Vladimir took advantage of the friendlier atmosphere. With Isheyev’s help and a handful of investors, he established another outpost for Smirnov vodka. Isheyev would manage the factory while Vladimir would own the business. “The factory business went well,” recalled Isheyev. “First, there were parts of the White Army there who liked vodka. And the Bulgarians started to appreciate it in time.”5 In short order, it appeared as if Vladimir may have sold or licensed the rights to his brand name, along with the rights to his family’s liquor recipes. “A buyer appeared who proposed a good price for the factory,” wrote Isheyev. It was no giant windfall but Vladimir was only too happy to pocket any profit, however small.
Valentina was doing well, too, continuing to entertain the hoards of expatriates from Russia, now resettled in Sofia. Valentina’s reputation as a leading lady still loomed large. She managed to entice paying customers to her concerts, including a well-to-do Polish diplomat by the name of Ladislas Baronowski. Valentina and Baronowski had a great deal in common, starting with their Polish roots. It is not clear exactly when and how their relationship bloomed. Indeed, it appeared that at first all three, Vladimir, Valentina, and Baronowski, formed strong bonds of friendship. Soon, though, Valentina and Baronowski were no longer just friends. Valentina, according to Smirnova-Maksheyeva’s memories, could not resist the allure of a man with money and position, making their budding romance not necessarily only a matter of love. More likely, Valentina’s desperate desire to regain a sense of security and access to the finer things in life, neither of which Vladimir could now provide, brought the couple together.
The breakup shattered Vladimir. Valentina had been the one woman to whom he had been devoted. With Valentina, he had been part of a golden couple within the inner circles of Russian theater, and this had been the passion of his life. As was Valentina, who had traded much of her own remaining fortune, from furs to jewels, to help ensure that Vladimir did not perish at the hands of the Bolsheviks. He, in turn, had supported her, making sure there was nothing for which she could want. Theirs had been a true love, a genuine match that had superseded all the trivialities that made up their public lives.
The depth of their feelings was underscored by their remaining connection long after their split. Following the sale of Vladimir’s vodka business in Sofia, the threesome moved again. This time they settled in Lvov, Poland. Baronowski had great influence there and was able to help Vladimir get established in 1923. It was in Lvov, now part of Ukraine, that Vladimir decided to formalize his efforts to preserve the Smirnov brand. His idea was to plant seeds in as many locales as possible, willing the spirits firm to endure and flourish. His company’s main objective would be to license the Smirnov name and recipes to as many takers in as many communities as possible.
Vladimir reached into the heart of Russia and found his brother Nikolay in Moscow. He wrote to him, asking for his power of attorney to create a shell company that would be responsible for peddling the remains of their father’s business, primarily its brand, reputation, honors, and secret recipes. It would most likely manufacture nothing itself. Vladimir and Nikolay would be part owners of that enterprise, along with Baronowski, Valentina, and a Russian lawyer they knew in Moscow. Nikolay, it appears, wasted no time in fulfilling his brother’s request. There would have been no point in resisting. Nikolay could not revive the family business, despite the ending of prohibition in Russia and reinstatement of the vodka monopoly later in 1925. Too many obstacles stood in his way, and Nikolay did not possess the skills or ambition to navigate the new state system, particularly during a time of such economic turmoil. He also could not rely on his youngest brother, Aleksey, for help, for he had died of heart trouble a year earlier. Perhaps most daunting was that the old Smirnov company was now part of a large state-owned enterprise by the name of Vintorgpravleniye, later known simply as Vintorg. An umbrella organization that united many previously private businesses, including the Smirnovs, it produced the same drinks Smirnov had manufactured. It even used the same labels—absent the Smirnov name and the former company’s array of honors.
Nikolay put his faith in Vladimir. In his own shaky hand, he signed over all his rights to Vladimir. The last two remaining Smirnov brothers, both of whom had sold their interests in the family business years earlier, were bound together once again by their shared vodka heritage. The letter, dated June 18, 1923, attested to the different fates that had befallen the men. It was signed: “Citizen Nikolay Petrovich Smirnov.”6
The new firm was born in Lvov. Its name, Société Pierre Smirnoff Fils, registered in French, may have been the first time the brand was officially spelled the Western European way with two fs. The owners were also the firm’s board of directors. In its first transaction, the company hooked up with a small local alcohol manufacturer who planned to produce about five hundred bottles of Smirnov liquor per day.7 Vladimir then sold other licenses to groups in Prague and Paris. It is not known how much income these deals generated for Vladimir or his co-owners, or how much liquor was produced and sold under the brand.
