After storming English language heights for about a year, I landed a few interesting translating gigs that certainly expanded my horizons in the most remarkable fashion. None was as exotic and peculiar as my involvement with Action International Pictures (AIP) of Hollywood. Like a number of other engagements, this one came by the word of mouth in quite unpredictable circumstances.
By the fall of 1990, I had already had about six months of experience that span from the steep and picturesque mountain ranges of Western Ukraine to the plains of central Russia, to clean and well-furnished rooms of Moscow international hotels. On one of such trips, I happened to be in Moscow on a two-day beer run for my American brutes bidding their time in the small town lost near some primitive Ukrainian ski slopes. So while they monkey-wrenched their proudly made textile equipment at a local plant, I was sent to Moscow on a send-off expedition for one of the crew. Since navigating through the unilingual Soviet state was no fun to many a coddled westerner, the need for a cheap, friendly and trustworthy translator/friend was paramount. So when one needed to be met, entertained, escorted or dropped off yours truly was ready to provide all necessary human resources at a measly rate of $40USD per week.
This time was no different when Jimmy Lohutko from depths of central Vermont was to travel back home. Despite his very Ukrainian name and corresponding roots, Jimmy never got used to local customs and language. Apart from his newly found admiration for vodka, I had to navigate everything to the smallest logistics for my thirty something charge. Simply, he was completely unable to fend for himself on the “danger” infested streets of Moscow. At least this time his stay in the capital was limited to just one day and a bottle of vodka.
Having dropped my precious cargo at the Sheremetyevo Airport, the only thing left was to buy a couple of cases of western beer and hook up with my best friend Misha who also happened to be in Moscow on some business outing of his own. My train back to Ukraine was not to depart for another day, and as my sleeping arrangements were a little dicey, Misha suggested dropping by his always welcoming friend Vladimir.
Vladimir
Right from the get go this diminutive and skinny bold type of about fifteen years us senior attracted me by his very interesting and unusual story that started with him opening the door leading to his lush Moscow pad. At that moment his head appeared to be awkwardly pitched to the right. Unable to account for this inconvenience, I made first few careful steps inside, only to realise that the object that pitched Volodya’s head was just a telephone that seemed to engage nearly full attention of our host. Everything seemed normal except an apparent absence of a customary coiling cord. I felt as struck by lightning – this was the first time I was gazing at the amazing achievement of western technology – a cordless phone!
Having hardly recovered from the initial shock, we proceeded to his opulent kitchen that apart from a bare and imposing fridge also boasted an interesting white plastic contraption that reminded me of a tape recorder. Much to my amusement, this slim-line puzzling implement turned out to be a part of the cordless phone arrangement and it was called the answering machine. For the first few minutes I was stuck in my absolute awe. Misha was just about to go on a manual shut-down scheme for my gaping mouth, as Vladimir managed to bring me back to my senses by explaining the general mechanics of this space-age material.
Russians of course, being still captive creatures of communism that had deprived them of the latest in consumer goods, treated this innovation with polite deference by refusing to leave messages. Despite all Vladimir’s efforts, hardly any of his acquaintances managed to get used to the idea even in the relatively cosmopolitan Moscow. No matter, his western friends surely seemed to appreciate such unusual technological prowess giving Vladimir some clear advantages against less advanced business rivals. In fact, despite all perennial claims to modernization, even today’s ex-Soviets overwhelmingly shy away from the art of voice mail. Even my technologically astute friends who routinely carry on glued to their cell phones typically ignore the convenience of answering machines while boasting digital cameras and internet savvy you would not believe. There must be something really deep in the Russian soul that detests to be rebuffed by decidedly electronic alternative instead of a live voice.
Back at Vladimir’s, we quickly discovered during a customary tea that we were welcome to stake out a place on the living room floor, as one of his two bedrooms was to be occupied by two British cinematographers on the prowl for exotics of the dying communist era. Few minutes later, the door bell announced the arrival of these two slim, youngish and very inquisitive dudes brandishing posh southern English accent. Dressed in well worn out jeans and lugging their heavy cinematic contraptions, they were excited to share stories of another busy day in the Soviet capital.
Vladimir’s initial attempts at translating for Misha’s sake revealed some considerable gaps in his foreign language education giving me an opportunity to strut my stuff. This was much to the delight of the English who were able to relate their stories at much faster clip than ever before. These stories covered not only my own vast motherland from sea to sea but also managed to reveal excellent knowledge of other interesting geographic locales that included Africa, parts of Asia and at least forty states of the US of A. I was fascinated by all these itineraries and especially by the land of the promise itself. Of course, being British, these dudes were somewhat deprived of insight into the tortured Soviet soul longing for fame and riches. Nevertheless their stories stirred many emotions in my small, egotistic and greedy heart. I was ready for adventure and personal success so readily available under the aegis of “personal responsibility” and dismissal of status quo pioneered by the brave heroes of the time – Ronald Regan and Margaret Thatcher.
Well, the adventure did not wait to arrive on the scene, as having tested my translating skills Vladimir expressed a strong interest in my candidacy for the purposes of entertaining his Hollywood partner named David Winters.
As it turned out, being an unattached free-lance artist on the melting and yet still holding Soviet scene, Vladimir detested anything regular - work and girlfriends included. When the latter seemed to change at will almost on a daily basis, the former required real entrepreneurial efforts of which Volodya was full of. He typically preferred to work paired up with other entrepreneurial types who detested drudgery of 9-to-5 with no less fervour. And since Vladimir was not a properly documented citizen of the cosmopolitan capital, he had to forever contend with inconveniences of the internal Soviet passport regime (by the way his official passport stamp forever consigned our fearless friend to much less productive steeps of Ukraine).
In order to pull through some of his non-resident schemes, he preferred working with energetic and well documented Muscovites. Here Yuri with his expansive taste, aplomb and size came in quite handy. The two joined arms back in the dark years preceding Perestroika. At first, the unlikely pair - one, short and slim, the other, tall and huge - existed on the edge of current legalities by pushing electronics on the black market. The venture was profitable enough not only to feed the two but also to allow time for some sideshows. One of these, apart from women of course, was a knack for photography that Vladimir parleyed not only in a small commercial venture but also used as bait for all female lovers of adventure mixed with large imposing foreign cameras.
Once Perestroika kicked in the full gear, the two acquired more legitimate taste and more money. So much so that Yuri was now able in indulge in his passion for Italian shoes of which he required many as they usually wore out pretty quickly - labouring for days under his 300-pound frame was not an easy task. Vladimir, on the other hand, decided to expend his new budget on a plush apartment and dreams of a future movie mogul. Photography, after all, was a still art – make it move and you could end up with some serious dough.
Action International Pictures
Fortunately, Vladimir was not the only one thinking that way. In fact, the new Soviet reality attracted many a wily Westerner looking for some extra glory and cash. Many came with some particular projects in mind, well-equipped with contacts, translators and pens ready to sign any Soviet form thrown their way. Other came on a fly just to assess the situation. They usually had rather broad schemes of teaching stupefied communists the righteous ways of Capitalism. They came open, unprepared and even vulnerable at times. David Winters was one of these types. However, unlike most of his sojourners, he considered it a pure leisure. He did not care if he lost, he had already acquired a decent degree of notoriety and money in America, and if anything ever worked out in Russia it would be just gravy over his daily French cheeses and Beluga caviar.
Born in New York in the late thirties, this very Jewish descendant of very Jewish parents turned out to have a number of artful talents earlier in this live path. Taking up dancing and signing was a very natural and fluid thing to do. Growing up just within minutes from glorious Broadway could only improve the matters. The success did not have to wait long, as our fiery redhead landed a number of some minor parts in the limelight. The real break came in 1958 when David grabbed a major part in the West Side Story, a true Mega Blockbuster! From then on he became known as David Winters of the West Side Story, sort of like Luis XIV the Bourbon or Nikolas II the Romanov. Now he had his pickings of the Broadway crop – dancing, signing and acting his way into obscurity, as many have done before him. Unlike many though David was very astute young man who realised early on that another blockbuster was not really forthcoming and he needed to do something else not just to stay noticed but also make money, a lot of it preferably.
Consequently, David decided to tap deeper into his business talents that he also had in abundance, as evidenced by his pre-eminent skills in organising illegal gambling parties back in more careless pre-West Side Story days. Then young David greased his short stubby fingers with a percentage take of anything gambled in his nice Upper West Side apartment fully stocked with booze, snacks and pretty girls. He was so successful at it that he boasted to make more money in one night than his father, an engineer, made in a week. David really knew how to get hold of some dough.
