular thought, then looked back at Olga. “Who buys the collectives for ‘a hundred rubles’ as you’ve said, once they’re almost ruined?”
Olga’s fingers twisted her necklace so the two chipped beads wouldn’t show. “The newspapers say it’s the bankers. They are the most dishonest people in the new economy.”
“How is that?”
Olga shrugged. It was safe to quote what she’d read in the government-sponsored newspaper, Izvestia. “They launder money, give ‘loans’ from government subsidies to their cronies, and embezzle funds from state and commercial accounts. That’s what we always said was ‘corrupt’ capitalism.”
“That’s a Soviet version of capitalism,” Kornblum said. “Self-fulfilling prophecy.”
Brooke cut in. “Anyway, in this case, you need to find out which specific banks these cooperatives have been dependent on. It’s that simple.” Her eyes shone with intensity. “That’s the thread you should follow.”
“Right into the path of the crooks?” Kornblum’s eyebrows rose behind his rimless glasses. “Then what?”
“If I am to help Svetlana, someone must get to the root of the problem.” Brooke tucked back an errant strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail. “In the worst-case scenario, Svetlana will know who the enemy is. At best, knowing will help her develop a strategy to deal with it.”
Of course corruption lay with some bureaucrat—and one with mob connections. Olga could have guessed it herself, except she hadn’t. But Brooke, who understood the business process, just pinpointed the third corner of the triangle: the specific bankers that worked with the women’s ventures. “In Russia, information is dangerous,” Olga said quietly.
Chapter Ten
FEELING INVISIBLE EYES piercing her from the ceiling and walls, Brooke walked up the flight of broad steps out of the dining room, pretending ease. She had stayed behind to munch on the one piece of buttered bread and three cucumber slices the waiter had salvaged from the chef’s tight hold in exchange for a five-dollar bill. But the delay had left her alone in the company of two shabby-looking men with brooms who focused on sweeping the floor of the vast dining h
all just around her feet. Once again, lagging behind had left her exposed.
She reached the lobby floor still hungry. Her mother, scarred by wartime starvation and forever distrustful of the surety of her next meal, squirreled food away in her purse, pushing it on her little Bertha at all hours. When Brooke reached puberty, she had shut her mouth and became anorexic before the term was widely known. It had given her a measure of control, even as she floated about in a starved haze, in a weightless body. Now she wished she had packed cans of tuna, a box of matzos, and the granola bars she often carried when traveling to third world countries. She hadn’t thought of Russia in such terms. Amanda had a bag of dried fruit, though, which she would no doubt share.
Yet Brooke wasn’t ready to go to her room and decided to test the boundaries of her freedom to move about the lobby. As she ambled past the two sets of guards standing at the inside gates she held up her hand-written pass and was relieved that they let her through. Would the next guards stop her from venturing outside?
She stopped before the double glass doors of the front entrance and, adopting a stiff, commanding body language, scowled at the guards until one of them unlocked the door. Stepping out with no intention of going anywhere, she stood motionless on the top landing to breathe in crisp air fragrant with damp leaves. It was dark. No need to waste precious Russian light bulbs outdoors. This late in the evening, Moscow felt like any other city. Brooke’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she noticed trees dotting the sidewalks. The huge residential buildings across the wide road seemed peaceful, the crumbling plaster on their facades concealed in darkness. Only the glow from hundreds of small golden lit windows in each mammoth building hinted at life gathering itself for the night.
She caught a movement at the bottom of the stairs. Half-hidden by the front post, Judd Kornblum was leaning against it, his hands tucked into his pants pockets and his legs crossed at the ankles. Although he didn’t turn his head when Brooke walked down the last of the few steps, a slight shift in his position told her that he sensed her presence. In the light spilling from the doors behind them, his jaw tightened and rippled a vein at his temple.