The Deceit of Riches Page 8

  On leaving Strenlyenko’s office I bumped into Dean Karamzin in the hallway and he asked me to walk with him to his office. He took his chair behind his desk while I stood at attention across the desk from him.

  “Mr. Turner, as you are a student, an observer of politics, can I invite you to the first plenum of The Left Front party of Nizhniy Novgorod? Purely as a guest and observer of course.” The Dean proclaimed in his usual blustery manner.

  “A new party?” I asked intrigued.

  “Oh yes, new parties in Russia are forming every day. Mostly they are unprofessional, built on demagoguery and those wanting to throw out all Jews, create the Soviet Union again but without the black republics,” he said off hand.

  “The black republics?” I asked unsure of the reference.

  “Yes, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan,” he explained.

  “Funny because in English we call that area the Caucasian republics, which means white.” I explained from a linguistic perspective.

  “Well, they're not my words, they're the words of that nut in Moscow, Zhilanskiy. You know of him?’

  I nodded my head solemnly.

  He says anything to get his votes for the new Russian Duma,” the Dean showed his disgust with a brush of his hand through the air. “But the Left Front Party of Nizhniy Novgorod is a group of real thinkers.”

  “Oh, we have the nouveau bourgouise and the nouveau intelligentia coming back?” I smiled at the irony.

  “Mr. Turner, you surprise me with your knowledge of the communist rhetoric,” the Dean suddenly said very seriously.

  “Sorry, I will try to be less skeptical of today’s Russia,” I replied humbly.

  “Being skeptical in Russia keeps you healthy and alive!” he declared with an amused look on his face.

  “So, the new intelligentia?” I said bringing us back on point.

  “The Left Front is a group of local academics who want to have an influence in the local and provincial government. This is not a national party, well maybe not yet,” he explained.

  “Left Front? Are they specifically liberal, like the Yeltsin and Gaidar camps?” I inquired.

  “No, they are not particularly politically oriented. The Left Front is a reference to a famous battle during the war in defence of the Volga region. No right or left-wing politics involved.”

  “Are you a member of it too then?" I pushed for more details.

  “No, but I am advising the party how to create a meaningful manifesto and will be the chairman at the plenum. You are very welcome to attend and listen as my guest.” From his perspective, he was bestowing on me a great honour.

  “Thank you, I would be honored,” I said politely.

  The Dean gave me a mono-coloured flyer printed on rough grey paper that looked as if it could have been from the promoters of the 1917 communists’ traveling revival show. It seemed to me that so much of the administration and records keeping could have been the same before the revolution, with the exception of the fax machine in Arkadiy’s office at Gagarin street. The Dean’s telephone buzzed on his desk as we shook hands. He bellowed ‘halloah’ into the handset as I pulled the door closed behind me and made a mental note for Friday afternoon’s event.

  After a few days had passed since the assassination of Dmitri Bolshakov, Yulia had mostly recovered her composure and started going to classes again, but something still wasn’t quite the same. A spark in her eyes had gone out or was just very dim, so I was surprised when she accepted my invitation to come with me to observe the plenum meeting of the Left Front Party. When we arrived at the city administration offices in the kremlin for the party conference, the banquet room was already filled with more than fifty men and a few women. We had to choose a place to sit in the left back of the room. There was nobody to take our coats and hats at the wardrobe, so we carried our shapkas and coats over our arms and laid them over the back of a free chair next to us. The inlaid wooden floor of the banquet hall creaked and shifted under our boots and chairs as we took our seats.

  “Very unusual that nobody greeted us at the door and nobody to take coats and hats?” Yulia commented slightly annoyed.

  “It’s not a ball tonight. It’s a debate.” I said carefully as she was a bit fragile still.

  Yulia gave me an annoyed look that foreigners usually get when they don’t know what they’re talking about.

  “It’s still the city administration office,” she insisted.

  “And so it is,” I said folding my arms and settling into my chair and taking in the scene.

  The Dean had spotted me and gave me a wave over the crowd from the raised podium, acknowledging that I had arrived. I didn’t feel free to introduce Yulia as she hadn’t been invited and was there as the press incognito. Luckily, he didn't come over to great us.

  “That’s it? He’s just going to wave and not shake hands?" Yulia huffed again.

  “He’s busy, can’t you see that?” I said defensively.

  “He should at least shake your hand. He invited us,” she pouted.

  “What’s the problem, Yulia. Do you not want to stay?” I asked trying to feel out her mood. She didn’t reply but looked straight ahead ignoring my question.

  I rolled my eyes while looking away. I was thrilled just to have been invited and was satisfied to be able to watch the organisation of a new party, in a region of the country that had top talent and was becoming a case study for restructuring and reform. Forget the greetings and handshakes; politics was in the air! For all we knew the tent could come down tonight in a proper brawl with fists and chairs being thrown.

  Dean Karamzin stood up to call the meeting to order. The din of the crowd died down and wispy grey-haired men already hot in debate with each other, took their seats. I noticed Strelyenko in the front row, his full, young head of hair waving without any wind, and thought to myself “now this could get interesting.” I wondered if he was a party member or just here helping the Dean with the administration of the meeting.