Now at the sunset of his acting career, our bolding redhead decided to recall his youth and money making talents. In short, he became a Broadway/Hollywood impresario, working behind the scenes for many a famous singer and actor. Money was great, especially since now instead of a union salary he could collect agent’s commissions. Minting money and glory, all at the same time was definitely his forte. The pinnacle of his career arrived sometime in the mid-seventies when he acted as a producer for Diana Ross of indomitable Supremes. “Then I was really rich” he would say, sucking on his thick Cuban cigar while adjusting his diamond-studded Cartier watch.
Later on in 80s, his fortunes changed direction as he switched to producing movies instead of shows and concerts. He moved to Hollywood, fearlessly plunging himself into the murky world of B-movies and C-invitation lists. His friendships with many greats such as Kirk Douglas, David Prior and David Carradine produced much in a way of good references, technical know-how and personal favours. Teaming up with yet another ageing agent, he formed AIP (Action International Pictures) in the mid 1980s. By now plump and balding David was on his umpteenth marriage equipped with a young kid, a new five million dollar Beverly Hills digs and a shiny Rolls Roys. All these things ate money and a lot of it. AIP met his needs in abundance. He produced his movies on the tightest of budgets, stuffed with a lot of guns, violence and predictabilities enough to meet a 90-minute couch potato format.
Although his movies rarely made to the big screen his lifestyle was splendidly maintained by video releases designed for the biggest of movie freaks. David, with his rarefied tastes for Cannes and Milan, rarely watched his movies. It was not his bag and he did not make any bones about it. Besides, due to his wife’s interdiction his movies left no room for bare breasts, let alone wonton sex scenes, thus leaving his high artistic claim to beautiful women high and dry. Instead, he preferred opera, open air concerts, and discrete and perhaps numerous affairs.
Everything was rolling smoothly except David’s restless spirit longed for more adventure than stagnant Hollywood scene could provide. Fortunately, Gorbachev announced Perestroika, Glasnost and a new way to make money in the vast reaches of the uncivilized Soviet Empire. The time for a little on-screen violence was certainly in order, as starved for action masses were about to flock to theatres after years of sugar-coated Communist dreams, the ones typically portrayed by soft and thoughtful drama pieces drastically lacking guns and stilettos. Moreover, having seen much of the world where they offered five star accommodations, David was ready for more especially after hearing that Moscow boasted a couple of first rate hotels and many a pretty girl in a short skirt.
Invasion
To test his presumptions David first showed up at the Riga International Movie Festival. Being a rather low-key and low-class affair when compared with the best of them, this one, after years of moribund existence, offered a breath of fresh air and enthusiasm. Now, David needed someone useful to enter into the convoluted world of Soviet Kino and entrepreneurial Vladimir could not have come nay handier. He, despite his cheap summer trousers, orphan looking sandals and bad English, offered a good deal of help with some very useful connections with old Soviet movie officials and new up-and-coming independents. They struck their partnership deal quickly and painlessly by forming AIP Russia. The purpose of the venture was of course to distribute David’s movies and beef up his bragging rights. When hired as a newly baked translation help, right away I was plugged into their first large success – “Space Mutiny”.
This latest edition of AIP boasted two interesting features – its low budget (just around $200K) and its phenomenal space fight effects bolstered by glossy promotional brochures, the rest was complete garbage. In fact, had it not been for the space effects, it would have never sold even in the entertainment crazy Los Angeles. How did he do it? The simple truth was that he personally knew George Lucas whom he talked into selling Star Wars space fight footage for a mere $25K for one-time use. I guess that the space between true blockbusters like Star Wars and David’s low budget features was as wide of that between Prada and Wal-Mart, so direct competition was not in question. As far as to the financial success, David’s undertakings usually delivered much fatter margins and although these measured in hundreds of thousands instead of millions who could really complain. In fact, Mr. Winters and Co might have actually made close to a million from Space Mutiny alone. The sale to the Soviet Kino delivered an equivalent of another $100K, all delivered in freshly printed roubles.
Oasis
Most of the hotels I had ever seen in my life were opulent enough just to offer a functioning toilet and a sink plus a creaking old metal mesh bed to boot. Moscow had those in abundance with most serving Party functionaries and regional industrial leaders on business junkets to the holy altar of power. These places usually offered little outside of sour front desk attendants, buckwheat for breakfast and one roll of rough toilet paper per night. The usage of the latter usually felt very similar to a prostate examination.
Foreign visitors to the capital usually deserved better fate assuaged by such classics as Metropol and Ukraine alongside newer and more streamlined Cosmos and Inturist. With doorways filled by Marlborough smoke and spills of Heineken, these served very well for the likes of my other middle class friends with picket-fenced houses and used Cutlasses in the driveway. Well, Mr. Winters was not quite used to such roughness; his acute sense of belonging could only take him to the International Trade Centre, the best and the poshest the mother Russia could produce. The place was heavily guarded, offered a variety of glitzy hard currency shops and had an incredible lobby with transparent space-like elevators briskly sliding up and down its multi-story edifice. I was totally and utterly mesmerised when visiting the place for the first time on company credit card with my Vermont types. Now I was almost a client!
Being let in my suspiciously cheap suit was a bonus in addition to meeting the richest man I ever laid my eyes on, at least outwardly so. He was short, chubby and bristled with all sort of exquisite jewellery gleaming off his silk suit and shoes made of crocodile skin. In fact, David had a thing for crocodiles, as not only his shoes but his entire luggage and manly accessory set were of first rate African crocodile skin – hardly anyone worked harder to rid the Earth of the creeping creatures. When extending my hand for a perfunctory handshake I also noticed his very soft and well-manicured fingers that never handled anything heavier than a phone receiver.
“Oh, so you are going to be our translator, huh?” – He managed to squeeze barely bothering to register my presence. “Yes, Mr. Winters, I will be a privilege to help with whatever I can”. The upright response in less usually accented English almost startled David sending him backwards in a miniature dance step – “ah, you speak very good English”. Well that set the tone just right and honourable Mr. Winters accepted me as a rightful member of the AIP society. With the passage of time, the relationship, although mostly that of master-servant nature only got better especially since I passed the “misplaced money” test. This typically consisted of a few thoughtfully “misplaced” hundred dollar bills strewn around the place. If one was not overcome with the temptation he could be trusted with more - almost biblical really. All, Yuri, Vladimir and I, passed it with flying colours and were inducted into the tight circle of action pictures. But not tight enough to provide for much personal space as possible as David usually rented two adjacent rooms at $400 each per night. One simply would not fit his ample nature striving for some intimacy given his penchant for women, Russian women.
Stand Back 007
Of these he had many ably supplied by dutiful Yuri and Vladimir. It was actually quite an exercise, considering that David’s inclinations for free and adulterated love did not include monetary exchanges – Mr. Winters prided himself in having enough charm to seduce a woman without payment. All of it was of course a bit self-deceiving, to say the least, since buying some well-priced clothes and scrumptious dinners sometimes sufficed to obtain help in the desperate economic seas. David being a creative entertainment man interchanged his patterns ranging from the dual act of Tanya and Marina to the wholesome Svetlana who would usually stay for days. Given this tight schedule, we sometimes had to wait in another room serving as an office for matters less pressing such as selling movies. Whatever happened on the other side was extremely tantalizing especially given the fact that hardly any of the babes, with the exception of Marina, spoke English. I was there of course to help with shopping and dinner menus but when it came to matters less obvious David was as multilingual as they came.
Daily Travails
Predictably, our daily schedule rotated around anything David wanted to do around the capital. Unfortunately, his very energetic and well rounded personality possessed energy in excess and required hardly any sleep – five to six hours max plus self-preening time that he took very seriously. The rest of the time, we had to attend to his whims and fancies. Since Vladimir and Yuri usually spent their nights at home, their lot was slightly easier with some allowance to fall below the radar at times. Mine on the other hand was the most pitiful - I essentially played a live-in personal assistant who occupied the office room next door, always ready to wag the tail for the master. But who could complain with wages running at $100USD per week. The only wrinkle was that my wardrobe consisted of exactly one suit, one tie, one shirt and a couple of underwear numbers. So to keep up with crocodile shoes I had to do my daily laundry in the shower - luckily five star supply of soap was plentiful. Freshly laundered and ironed I was ready to serve breakfast to my famished master. The latter was not much of a task since Mr. AIP essentially ate three things – white bread, butter and expensive varieties of international cheeses. He stayed away from meat, did not drink alcohol and eschewed coffee. Simply he was on a healthy plan to clogged arteries. After all if you are planning to drop dead of heart decease why not do in expensive and clean fashion as opposed of clouding you brain with two packs of smokes per day. Mind you that while abhorring cigarettes, David did on occasion stick in a very thick cigar – mostly to show off rather than pollute his pristine LA lungs though.