Despite this success, Vladimir was deeply unhappy during his stay in Lvov. Valentina probably moved back to Bulgaria with Baronowski, leaving Vladimir alone. He had some friends from the old days and a handful of new acquaintances, but life was now so different for him—no matter how hard he tried to re-create what he once had had. He realized, like many Russians, that any hope of returning to the motherland was dimming. Thousands had chosen to return, but they knew, too, that Russia could never revert to its former self. Petrograd had been renamed Leningrad in 1924 following the death of Lenin. The former Bolshevik leader had left a will explicitly stating that Stalin should be removed from his position as general secretary of the Communist Party. The directive ignored, Stalin’s iron fist grew stronger. On a personal level, Vladimir learned that his own son, now twenty-three years old, and Aleksandra, Vladimir’s ex-wife, still lived in Moscow in the eight-room, one-bathroom flat that he had purchased for them years ago. But now, so did members of seven other families.8
Vladimir began to look ahead in earnest, strategizing his best chance at building a real, lasting future for himself. His thoughts took him to the one place he had long adored, a second home of sorts to much of Russia’s former aristocracy. Many of the people he knew during his happiest years were there already, setting up little, self-contained Russian colonies, complete with Russian churches, schools, restaurants, music, and theaters. Vladimir applied to the Polish government for a passport, packed his bags, and hopped a train. He was going to France.
FRANCE, AND PARIS in particular, was like little Russia in the 1920s. Its chic style, sophisticated art and literary scenes, and its willingness ultimately to accept more than 150,000 Russians made it an enticing destination. Paris offered the added benefit of being architecturally reminiscent of St. Petersburg. A vast array of Russia’s most prominent, promising, and ordinary citizens relocated to the French capital. Composers Igor Stravinsky and Sergey Prokofiev, bass opera singer Fyodor Shalyapin, and painters Aleksander Benois and Marc Chagall all emigrated to Paris. Members of the late tsar’s family, including his brother-in-law, Duke Aleksander Mikhailovich, and Grand Duke Dmitriy Pavlovich Romanov, who took part in the killing of Rasputin, now resided in France. Distinguished merchants and wealthy capitalists gravitated there as well, such as members of the Ryabushinskiy textile dynasty, industrialist Sergey Tretyakov, and textile magnate Sergey Shchukin, a prolific collector of French impressionist art. Shchukin’s more than 250 magnificent works, which included masterpieces by Matisse, Monet, Picasso, and Gauguin, were expropriated by the Russian state after he fled to Paris.[41]
These leading lights were joined by scores of more typical, lesser known émigrés. They wanted nothing of the Paris spotlight. They faded away into the city’s natural commotion, taking on odd jobs such as driving taxis, sewing dresses, or working in factories. They were just trying to survive and like them, Vladimir had come to France full of hope and in search o
f a home. Though he was probably better off than many of his downtrodden brethren, he was more like them than the extremely well-to-do.
Vladimir, now fifty, had aged greatly by the time he arrived in Paris. Still remarkably handsome, his looks had taken on the weight of his experience, leaving him under a constant fog of loss and fatigue. According to photos, he had done away with his trademark handlebar mustache, which left his clean-shaven, more fully rounded visage looking a bit fallow. His thick mop of wavy, sand-colored hair had thinned, graying at the temples. His light eyes, once overflowing with aristocratic entitlement and conceit, had mellowed, too. They seemed now to hold only longing and regret.
It is not clear why Vladimir’s stay in Paris was short-lived. He spoke the language fluently and knew the local culture well, but he had an already established venture there. Smirnov vodka was being produced at a nearby factory, and it was selling, though it is unclear how well. Vladimir may have felt he needed to cultivate more opportunities elsewhere. Or maybe he just preferred to be away from the big city. After a while, he left a friend from Russia in Paris in charge of that small operation and headed south to Nice.