  The first order of business was the agenda of the meeting read with only one amendment requested from the front row: adopted. Second order of business was to confirm the first party leader. The intellect behind the formation of the party was unanimously elected as party leader; Sergey Nicholievich T. This seemed to be a foregone conclusion as it was his influence that brought the different academics across the various faculties together under one flag. He himself was a professor of Economics and had spent some time in both Moscow and Sverdlovsk consulting Mr. Yeltsin’s cabinet about economic policy. He looked to be fifty years old.

  The third matter of business was to agree the Manifesto. We were to hear the reports of the three committees that were tasked to each create a Manifesto chapter on the three pillars of the party. These would then be voted on, to either accept or send the proposed sections of the Manifesto back to the committee for revision and improvement. The first two pillars of the party were predictable, economic and political reform, but my ears perked up when the third pillar was announced: Law and Order, and the Rule of Law.

  While the first two draft articles for the manifesto passed without significant debate as they were mostly idealistic statements without policy proposals, the third article caused a massive rift in the room. It read:

  “We the LFPNN call on the city, provincial and national governments to fight organised crime wherever it may be found corrupting the rule of law, fairness and transparency and to combat the influence of illegal activities in our communities, places of employment and in government.”

  All hell broke loose at this point! Debates suddenly broke out in small groups around the room. Who had proposed something so dangerous and so irresponsible? All the academics were exasperated. People were overheard shouting to the chairman and leader, “Something so direct and accusatory should never be allowed to be published,” and “Who was the head of this committee? It should never have left the committee with such strong words,” and “We will all be shot!” A few people headed for the door a
nd slammed it behind them, fleeing before their names could be recorded as official party members.

  The Dean called the room to order again and a proper debate ensued regarding the proposed article. Many of the speakers were all very much against the article as it was written. Several younger members were for it, but the crowd seemed spooked. Then, something electric happened. Strelyenko stood up to speak. The room quieted down to listen.

  “Brothers, brothers. Why are we here tonight? Why did you come here tonight? Was it not to make a difference and save Mother Russia from the current thieves and hooligans that are running our country into the ground? You are all smart men, scientific men! Surely you can predict the end if we do not protect ourselves from the gangsters that are quickly now taking over our economy and government, making themselves rich and our children poor. There won’t be affordable bread for your children and grandchildren if we continue to sell our resources to foreign investors and let gangsters sell them back to us for double the price. We must have complete accountability and complete transparency in order to save Russia. Our leaders must be first Russians, then fathers, then governors and mayors. They cannot have hidden agendas and secret fortunes in foreign banks. Their dachas must be next to ours. We must know them and in which schools their children study and from which shop they buy their meat and vegetables and if they drive a car how they paid for it. We do not call for hot actions but for clever thinkers to help us think our way out of this mess created by Yeltsin and Gaidar and the United States before it’s too late!”

  The mood turned from low energy to electric in a crescendo that grew with each of Strelyenko’s two hundred and eighteen words, starting at the repeating of the word ‘brothers.’ Somehow this young professor, this young idealist had tapped into the popular mood, the common man’s frustration and released their imaginations for a better, a fairer, a safer Russia. The plenum had just been hijacked. Strelyenko brought the crowd to a fevered pitch as he continued.

  “Why do we sit on our hands while our government sells our homes, shops and factories to the highest bidders? Who are they trying to please? Who are they taking care of? The western financiers or the home-grown criminals? Who, I ask you, who is ready to stand up and defend our mothers, wives and daughters from these profiteers? If this continues much longer we will have wished we had let the fascists win fifty years ago and kill us quickly, instead of being slowly enslaved by our own people who murder us one by one in the streets. Who has been arrested yet for the murder last week of Dmitri Bolshakov? No one! Why does the Prosecutor General still sit in the Kremlin? Brothers, we must hold our leaders accountable for the crimes they commit against us and against Russia!”

  Sergey Nicholeivich, the newly elected party leader, was beside himself. This type of speech was not supposed to happen at his party rally. They were to be the guardians of policy, a united think-tank, the brains behind the governor, not on the front line of politics, taking names and holding politicians and gangsters accountable. Sergey Nicholaevich trembled with rage and fear in his chair as he stood to intervene in this unsanctioned turn of events. He shouted over the clamour of the party members and called the room to order. His voice quivered with emotion, but not the kind that motivates the masses.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” his follow up to Strelyenko’s appeal to his brothers neutralised whatever else followed, “this party was organised to bring academic quality into our political discussion and policy ch-ch-choices.” The chairman stuttered nervously as he slowly realised from the body language and faces of his party members that he had lost control of the rank and file. He looked from side to side looking for a friendly face in the audience.

  “Vote, vote, vote!” a low chant from a chorus came from the front left of the room.

  “Please! Ladies and Gentlemen, do not let your emotions carry you away from our plans,” the party chairman stammered feeling his hold on the reins was already lost, and was chiding them for their rash change of mind.

  “Vote, vote, vote!” the chorus was growing.