Food, of course, did not cease to be on the agenda after the breakfast jaw warm-up. With lunch mostly skipped, we had to pay particular attention of what to do for dinner. Considering the dearth of top notch culinary entertainment in the Soviet times, the newly sprouting choices were still limited to just a few in the closing years of Perestroika.
One was TrentMos Steakhouse - the joint venture between someone from Trenton, New Jersey and someone else from Moscow – hence the name. The dual nature of the place did not stop there, as it had two parts – one charging roubles and the other dollars. The rouble prices when translated through the prism of the street exchange were much lower than the dollar section. Explicably, the rouble part was always bustling and super busy with reservations having to be made far in advance, while dollar side was much less stressful and chaotic, offering peace, calm and general culinary happiness to the monetary unconcerned. Being the newly baked rouble multi-millionaire, Mr. Winters loved to entertain on the rouble side. Who cares if the steak might have been a bit tougher and salad less fluffy – Mr. Cheese did not eat either anyway, while keeping his dollars intact.
On one memorable occasion, I had my first Italian pasta at the very sheikh dig called Arlechino. To be honest I was completely unprepared for a macaroni type of meal, as word pasta in Russian means something like cream that could be squeezed out of a bottle. So when Vladimir announced that tonight our super-stretched governmental limo (ZIL) would take us to eat pasta, I was ready to receive a plate with something decidedly squirted on it. Instead, we got delicious macaroni smothered in tantalizingly scrumptious pesto sauce that tasted nothing like home cooking that usually resorted to a simple slab of butter and nothing else. No wonder, macaroni is hardly a favourite dish in Russian households.
Apart from these two, I also got my first stab at French and Chinese cuisines. The first came at an atrocious price tab of over $100USD per person and a dainty dish of delicious frogs, while the other boasted much more plentiful dishes crowned with fish heads and other accoutrements of anything exotic. I could hardly believe my good and paid-for fortune. I could only imagine what the rest of it looked like, over there across the ocean.
Gambling Wakes
Apart from women and good quality food, David liked nothing better to do than gamble. In those days, the entertainment was reserved exclusively for the well to do. So when one speaks of casinos of late Soviet Russia think of nothing else but the best of Monte Carlo. Just imagine beautiful Corinthian columns adoring the monumental classic visage of Bolshoy Theatre – this was exactly the look of the establishment appropriately christened Hippodrome. Its primary purpose, of course, had been to pacify restless public with horse drawn carriage races – a mild form of officially allowed gambling in more stolid years of Brezhnev’s regime. However, with Perestroika and such, its entrepreneurial management sniffed the changing tides and converted the main building into a gorgeous palace of all things nocturnal.
The already striking edifice was artfully lit by projector lights to create a harlot-like aura of invisibility and higher purpose, plus the very entrance fee of $20USD (a small fortune to most) kept it unassailable to lower classes. Our cortège consisting of at least one super stretched limo usually got a friendly reception and even a couple of smiles – service unheard of in this neck of the woods. Having bought us all entrance tickets David usually stuck in his thick and very threatening Cuban cigar and proceeded to gamble away his $1000USD per night self-imposed limit. We were usually left us to our own devices with $20USD worth of chips. Nearly overcome by gaudy baroque themes adoring every inch of walls and ceiling, I usually trailed behind into the gambling hall to observe our master in action.
The only game he ever played was blackjack - the best odds against any house, even a Russian one. His nonchalant manner with which he usually started high stakes game, his ability not to betray emotions and almost stoic attitude to loses, were remarkable for someone like me who was still learning the game of life. However nothing brought him more joy than winning. Once, feeling particularly lucky, we had to persist among plush carpets and lush paintings until 5AM. The net result of the sleepless night was a win of $2,000USD – you wouldn’t have seen a happier kid who just happened to get his hands a Christmas train.
My fortunes were notably less conspicuous. In fact, after trying and promptly losing my luck on the blackjack table I was quickly attracted to another game – the Roulette. With its much less educated guesses and slimmer odds, this one was usually attracted less knowledgeable players. It also attracted me, appealing with its especially low-risk low-reward opportunities so dear to my conservative heart.
While unnervingly blind ball rattles to find its target among thirty six numbers and zero, everyone is trying to predict its final destination. Before the ball finally finds its resting spot, you can place your bet anywhere from individual numbers to whole dozens, of which there are three. If placing your bet on two dozens simultaneously, your odds of winning are 66% and your reward, if lucky, in thrice the bet. So placing two chips on two different dozens one can either lose them both or win three, a fifty percent return. I observed, brooded and decided to play odds with some degree of “intelligence”. Placing my fate in to the statistically independent outcomes of each roll, the idea of each particular dozen hitting three times in a row struck me as rare and improbable. Consequently, I placed my bets on two dozens that missed two previous consecutive times. With no statistical justification I was betting on cosmic luck… Lo and behold, I parlayed my first twenty dollars into sixty – a great side business. In a couple of days I made another twenty – life was turning out really sweet. I was on the roll!
Well, I did not win every time and on one such unfortunate night after losing my $20 self-imposed limit, I started aimlessly wondering from one table to the next, observing more fortunate in this world of action. Suddenly, the hush fell over the whole place. Even the most cold-blooded and experienced warriors interrupted their games, the Roulette balls stopped rolling and “Crash!” a waitress dropped a tray with drinks on the ornate hardwood floor – those champagne glasses did not have a chance splitting into crystal shower. All heads were turned to the table reserved for better times and no wonder since the minimum bet there was at least few hundred dollars. Predictably in these early days of Russian capitalism, it stood mostly empty with very few willing to bet real fortunes.
All eyes, including David’s, stared at two swarthy looking customers surrounded by mounds of chips amounting to something close to $45K. I had never seen or imagined such a sum – seeing anybody putting it at play was more thrilling than any Disney ride. Mesmerised and barely able to hold my eyeballs back from bulging, I stood and watched the true spectacle. The first question was who these guys were. Wearing slick and flashy silver polyester suits, they clearly did not belong to the ranks of Buffet and Co. Being dark skinned but not engulfed in some billowing white robes certainly disqualified any claims to their Arab sheikh-hood. They did not use English and had two buxom blonds on their side – an unmistakable sign of citrus kings from the south – Georgia, Armenia or something like that.
We, people to the north, always envied these southern raiders who brought fresh citrus fruit and flowers for sale in less hospitable north. We envied their better tanned backs, sharper, almost middle-eastern, features and, of course, money commanded for their unique and always highly marketable products. They all had cars, dachas and other accoutrements of good life. Some of us with more creative sense of envy and sarcasm spawned plethora of jokes ruthlessly dealing with our southern brothers. In reality, deep down, we all wanted to be like them. But never in wildest dreams could I have envisioned any Georgian betting $45K in one go. This was after all a market equivalent of 700,000 roubles and my mother, the teacher, made only 4,000 of these in a year.
Everyone pretended to go independently about their gambling business, in reality everyone was watching. When these guys went up by $40K I thought they would break the house – surprisingly, the managers and croupier remained calm. When they went down by $20K, I feared the place would erupt in a scene of undoubtedly Caucasian variety. Nothing… After a couple of ours, our friends decided to roll on after losing a “measly” $10K, no scene, no obscenities, instead a completely professional demeanour accompanied by graceful and passionless retreat – they definitely had much more where this came from. Wow, forget about Mr. West Side Story, this was as close to 007 I had ever come to. The mystery remained, never to be discovered had it not been for industrious Vladimir who approached the matter from completely different angle – women.
He, instead of gaping at the mounds of chips and accompanying odds, concentrated on these guys’ lightly dressed companions. Befriending weaker sex was Vladimir’s strongest suit. After buying them a couple of drinks he not only found out their names but also learned about their well-heeled companions. A very useful lesson, as these dark skin specimens turned out to be only remotely related to the peaceful citrus growers. Instead their real occupation was banditry. Banded together with some of similar ilk, many criminally inclined minds were exploiting the fruits of Perestroika from the backdoor. Instead of directly exploitation of chances and people, they exploited the exploiters by extorting protection money. The victims, frequently enjoyed somewhat illicit gains, hardly had any recourse to authorities. As a result, they either complied or hired thugs of their own. With weapons and attitude bristling from the every corner, this late Soviet period was a particular violent one and many successful gangsters and racketeers made incredible amounts of money. After the fall of the Union, the matters only got worse when Moscow and other moneyed locales turned into some of the most violent places of Earth, as has been reported by the western press. This time usually gullible likes of CNN proved to be correct…
Busy Business
When it came to actual business, the things were going just swimmingly. You see, Soviet society had been long cocooned by lack of violence, sex and other ills that tend to beset other, more liberalised, societies. With Perestroika and Glasnost, we, as people, realised that we could too partake in all things depraved. No need for extra sensitivities embedded in standard Hollywood classics that had been screened in our closed society in the years past. We needed more, and more we got with AIP product filling the bill just perfectly – after its features were cheap, violent and came in colour unlike thousands of greyish VHS bootlegs that invaded the entertainment market. Bootlegs came as a courtesy of a couple of underground production gigs that seemed to use the same monotone translator voice that did not change its pitch between hush love scenes and evoking scenes of monumental battles. These were obviously attractive but cheap accessibility of the big screen was still a heavy draw, especially when priced in ever disappearing roubles.