Nice was second only to Paris in its number of Russian émigrés. Like the country’s capital, it also had spawned a little Russia, a bubble-like community full of restaurants, grocery stores, a library, and even a cemetery. Matisse was known to paint Russian émigrés during his regular visits to the beach city. There was a magnificent Russian Orthodox cathedral in Nice, full of parishioners. Part of this infrastructure existed as a result of decades of visits from wealthy nobles who, prior to the revolution, spent entire seasons in the resort.
Now, of course, Nice’s Russian population was two-faced. A small minority of the inhabitants managed to escape with a healthy share of their resources. They maintained luxurious lives, residing in opulent villas. They hobnobbed with the rich who arrived from New York, London, Paris, and Amsterdam, went to expensive cabarets, watched Isadora Duncan dance; they had the means to eat in the finest restaurants.
For the vast majority of émigrés, though, the air smelled more of fish, alcohol, and drying laundry. Their lives were simple yet onerous, overburdened by unemployment, poverty, and despair, overwrought by what had been and what could never be again. Wrote one observer: “You can distinguish a Russian person… without words. They have shabby clothes, down-to-the-heel boots, a washed-out hat, and, the main feature, they have unveiled sadness in their eyes, gestures, and gait.”9
Shortly after arriving in Nice, Vladimir met Tatiana Maksheyeva, the woman who would become his third wife. He was likely in search of companionship more than anything, someone to fill the void left by Valentina and the loss of contact with his son and siblings. An attractive woman, though not as charismatic as Valentina had been, Tatiana grew up in St. Petersburg and received a first-rate education at the Yekaterininskiy Institute, a private girls boarding school. Her parents had been, like the Smirnovs, members of the wealthiest social class.
Tatiana, one of eight children, left Russia before the outbreak of World War I. Her first husband was ill and was advised for health reasons to move to the Mediterranean Coast, so the couple relocated first to Turkey before moving to Nice. The string of events—from war to revolution to civil war—kept Tatiana from ever returning to Russia. She yearned for Russia but determined there was nothing waiting for her in her homeland other than misery. For years, she didn’t even know the whereabouts of her family, much less its fate.
Alone in Nice after her husband’s death, Tatiana probably ached for a Russian soul mate, someone to keep her connected to her roots. She was fifteen years younger than Vladimir and nothing like the other women who had dominated his life. Tatiana appeared to be a far more independent, less demanding spouse. Instead of coveting diamonds and furs, she was a lover of literature. She was a prolific writer, penning romantic novels and poetry throughout her life. She also made her own way rather than relying on a husband for income. With what little money she saved, Tatiana purchased a small antique shop in Nice with a dingy, two-room apartment on its second floor where the newlyweds would live. She also made and sold Russian dolls and hats, according to her niece, Alfonsina Frantsevna Mekhedinskaya. In her memoirs, Tatiana wrote succinctly, “In 1925, we met, fell in love, and got married.”10
The two managed to scrape by. Vladimir collected a meager income from the concessions of Smirnoff vodka he managed to sell. Tatiana brought in a bit of money from her antique business. It was enough to send money in letters to relatives back home, recalls Alfonsina, who says her family might not have survived without the generosity of Tatiana and Vladimir. The couple kept to themselves, socializing mainly with friends and acquaintances from the old days. One of them was, surprisingly, Valentina. She had moved to Nice shortly after Vladimir and was performing there. Baronowski, still occupied with his diplomatic duties, was often away. In time, Tatiana, Vladimir, and Valentina developed a warm, comforting friendship. Tatiana recalled her interactions with Vladimir’s ex-lover:
In spite of her relationship with Baronowski and the fact that he supported her, [Valentina] was still in love with Vladimir. Once she came over unexpectedly and asked my permission to visit us, telling me that she was compelled solely by her friendship with Vladimir and that they shared a connection due to what they lived through together during the revolution. Since I am not jealous by nature, I received her warmly, invited her to visit us. When Baronowski would visit Nice, they would visit us together. I never had to regret meeting Valentina. She was always proper, cheerful, and genuine in her dealings with me. She sometimes complained about Baronowski—most often that he sent her too little money too rarely. She would cry and my husband and I would comfort her. In another minute, she would start laughing on account of some trifle. Vladimir treated her as a brother would treat a sister. He never recalled the past except for the fact that thanks to her, he was able to leave the USSR and save himself from death.11
The affections were not so warm for another woman out of Vladimir’s past. Eugeniya had also resettled in Nice. She had grown bitter and desperate, unable to adjust to a life without privilege. She had once been well known to workers in Nice’s hospitality trade. She could walk into the lobby of her favorite hotel with her trunk and chambermaid in tow, and the manager of the hotel would greet her almost as royalty. Settled into her usual suite overlooking the Mediterranean, she could call for room service, and make plans to visit her regular crew of socialites.