  Feeling he had no more choice, Sergey Nicholaevich gave a nod to Dean Karamzin to conduct a vote in his capacity as chairman of the meeting.

  Above the low chatter and excitement, Karamzin’s voice boomed through the hall.

  “All in favour of the adoption of the third article of the manifesto as recommended by the committee to the members of the LFPNN, say ‘aye.’”

  The hall bloomed with a synchronised voice of contempt for the current system. There was no question that the majority was behind Strelyenko’s proposed manifesto.

  “And all those against, please,” Karamzin boomed.

  Only silence followed. I heard myself blink in the two seconds it took to count five contrary votes, one of which was Sergey Nicholaevich’s who meekly held his hand above his head.

  The third article passed. Sergey Nicholvaevich sat sullen with his head in hands, the victim of his own ambitions as the newly formed LFPNN set itself on a collision course for the rocks against which many Russian reformers had been smashed to pieces: corruption and criminals.

  “Peter, we really need to leave now!” Yulia stood up quickly to gather her coat and handbag.

  “Why? What’s the matter!” I whispered with some irritation.

  “You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. We could be expelled from school for being here and taking part in this,” she answered with a flash of fear in her eyes.

  “Yulia, I was invited by my professor. Of course I should be here,” I stammered in confusion.

  “What’s just happened here is very dangerous. Remember Peter, that it never is what it seems.” Yulia sat down again, but only on the edge of her chair ready still to leave without me if I wouldn’t go with her, “The party was allowed to organise but not for this reason. Didn’t you hear him say that? Look at him shaking there in his chair. He knows he’s in trouble. Russia may have elected a president, but the rest of the system is still rigged, Peter. Opposition is a sanctioned position in Russia. Opposition party leaders are hand picked to be irrelevant. Its a show, a production. Look what Yeltsin did to his challengers when they really decided to be an opposition.”

  “I think you’re going a bit far, Yulia. Please, you’re just still shook up from Bolshkova’s murder.” I tried to reason with her. She stood up and looked at me with daggers in her eyes and stormed out of the hall slamming the door behind her.

  I found Yulia outside on Minin Square alone at the bus stop in the snow but she would not speak to me.

  “What did I do to make you so mad at me?” I pleaded for an explanation. She would not reply. Her bus pulled up the curb but she didn't board it. She stood frozen as the bus pulled away toward the train station.

  We stood silent for a few moments and then she began a tirade that stung like a hot poker. “Do you think this is some sort of fun spectacle, Peter? Something for you to digest after dinner and something to write about for people back in America? This is the real thing, Peter. People are dying everyday while trying to live with dignity. What are you doing to help this besides watching with amusement? Why are you even here? What do you think you can do about it, or are you even going to try? You go back to your meeting of intellectuals and academics and go write your thesis about how horrible Russia is. Then you’ll disappear back to America like the dog who has eaten his fill and what good will it do us here? Nothing!”

  I stood shocked and speechless. A retort was pointless. She was beyond reasoning. Another bus heading someplace pulled up and she climbed on board and turned her back to me as she sat against the frosty window. I watched helplessly as the bus pulled away.

  Els greeted me at the door excusing her husband who could be overheard in his study talking animatedly on the telephone. Els discreetly pulled his door closed to prevent any eves dropping of a curious student’s ears and showed me into the living room. I took a seat on the couch and felt the weight of the world fall on my shoulders.

  “Well, you look like you
need a week on the Black Sea!” Els began.

  “Oh, anyplace I could see the sun would be welcome at this point,” I said with a disheartened sigh.

  “Are you finding the studies to more difficult than you thought it would be in Russian?” she suggested.

  “No, actually. The language is not a problem. What is really tough is an article I’ve committed to with the Dean of the department.” I sat up straight in the prospect of having a sympathetic ear listen to my problems.

  Els sympathized, “I was a bit sceptical, when you first mentioned it, that you wouldn’t find the needed materials here in Nizhniy. It may only be three hundred kilometers from Moscow, but it’s the provinces, it’s out of center, and as we all have come to learn, everything, and I mean everything and all power in this country comes from Moscow.”

  “Oh no, finding material is not my problem! What’s discouraging is what I am learning about Russia and the corruption that goes so high and so deep. The entire country is being hoodwinked by the politicians and the nouveau riche that there is going to be nothing left in ten more years. The party apparatchiks just changed the color of their ties from red to blue and now are rolling in the money, and making themselves and their new friends richer than yours and my wildest dreams!” I was a bit worked up now especially after Yulia’s damning accusations about me doing nothing and also just profiteering from the situation in my own way.

  “One of the most frustrating things that Del and I came up against working in Moscow for a few years was that the people in public service who were supposed to be neutral, those supposed to be there for helping to support the transition and development were the first with their hands in the cookie jar. Everybody had a hidden agenda. We didn’t know who we could trust,” Els was calm and philosophical about it, tempered by experience and exposure.

  “Yes! Every decision made on the national level about the privatization process has a back alley pay-off for a bureaucrat who is just in it for himself. There is no transparency…no justice…” I was feeling even more discouraged than when I started.