After a successful sale of rights to the Sci-Fi “blockbuster” Space Mutiny for a tidy sum of two million roubles, David was ready for more action with Rosskino (Russian Film Authority). Unapproachable during the times of Cold War, these folks in crumpled grey polyester suits wanted to live out their lives to the fullest like anybody else. As such, some were prone to inducing gifts of gratitude as others plunged into the double-dipping game so well known for its role in fostering current Russian oligarchs. What they did was as simple as it was unethical. In their capacity as granters of contracts to outside parties, they also set-up their own contracting companies to channel their transactions. The only purpose of these companies was to create another middle man to sheer off commissions of every rouble, dollar and penny. The rest was the matter of mechanics. Once you are in, as Mr. Winters and Vladimir, you just kept coming back to the same people for more. As long as you had a product worthy of market demands, everything was as simple as a bowl of semolina.
Despite its very dubious claims to artistic quality, Space Mutiny enjoyed the grandest of openings. The venue was one of the most prominent and largest theatres on Pushkin Square in the middle of town. The advertising was glossy and slick. The crowds were formidable and we almost had to fight our way to the assigned seats in the front. David was all effulgent smiles with a buxom blonde casually slung over his Cartier adorned hand. The whole crew, Yuri, Vladimir and yours truly, were in tow. It almost felt like a royal procession with obsequious local authorities paying homage to the genius of the American conquest. I felt proud, haughty and a little sad for a couple of thousand of folks wasting their time and money on David’s chez-d’oeuvre. Fortunately, the initial introductory speeches were mercifully short and we left the first chance we got. David did not have a slightest of inkling to stay behind and enjoy his handy work one more time.
Hot Rod
The time was of the essence and we needed to sell few more features. One of them, Fire Head with David Prior, promised to be a real fiery thriller. David had just brought it to feature as the most prominent item on his display during the Moscow Film Festival of 1991. The glossy stand was the most impressive, easily vanquishing anything else in one mile radius. David was invincible in his silk and crocodile wear, thick cigar and a general sense of palpable success. This summer visit was his longest and the most entertaining. Instead of a regular ZIL super-stretch, he managed to snag a coup of the summer by leasing a red ZIL convertible, the only single one available in the whole of Moscow. This red hot specimen of a car was built for Brezhnev’s personal use twenty years earlier. Equipped with everything the most powerful including a sixteen-cylinder Rolls Royce engine, this car had no equals. Upholstered in everything the finest, this beast boasted something I had never seen before – an automatic transmission. This contraption and car’s amazing ability to accelerate despite its very heavy frame made me slightly envious of the late Secretary General. Not that I particularly craved his current permanent address by the Mausoleum, but rather his lifestyle used to be remarkable. Apparently, the man was fond of fast driving so instead of racing on some speedway, Soviet authorities used to close long tracks of highways so the beloved leader could indulge his passion for all things racy. Now, it was our turn to enjoy the supercharged beast minus private use of highways, of course. Such audacity would require a massive bribe so we had to wait for the time of first Russian oligarchs of the mid 90s.
Red ZIL made a great splash just about anywhere we went. Women, of course, fell first under the charms of Vladimir’s almost innocent smile duly buttressed by many glistening Cartier diamonds and other tools of apparent potency and power. The next were photographers who attended the Film Festival. Few of them loved to linger around our booth and snap pictures of American novelties. One of such photographs depicting David enjoying one of his huge and very Cuban cigars survived longer than necessary in some photo archives, as it managed its way all the way into the New York press three years later. Just imagine my surprising delight at serendipity when I cracked open the New York based “Russian Word” chasing some article on Russian Nuveaux Riches only to discover David’s very visage on the centre fold. Sort of ironic that very American Mr. Winters finally made it as a stand-in for the likes of Khodorkovsky, Berezovsky and Co. They are all Jews after all…
The power of the red beast was so mesmerising that even Soviet film functionaries left impressed by the waxing job that shone all over its fiery carcass. We could seemingly open any doors, windows and other crevasses of the unyielding system immersed in monumental structural changes. Getting a meeting with deputy minister of culture was not a problem any longer. Being American, independent and crocodile-clad was definitely a huge boon. David’s empire was no longer selling just films; it sold ideas and other capitalist junk. We were about to move on some joint ventures to run movie theatres, sell videos and arrange for other things hardly related to the film industry. Hand-shakes, nods and smiles waited for us just around any corner. David was offered anything from apartments at fire sale prices to warehouses – just about anything threatened to be privatized. After generations of strictly prescriptive communism, so many felt overcome by the opportunity for quick gain that suddenly every Ivan and Kolya were ready to trade, sell and exploit. The state had exploited us since time immemorial, now all of us were capitalists ready to pillage mom’s piggy bank.
Banking – Soviet Style
In those heady times I was having hard time keeping my head straight. What happened in everyone else’s was even more difficult to tell. All opportunities lied bare to those who dared. Around David it was particularly dizzy since he seemed to have every rouble in the whole white world in his bank account. And herein lied a hack of a problem. The hydra had at least two heads that our fearless leader had to deal with. Unlike transparent western currency regime wherein any money on your account could be easily transferred in respective amount of ready cash, the Soviet system had two completely different notions of money.
One dealt with what the state actually printed and put in one’s pocket to procure the basics of life. The state issued these quiet freely by running many of its printing presses extra time. They had to do it since the burdens of military complex and realities of economic stagnation were on the head-on collision course that could only be partially resolved by limited Soviet excess to foreign debt. The rest was borrowed from the likes of you and I. Some of it, of course, came in a form of formal debt obligations. However, majority was borrowed through creeping inflation helped alone by ever-larger issuances of paper money. Every year one seemed to receive salary that could buy less than in the previous year. Everyone noticed but not many openly complained. After all many of our basic necessities – housing, health care and even transportation were essentially free.
Since every Soviet enterprise, although state controlled, had its own accountabilities, it had to deal with all other similar counterparties, such as suppliers and buyers, in a like manner. Through the years of clandestine inflation, many a factory or a trading coop producing much needed consumer goods accumulated ever larger notional amounts of money on their accounts. The phenomenon occurred when “cheap” industrial resources were converted into “dear” consumer goods. This accumulation of “funds” really skyrocketed in the late eighties. Consumer goods were getting ever scarce and more expensive, while labour and basic resources, subsidized by the state, were not priced accordingly. Just to remember one anecdote - in the 1990 one could fly a round trip of 1,200 kilometres’ between my home town and Moscow for mere $3USD. And yet you could not even buy a pair of cheap Soviet shoes for this amount. Go figure.
The state managers recognized earlier on the real danger of these account surpluses. If one ever allowed full conversion of such funds into cash instruments, the creeping inflation would cascade into unpredictable gallop of impending collapse. People in Kremlin would not countenance such a transformation by placing numerous and Byzantine restrictions on so called non-cash bank accounts whereby restricting uncontrolled creation of cash. This in turn spawned a whole new private “banking” industry, whose only Raison d’Etre was not to accept deposits and issue loans, but to convert non-cash amounts into wads of ready roubles through a variety of marginal schemes. Of course, they took commissions and other charges making non-cash deposits unequal in value to cash. Say, one had 100 roubles on one of these accounts. If the person wanted to get cash, he probably could not count on any more than 70 in ready cash.
Now, what did any of it have to do with AIP? Everything! The millions of roubles that David received for his creations were paid precisely in such non-cashable funds. Officially he could convert only small portions of the funds into ready cash. The rest required a wily banker.