Now, though, Eugeniya probably never visited her former haunt. She could no longer afford even a dinner there. She relied on charity and on money supplied to her by her daughter, Tatiana, who worked an array of odd jobs, but the money never amounted to much. “She [Tatiana] never tolerated the idea of working in a factory or any kind of nine-to-five job because she loved her freedom,” said her son, Boris. “She was brought up with great freedom and in luxury, the grand life, very pampered. She never really wanted to buckle under and work.”12 For her part, Eugeniya never tried to earn her own way. When she had a chance to improve her situation when her third husband, the Italian diplomat died, she used the bit of money he left in typical fashion—she went on a vacation to Italy.
Eugeniya was even more disturbed when she learned that Vladimir claimed a right to the Smirnov brand name. It galled her that he or Nikolay would profit from a business that their older brother had bequeathed to her and she argued that she was its legal owner. Now Eugeniya tried to prove her position by making several attempts to contact former Smirnov employees in Moscow, hoping they might have access to the legal documents that would make it clear who owned the trademarks and copyrights. Those efforts were fruitless: Eugeniya stewed. According to her grandson, Boris, neither Eugeniya nor Vladimir spoke to one another directly about the matter. They staked out opposing positions about the vodka business and carried on a silent kind of bout. “I don’t think [they ever communicated] because knowing my grandmother, enraged as she was, I would be very surprised tha
t it would have even crossed her mind to get in touch with him. I can’t guarantee this but, to my knowledge, that’s simply not possible…. For both my mother and grandmother, he was a pariah. He had betrayed the family.”13
Boris says that his mother, Tatiana, on Eugeniya’s behalf, once tried to file a complaint against Vladimir with the local chamber of commerce. Her lack of evidence, though, thwarted those efforts. “There was very little she could do, in actual fact, because she had no money whatsoever and, of course, too few connections with the people who could help her to go to Moscow. Of course, this was tough for her.”14
Bit by bit, Eugeniya slid into poverty, isolating herself from the people and world she had once dominated. She lived in a modest retirement home, supported by her daughter and grandchildren who had also emigrated. Eugeniya received assistance from some Russian charities set up by wealthy exiles to help less fortunate refugees. It was a humbling and humiliating experience for the former aristocrat.
Vladimir was down, too. His vodka business was sputtering—France was not taken by the taste of the colorless spirit, preferring its own wines and cognacs, nor did it seem that the rest of Europe had a thirst for vodka either. By 1930 Vladimir was thought to be receiving little to no income from the various licenses he had sold. With few options, he turned to singing, the only other skill he had. Not since his father had shipped him off to China had Vladimir sung for his supper. Music had been a joyful hobby for him, but now it was work. Making matters worse, Vladimir had to wear a costume harkening back to the days before Peter the Great while he performed. He sent a card to his old friend, Isheyev, who by then had immigrated to the United States. Vladimir made light of his situation, showing off to his friend a photo of himself in a boyar costume. “You see,” Vladimir wrote, “I’m singing!”
Vladimir was running out of options. His bank account depleted, he had few prospects for replenishing it. More worrisome, he began to feel seriously ill. Soon diagnosed with a debilitating and unspecified illness, Vladimir would need multiple operations and significant medical care. The fight before him now was more than financial. It would require all his remaining energy and a good deal of luck. He was dying. If good fortune did not step in, the legacy his father had spent a lifetime crafting, the legacy Vladimir had clung to in the wake of the revolution, would die with him.
The King of Vodka Page 31