David loved cash and quickly understood that leaving some on the table was inevitable in order to get any. A succession of slick “red” bankers appeared at our door offering a plethora of rouble conversion options. After a few interviews, David and Co. opted for an imposing figure hailing from the Venice of the North – Leonid. His bear-like frame firmly secured in the latest western pinstripes culminated in an impressive set of square jaws pulled in by an unlikely warm and trusty smile. You could not find a better banker – toll, secure and approachable. The job was firmly his minus some complicated legal matters that required further papering.
Translating Rivalry
Now I had to perform a legal written translation – something I had never done before. It was not a time to falter so I pretended and played alone. The only shining example to lead me through the impenetrable darkness of the Soviet law was Igor. Employed by a powerful independent Russian film distributor he featured prominently on their roster of talent. He was involved in numerous business dealings with AIP and intimately understood all necessary ins and outs better than most. Educated in the best traditions of Moscow intelligentsia, he spoke nearly flawless English, possessed a great deal of youthful charm and was fully equipped with all possible legal translation tricks. Usually on top of the most translating colleagues I met, Igor really gave me a ride for my money. When it came to legal translations, the only thing was to keep up and emulate.
I plunged into the dictionaries, Igor’s previous written translations and any other piece of material I could get my hands on. When banker Leonid showed up on the AIP doorstep, my time to try newly acquired skills had come. Fully cognizant of potential screw-ups I peppered every inch of paper with all sorts of “whereby-s”, “herein-s” and “heretofore-s”. I thought that thick enough layer of such gobbledygook will cover any potentially grievous mistakes. In addition, I hoped to impress David with my English even further.
“What is s…t, I can’t understand any of it” – was his first and alas only reaction. My heart dropped below my knees. It turned out that despite all the money and lawyering in the world, Broadway did not really prepare people of varying professional success for dry-bone legalese. Quite the contrary, American business preferred a vocabulary of two-year olds. “Buy-s”, “Sell-s” and “Made-s” did not require their complicated and obstreperous cousins in the least. Those purely literary terms were banished to the obscurity of NY Times book review pages. People who made money for living did not have any time or patience for any things Shakespearian. Now with my “vast” vocabulary deprecated, I had to re-write lengthy contractual treatises while cursing that slick well-coiffed Igor.
Back to Money
At long last, with all T’s crossed and all I’s dotted, David had a place to park his mounds of roubles. Now we needed to deal with the second hydra’s head – currency exchange. On this account David remained inexplicably intransigent – he did not want to convert. I guess converting millions (roubles) into hundreds of thousands (dollars) was not nearly as inspiring as the other way around.
No amount of persuasion and no inflation scares could move Mr. Winters to accept the fact that hard earned roubles could quickly (as they did) turn into a pile of unattractive wallpaper. He relished his status of a Russian multi-millionaire and rouble possession was its key attribute. Besides, David already had a pile of dollars – watching it grow was a slow and boring process. With roubles on the other hand the pile was large and increasing almost exponentially.
With all this in mind our banker, Vladimir and Yuri had to drum a final retreat. The roubles went to St. Petersburg, Leonid’s base, and we went on our merry way carousing in the best habits of people who lived exclusively for today.
Last Visit
My last piece of work for Mr. Winters came in the short late autumn days of 1991. Then the sun could hardly fight through the thick fog and drizzle, everyone around looked either preoccupied or downright depressed. No wonder since life outside was taking some wild turns with hardly anyone feeling assurances of bread and butter for tomorrow’s breakfast.
Mr. Gorbachev, having returned to Moscow after the humiliating arrest at the hands of 1991 Putsch conspirators, was now fighting for his political life and that of the whole country, the one I was born in anyway. Having apparently lost the pissed-off Baltics, he was desperately trying to keep the falling ship together by forging a new Union with remaining republics. He was trashing about like a fish on ice trying to accomplish a monumental task. His Putsch saviour and long-term political foe Mr. Yeltsin was pulling all stops on his way to become the only unquestionable ruler of all Russians. This could only happen if Union was dissolved and Gorbachev stood down. The Union did not seem to matter and everyone was feeling queasy.
The country was rapidly leaving warm and cuddly bosom of state socialism on its way to an indomitable free market juggernaut. Yeltsin could not resist the temptation of new challenges as long as his daily vodka supply went uninterrupted. His right wing political advisors clued in and the people on the street clued out. The upcoming winter was not only going to be cold and inhospitable in the best of Siberian traditions, it was also going to be a beginning of an age of economic and political misery still brightly reverberating through the former colossus.
All these external pleasantries were weighing on just about anybody inside. On the outside many were still celebrating the fall of communism and other bland propaganda concoctions; on the inside was a different matter. Even David was not an exception. Being an unadulterated and egotistic fortune hunter he could not resist exploiting the new climate. Forget about the movies – other things were in sight.
After placing a self-congratulatory ad in the Hollywood Reporter following the late summer Putsch, he embarked on a small PR campaign to channel all sorts of business interests through his persona. Having a considerable amount of recognition and notoriety, he was now receiving offers of transplanting American dream on the bereft Russian soil. Without knowing as many as ten words in Russian, he now qualified as a full-blown Russian expert with money, connections and political influence. All of it was, of course, a mirage but he did not think so. It could not have been any other way for Mr. West Side Story – the sweet capitalism was swiftly advancing and he was carrying the flag at the head of the column heading into nowhere.
Triumphal Entry
Arriving in Moscow with British Airways even with his first class ticket was not going to cut through huge, smoky and sweaty customs line-ups that usually beset stern Soviet officials. Plotting in advance, he declared himself disabled and in a need of a wheel-chair which was promptly provided by dutiful British Airways staff. On the other end in Moscow, his luck did not run out as they managed to round up probably the only wheel-chair available in the whole of Sheremetyevo. Few minutes later, our conquering hero cleared the proverbial (although rusty) Iron Curtain and fell safely into the hands of his effulgent undertakers.
By the fall of 1990, I had already had about six months of experience that span from the steep and picturesque mountain ranges of Western Ukraine to the plains of central Russia, to clean and well-furnished rooms of Moscow international hotels. On one of such trips, I happened to be in Moscow on a two-day beer run for my American brutes bidding their time in the small town lost near some primitive Ukrainian ski slopes. So while they monkey-wrenched their proudly made textile equipment at a local plant, I was sent to Moscow on a send-off expedition for one of the crew. Since navigating through the unilingual Soviet state was no fun to many a coddled westerner, the need for a cheap, friendly and trustworthy translator/friend was paramount. So when one needed to be met, entertained, escorted or dropped off yours truly was ready to provide all necessary human resources at a measly rate of $40USD per week.
This time was no different when Jimmy Lohutko from depths of central Vermont was to travel back home. Despite his very Ukrainian name and corresponding roots, Jimmy never got used to local customs and language. Apart from his newly found admiration for vodka, I had to navigate everything to the smallest logistics for my thirty something charge. Simply, he was completely unable to fend for himself on the “danger” infested streets of Moscow. At least this time his stay in the capital was limited to just one day and a bottle of vodka.
Having dropped my precious cargo at the Sheremetyevo Airport, the only thing left was to buy a couple of cases of western beer and hook up with my best friend Misha who also happened to be in Moscow on some business outing of his own. My train back to Ukraine was not to depart for another day, and as my sleeping arrangements were a little dicey, Misha suggested dropping by his always welcoming friend Vladimir.
Vladimir
Right from the get go this diminutive and skinny bold type of about fifteen years us senior attracted me by his very interesting and unusual story that started with him opening the door leading to his lush Moscow pad. At that moment his head appeared to be awkwardly pitched to the right. Unable to account for this inconvenience, I made first few careful steps inside, only to realise that the object that pitched Volodya’s head was just a telephone that seemed to engage nearly full attention of our host. Everything seemed normal except an apparent absence of a customary coiling cord. I felt as struck by lightning – this was the first time I was gazing at the amazing achievement of western technology – a cordless phone!
Having hardly recovered from the initial shock, we proceeded to his opulent kitchen that apart from a bare and imposing fridge also boasted an interesting white plastic contraption that reminded me of a tape recorder. Much to my amusement, this slim-line puzzling implement turned out to be a part of the cordless phone arrangement and it was called the answering machine. For the first few minutes I was stuck in my absolute awe. Misha was just about to go on a manual shut-down scheme for my gaping mouth, as Vladimir managed to bring me back to my senses by explaining the general mechanics of this space-age material.
Russians of course, being still captive creatures of communism that had deprived them of the latest in consumer goods, treated this innovation with polite deference by refusing to leave messages. Despite all Vladimir’s efforts, hardly any of his acquaintances managed to get used to the idea even in the relatively cosmopolitan Moscow. No matter, his western friends surely seemed to appreciate such unusual technological prowess giving Vladimir some clear advantages against less advanced business rivals. In fact, despite all perennial claims to modernization, even today’s ex-Soviets overwhelmingly shy away from the art of voice mail. Even my technologically astute friends who routinely carry on glued to their cell phones typically ignore the convenience of answering machines while boasting digital cameras and internet savvy you would not believe. There must be something really deep in the Russian soul that detests to be rebuffed by decidedly electronic alternative instead of a live voice.
Back at Vladimir’s, we quickly discovered during a customary tea that we were welcome to stake out a place on the living room floor, as one of his two bedrooms was to be occupied by two British cinematographers on the prowl for exotics of the dying communist era. Few minutes later, the door bell announced the arrival of these two slim, youngish and very inquisitive dudes brandishing posh southern English accent. Dressed in well worn out jeans and lugging their heavy cinematic contraptions, they were excited to share stories of another busy day in the Soviet capital.
Vladimir’s initial attempts at translating for Misha’s sake revealed some considerable gaps in his foreign language education giving me an opportunity to strut my stuff. This was much to the delight of the English who were able to relate their stories at much faster clip than ever before. These stories covered not only my own vast motherland from sea to sea but also managed to reveal excellent knowledge of other interesting geographic locales that included Africa, parts of Asia and at least forty states of the US of A. I was fascinated by all these itineraries and especially by the land of the promise itself. Of course, being British, these dudes were somewhat deprived of insight into the tortured Soviet soul longing for fame and riches. Nevertheless their stories stirred many emotions in my small, egotistic and greedy heart. I was ready for adventure and personal success so readily available under the aegis of “personal responsibility” and dismissal of status quo pioneered by the brave heroes of the time – Ronald Regan and Margaret Thatcher.
Well, the adventure did not wait to arrive on the scene, as having tested my translating skills Vladimir expressed a strong interest in my candidacy for the purposes of entertaining his Hollywood partner named David Winters.
As it turned out, being an unattached free-lance artist on the melting and yet still holding Soviet scene, Vladimir detested anything regular - work and girlfriends included. When the latter seemed to change at will almost on a daily basis, the former required real entrepreneurial efforts of which Volodya was full of. He typically preferred to work paired up with other entrepreneurial types who detested drudgery of 9-to-5 with no less fervour. And since Vladimir was not a properly documented citizen of the cosmopolitan capital, he had to forever contend with inconveniences of the internal Soviet passport regime (by the way his official passport stamp forever consigned our fearless friend to much less productive steeps of Ukraine).
In order to pull through some of his non-resident schemes, he preferred working with energetic and well documented Muscovites. Here Yuri with his expansive taste, aplomb and size came in quite handy. The two joined arms back in the dark years preceding Perestroika. At first, the unlikely pair - one, short and slim, the other, tall and huge - existed on the edge of current legalities by pushing electronics on the black market. The venture was profitable enough not only to feed the two but also to allow time for some sideshows. One of these, apart from women of course, was a knack for photography that Vladimir parleyed not only in a small commercial venture but also used as bait for all female lovers of adventure mixed with large imposing foreign cameras.
Once Perestroika kicked in the full gear, the two acquired more legitimate taste and more money. So much so that Yuri was now able in indulge in his passion for Italian shoes of which he required many as they usually wore out pretty quickly - labouring for days under his 300-pound frame was not an easy task. Vladimir, on the other hand, decided to expend his new budget on a plush apartment and dreams of a future movie mogul. Photography, after all, was a still art – make it move and you could end up with some serious dough.
Action International Pictures
Fortunately, Vladimir was not the only one thinking that way. In fact, the new Soviet reality attracted many a wily Westerner looking for some extra glory and cash. Many came with some particular projects in mind, well-equipped with contacts, translators and pens ready to sign any Soviet form thrown their way. Other came on a fly just to assess the situation. They usually had rather broad schemes of teaching stupefied communists the righteous ways of Capitalism. They came open, unprepared and even vulnerable at times. David Winters was one of these types. However, unlike most of his sojourners, he considered it a pure leisure. He did not care if he lost, he had already acquired a decent degree of notoriety and money in America, and if anything ever worked out in Russia it would be just gravy over his daily French cheeses and Beluga caviar.
Born in New York in the late thirties, this very Jewish descendant of very Jewish parents turned out to have a number of artful talents earlier in this live path. Taking up dancing and signing was a very natural and fluid thing to do. Growing up just within minutes from glorious Broadway could only improve the matters. The success did not have to wait long, as our fiery redhead landed a number of some minor parts in the limelight. The real break came in 1958 when David grabbed a major part in the West Side Story, a true Mega Blockbuster! From then on he became known as David Winters of the West Side Story, sort of like Luis XIV the Bourbon or Nikolas II the Romanov. Now he had his pickings of the Broadway crop – dancing, signing and acting his way into obscurity, as many have done before him. Unlike many though David was very astute young man who realised early on that another blockbuster was not really forthcoming and he needed to do something else not just to stay noticed but also make money, a lot of it preferably.
Consequently, David decided to tap deeper into his business talents that he also had in abundance, as evidenced by his pre-eminent skills in organising illegal gambling parties back in more careless pre-West Side Story days. Then young David greased his short stubby fingers with a percentage take of anything gambled in his nice Upper West Side apartment fully stocked with booze, snacks and pretty girls. He was so successful at it that he boasted to make more money in one night than his father, an engineer, made in a week. David really knew how to get hold of some dough.
Now at the sunset of his acting career, our bolding redhead decided to recall his youth and money making talents. In short, he became a Broadway/Hollywood impresario, working behind the scenes for many a famous singer and actor. Money was great, especially since now instead of a union salary he could collect agent’s commissions. Minting money and glory, all at the same time was definitely his forte. The pinnacle of his career arrived sometime in the mid-seventies when he acted as a producer for Diana Ross of indomitable Supremes. “Then I was really rich” he would say, sucking on his thick Cuban cigar while adjusting his diamond-studded Cartier watch.
Later on in 80s, his fortunes changed direction as he switched to producing movies instead of shows and concerts. He moved to Hollywood, fearlessly plunging himself into the murky world of B-movies and C-invitation lists. His friendships with many greats such as Kirk Douglas, David Prior and David Carradine produced much in a way of good references, technical know-how and personal favours. Teaming up with yet another ageing agent, he formed AIP (Action International Pictures) in the mid 1980s. By now plump and balding David was on his umpteenth marriage equipped with a young kid, a new five million dollar Beverly Hills digs and a shiny Rolls Roys. All these things ate money and a lot of it. AIP met his needs in abundance. He produced his movies on the tightest of budgets, stuffed with a lot of guns, violence and predictabilities enough to meet a 90-minute couch potato format.
Although his movies rarely made to the big screen his lifestyle was splendidly maintained by video releases designed for the biggest of movie freaks. David, with his rarefied tastes for Cannes and Milan, rarely watched his movies. It was not his bag and he did not make any bones about it. Besides, due to his wife’s interdiction his movies left no room for bare breasts, let alone wonton sex scenes, thus leaving his high artistic claim to beautiful women high and dry. Instead, he preferred opera, open air concerts, and discrete and perhaps numerous affairs.
Everything was rolling smoothly except David’s restless spirit longed for more adventure than stagnant Hollywood scene could provide. Fortunately, Gorbachev announced Perestroika, Glasnost and a new way to make money in the vast reaches of the uncivilized Soviet Empire. The time for a little on-screen violence was certainly in order, as starved for action masses were about to flock to theatres after years of sugar-coated Communist dreams, the ones typically portrayed by soft and thoughtful drama pieces drastically lacking guns and stilettos. Moreover, having seen much of the world where they offered five star accommodations, David was ready for more especially after hearing that Moscow boasted a couple of first rate hotels and many a pretty girl in a short skirt.
Invasion
To test his presumptions David first showed up at the Riga International Movie Festival. Being a rather low-key and low-class affair when compared with the best of them, this one, after years of moribund existence, offered a breath of fresh air and enthusiasm. Now, David needed someone useful to enter into the convoluted world of Soviet Kino and entrepreneurial Vladimir could not have come nay handier. He, despite his cheap summer trousers, orphan looking sandals and bad English, offered a good deal of help with some very useful connections with old Soviet movie officials and new up-and-coming independents. They struck their partnership deal quickly and painlessly by forming AIP Russia. The purpose of the venture was of course to distribute David’s movies and beef up his bragging rights. When hired as a newly baked translation help, right away I was plugged into their first large success – “Space Mutiny”.
This latest edition of AIP boasted two interesting features – its low budget (just around $200K) and its phenomenal space fight effects bolstered by glossy promotional brochures, the rest was complete garbage. In fact, had it not been for the space effects, it would have never sold even in the entertainment crazy Los Angeles. How did he do it? The simple truth was that he personally knew George Lucas whom he talked into selling Star Wars space fight footage for a mere $25K for one-time use. I guess that the space between true blockbusters like Star Wars and David’s low budget features was as wide of that between Prada and Wal-Mart, so direct competition was not in question. As far as to the financial success, David’s undertakings usually delivered much fatter margins and although these measured in hundreds of thousands instead of millions who could really complain. In fact, Mr. Winters and Co might have actually made close to a million from Space Mutiny alone. The sale to the Soviet Kino delivered an equivalent of another $100K, all delivered in freshly printed roubles.
Oasis
Most of the hotels I had ever seen in my life were opulent enough just to offer a functioning toilet and a sink plus a creaking old metal mesh bed to boot. Moscow had those in abundance with most serving Party functionaries and regional industrial leaders on business junkets to the holy altar of power. These places usually offered little outside of sour front desk attendants, buckwheat for breakfast and one roll of rough toilet paper per night. The usage of the latter usually felt very similar to a prostate examination.
Foreign visitors to the capital usually deserved better fate assuaged by such classics as Metropol and Ukraine alongside newer and more streamlined Cosmos and Inturist. With doorways filled by Marlborough smoke and spills of Heineken, these served very well for the likes of my other middle class friends with picket-fenced houses and used Cutlasses in the driveway. Well, Mr. Winters was not quite used to such roughness; his acute sense of belonging could only take him to the International Trade Centre, the best and the poshest the mother Russia could produce. The place was heavily guarded, offered a variety of glitzy hard currency shops and had an incredible lobby with transparent space-like elevators briskly sliding up and down its multi-story edifice. I was totally and utterly mesmerised when visiting the place for the first time on company credit card with my Vermont types. Now I was almost a client!
Being let in my suspiciously cheap suit was a bonus in addition to meeting the richest man I ever laid my eyes on, at least outwardly so. He was short, chubby and bristled with all sort of exquisite jewellery gleaming off his silk suit and shoes made of crocodile skin. In fact, David had a thing for crocodiles, as not only his shoes but his entire luggage and manly accessory set were of first rate African crocodile skin – hardly anyone worked harder to rid the Earth of the creeping creatures. When extending my hand for a perfunctory handshake I also noticed his very soft and well-manicured fingers that never handled anything heavier than a phone receiver.
“Oh, so you are going to be our translator, huh?” – He managed to squeeze barely bothering to register my presence. “Yes, Mr. Winters, I will be a privilege to help with whatever I can”. The upright response in less usually accented English almost startled David sending him backwards in a miniature dance step – “ah, you speak very good English”. Well that set the tone just right and honourable Mr. Winters accepted me as a rightful member of the AIP society. With the passage of time, the relationship, although mostly that of master-servant nature only got better especially since I passed the “misplaced money” test. This typically consisted of a few thoughtfully “misplaced” hundred dollar bills strewn around the place. If one was not overcome with the temptation he could be trusted with more - almost biblical really. All, Yuri, Vladimir and I, passed it with flying colours and were inducted into the tight circle of action pictures. But not tight enough to provide for much personal space as possible as David usually rented two adjacent rooms at $400 each per night. One simply would not fit his ample nature striving for some intimacy given his penchant for women, Russian women.
Stand Back 007
Of these he had many ably supplied by dutiful Yuri and Vladimir. It was actually quite an exercise, considering that David’s inclinations for free and adulterated love did not include monetary exchanges – Mr. Winters prided himself in having enough charm to seduce a woman without payment. All of it was of course a bit self-deceiving, to say the least, since buying some well-priced clothes and scrumptious dinners sometimes sufficed to obtain help in the desperate economic seas. David being a creative entertainment man interchanged his patterns ranging from the dual act of Tanya and Marina to the wholesome Svetlana who would usually stay for days. Given this tight schedule, we sometimes had to wait in another room serving as an office for matters less pressing such as selling movies. Whatever happened on the other side was extremely tantalizing especially given the fact that hardly any of the babes, with the exception of Marina, spoke English. I was there of course to help with shopping and dinner menus but when it came to matters less obvious David was as multilingual as they came.
Daily Travails
Predictably, our daily schedule rotated around anything David wanted to do around the capital. Unfortunately, his very energetic and well rounded personality possessed energy in excess and required hardly any sleep – five to six hours max plus self-preening time that he took very seriously. The rest of the time, we had to attend to his whims and fancies. Since Vladimir and Yuri usually spent their nights at home, their lot was slightly easier with some allowance to fall below the radar at times. Mine on the other hand was the most pitiful - I essentially played a live-in personal assistant who occupied the office room next door, always ready to wag the tail for the master. But who could complain with wages running at $100USD per week. The only wrinkle was that my wardrobe consisted of exactly one suit, one tie, one shirt and a couple of underwear numbers. So to keep up with crocodile shoes I had to do my daily laundry in the shower - luckily five star supply of soap was plentiful. Freshly laundered and ironed I was ready to serve breakfast to my famished master. The latter was not much of a task since Mr. AIP essentially ate three things – white bread, butter and expensive varieties of international cheeses. He stayed away from meat, did not drink alcohol and eschewed coffee. Simply he was on a healthy plan to clogged arteries. After all if you are planning to drop dead of heart decease why not do in expensive and clean fashion as opposed of clouding you brain with two packs of smokes per day. Mind you that while abhorring cigarettes, David did on occasion stick in a very thick cigar – mostly to show off rather than pollute his pristine LA lungs though.
Food, of course, did not cease to be on the agenda after the breakfast jaw warm-up. With lunch mostly skipped, we had to pay particular attention of what to do for dinner. Considering the dearth of top notch culinary entertainment in the Soviet times, the newly sprouting choices were still limited to just a few in the closing years of Perestroika.
One was TrentMos Steakhouse - the joint venture between someone from Trenton, New Jersey and someone else from Moscow – hence the name. The dual nature of the place did not stop there, as it had two parts – one charging roubles and the other dollars. The rouble prices when translated through the prism of the street exchange were much lower than the dollar section. Explicably, the rouble part was always bustling and super busy with reservations having to be made far in advance, while dollar side was much less stressful and chaotic, offering peace, calm and general culinary happiness to the monetary unconcerned. Being the newly baked rouble multi-millionaire, Mr. Winters loved to entertain on the rouble side. Who cares if the steak might have been a bit tougher and salad less fluffy – Mr. Cheese did not eat either anyway, while keeping his dollars intact.
On one memorable occasion, I had my first Italian pasta at the very sheikh dig called Arlechino. To be honest I was completely unprepared for a macaroni type of meal, as word pasta in Russian means something like cream that could be squeezed out of a bottle. So when Vladimir announced that tonight our super-stretched governmental limo (ZIL) would take us to eat pasta, I was ready to receive a plate with something decidedly squirted on it. Instead, we got delicious macaroni smothered in tantalizingly scrumptious pesto sauce that tasted nothing like home cooking that usually resorted to a simple slab of butter and nothing else. No wonder, macaroni is hardly a favourite dish in Russian households.
Apart from these two, I also got my first stab at French and Chinese cuisines. The first came at an atrocious price tab of over $100USD per person and a dainty dish of delicious frogs, while the other boasted much more plentiful dishes crowned with fish heads and other accoutrements of anything exotic. I could hardly believe my good and paid-for fortune. I could only imagine what the rest of it looked like, over there across the ocean.
Gambling Wakes
Apart from women and good quality food, David liked nothing better to do than gamble. In those days, the entertainment was reserved exclusively for the well to do. So when one speaks of casinos of late Soviet Russia think of nothing else but the best of Monte Carlo. Just imagine beautiful Corinthian columns adoring the monumental classic visage of Bolshoy Theatre – this was exactly the look of the establishment appropriately christened Hippodrome. Its primary purpose, of course, had been to pacify restless public with horse drawn carriage races – a mild form of officially allowed gambling in more stolid years of Brezhnev’s regime. However, with Perestroika and such, its entrepreneurial management sniffed the changing tides and converted the main building into a gorgeous palace of all things nocturnal.
The already striking edifice was artfully lit by projector lights to create a harlot-like aura of invisibility and higher purpose, plus the very entrance fee of $20USD (a small fortune to most) kept it unassailable to lower classes. Our cortège consisting of at least one super stretched limo usually got a friendly reception and even a couple of smiles – service unheard of in this neck of the woods. Having bought us all entrance tickets David usually stuck in his thick and very threatening Cuban cigar and proceeded to gamble away his $1000USD per night self-imposed limit. We were usually left us to our own devices with $20USD worth of chips. Nearly overcome by gaudy baroque themes adoring every inch of walls and ceiling, I usually trailed behind into the gambling hall to observe our master in action.
The only game he ever played was blackjack - the best odds against any house, even a Russian one. His nonchalant manner with which he usually started high stakes game, his ability not to betray emotions and almost stoic attitude to loses, were remarkable for someone like me who was still learning the game of life. However nothing brought him more joy than winning. Once, feeling particularly lucky, we had to persist among plush carpets and lush paintings until 5AM. The net result of the sleepless night was a win of $2,000USD – you wouldn’t have seen a happier kid who just happened to get his hands a Christmas train.
My fortunes were notably less conspicuous. In fact, after trying and promptly losing my luck on the blackjack table I was quickly attracted to another game – the Roulette. With its much less educated guesses and slimmer odds, this one was usually attracted less knowledgeable players. It also attracted me, appealing with its especially low-risk low-reward opportunities so dear to my conservative heart.
While unnervingly blind ball rattles to find its target among thirty six numbers and zero, everyone is trying to predict its final destination. Before the ball finally finds its resting spot, you can place your bet anywhere from individual numbers to whole dozens, of which there are three. If placing your bet on two dozens simultaneously, your odds of winning are 66% and your reward, if lucky, in thrice the bet. So placing two chips on two different dozens one can either lose them both or win three, a fifty percent return. I observed, brooded and decided to play odds with some degree of “intelligence”. Placing my fate in to the statistically independent outcomes of each roll, the idea of each particular dozen hitting three times in a row struck me as rare and improbable. Consequently, I placed my bets on two dozens that missed two previous consecutive times. With no statistical justification I was betting on cosmic luck… Lo and behold, I parlayed my first twenty dollars into sixty – a great side business. In a couple of days I made another twenty – life was turning out really sweet. I was on the roll!
Well, I did not win every time and on one such unfortunate night after losing my $20 self-imposed limit, I started aimlessly wondering from one table to the next, observing more fortunate in this world of action. Suddenly, the hush fell over the whole place. Even the most cold-blooded and experienced warriors interrupted their games, the Roulette balls stopped rolling and “Crash!” a waitress dropped a tray with drinks on the ornate hardwood floor – those champagne glasses did not have a chance splitting into crystal shower. All heads were turned to the table reserved for better times and no wonder since the minimum bet there was at least few hundred dollars. Predictably in these early days of Russian capitalism, it stood mostly empty with very few willing to bet real fortunes.
All eyes, including David’s, stared at two swarthy looking customers surrounded by mounds of chips amounting to something close to $45K. I had never seen or imagined such a sum – seeing anybody putting it at play was more thrilling than any Disney ride. Mesmerised and barely able to hold my eyeballs back from bulging, I stood and watched the true spectacle. The first question was who these guys were. Wearing slick and flashy silver polyester suits, they clearly did not belong to the ranks of Buffet and Co. Being dark skinned but not engulfed in some billowing white robes certainly disqualified any claims to their Arab sheikh-hood. They did not use English and had two buxom blonds on their side – an unmistakable sign of citrus kings from the south – Georgia, Armenia or something like that.
We, people to the north, always envied these southern raiders who brought fresh citrus fruit and flowers for sale in less hospitable north. We envied their better tanned backs, sharper, almost middle-eastern, features and, of course, money commanded for their unique and always highly marketable products. They all had cars, dachas and other accoutrements of good life. Some of us with more creative sense of envy and sarcasm spawned plethora of jokes ruthlessly dealing with our southern brothers. In reality, deep down, we all wanted to be like them. But never in wildest dreams could I have envisioned any Georgian betting $45K in one go. This was after all a market equivalent of 700,000 roubles and my mother, the teacher, made only 4,000 of these in a year.
Everyone pretended to go independently about their gambling business, in reality everyone was watching. When these guys went up by $40K I thought they would break the house – surprisingly, the managers and croupier remained calm. When they went down by $20K, I feared the place would erupt in a scene of undoubtedly Caucasian variety. Nothing… After a couple of ours, our friends decided to roll on after losing a “measly” $10K, no scene, no obscenities, instead a completely professional demeanour accompanied by graceful and passionless retreat – they definitely had much more where this came from. Wow, forget about Mr. West Side Story, this was as close to 007 I had ever come to. The mystery remained, never to be discovered had it not been for industrious Vladimir who approached the matter from completely different angle – women.
He, instead of gaping at the mounds of chips and accompanying odds, concentrated on these guys’ lightly dressed companions. Befriending weaker sex was Vladimir’s strongest suit. After buying them a couple of drinks he not only found out their names but also learned about their well-heeled companions. A very useful lesson, as these dark skin specimens turned out to be only remotely related to the peaceful citrus growers. Instead their real occupation was banditry. Banded together with some of similar ilk, many criminally inclined minds were exploiting the fruits of Perestroika from the backdoor. Instead of directly exploitation of chances and people, they exploited the exploiters by extorting protection money. The victims, frequently enjoyed somewhat illicit gains, hardly had any recourse to authorities. As a result, they either complied or hired thugs of their own. With weapons and attitude bristling from the every corner, this late Soviet period was a particular violent one and many successful gangsters and racketeers made incredible amounts of money. After the fall of the Union, the matters only got worse when Moscow and other moneyed locales turned into some of the most violent places of Earth, as has been reported by the western press. This time usually gullible likes of CNN proved to be correct…
Busy Business
When it came to actual business, the things were going just swimmingly. You see, Soviet society had been long cocooned by lack of violence, sex and other ills that tend to beset other, more liberalised, societies. With Perestroika and Glasnost, we, as people, realised that we could too partake in all things depraved. No need for extra sensitivities embedded in standard Hollywood classics that had been screened in our closed society in the years past. We needed more, and more we got with AIP product filling the bill just perfectly – after its features were cheap, violent and came in colour unlike thousands of greyish VHS bootlegs that invaded the entertainment market. Bootlegs came as a courtesy of a couple of underground production gigs that seemed to use the same monotone translator voice that did not change its pitch between hush love scenes and evoking scenes of monumental battles. These were obviously attractive but cheap accessibility of the big screen was still a heavy draw, especially when priced in ever disappearing roubles.
After a successful sale of rights to the Sci-Fi “blockbuster” Space Mutiny for a tidy sum of two million roubles, David was ready for more action with Rosskino (Russian Film Authority). Unapproachable during the times of Cold War, these folks in crumpled grey polyester suits wanted to live out their lives to the fullest like anybody else. As such, some were prone to inducing gifts of gratitude as others plunged into the double-dipping game so well known for its role in fostering current Russian oligarchs. What they did was as simple as it was unethical. In their capacity as granters of contracts to outside parties, they also set-up their own contracting companies to channel their transactions. The only purpose of these companies was to create another middle man to sheer off commissions of every rouble, dollar and penny. The rest was the matter of mechanics. Once you are in, as Mr. Winters and Vladimir, you just kept coming back to the same people for more. As long as you had a product worthy of market demands, everything was as simple as a bowl of semolina.
Despite its very dubious claims to artistic quality, Space Mutiny enjoyed the grandest of openings. The venue was one of the most prominent and largest theatres on Pushkin Square in the middle of town. The advertising was glossy and slick. The crowds were formidable and we almost had to fight our way to the assigned seats in the front. David was all effulgent smiles with a buxom blonde casually slung over his Cartier adorned hand. The whole crew, Yuri, Vladimir and yours truly, were in tow. It almost felt like a royal procession with obsequious local authorities paying homage to the genius of the American conquest. I felt proud, haughty and a little sad for a couple of thousand of folks wasting their time and money on David’s chez-d’oeuvre. Fortunately, the initial introductory speeches were mercifully short and we left the first chance we got. David did not have a slightest of inkling to stay behind and enjoy his handy work one more time.
Hot Rod
The time was of the essence and we needed to sell few more features. One of them, Fire Head with David Prior, promised to be a real fiery thriller. David had just brought it to feature as the most prominent item on his display during the Moscow Film Festival of 1991. The glossy stand was the most impressive, easily vanquishing anything else in one mile radius. David was invincible in his silk and crocodile wear, thick cigar and a general sense of palpable success. This summer visit was his longest and the most entertaining. Instead of a regular ZIL super-stretch, he managed to snag a coup of the summer by leasing a red ZIL convertible, the only single one available in the whole of Moscow. This red hot specimen of a car was built for Brezhnev’s personal use twenty years earlier. Equipped with everything the most powerful including a sixteen-cylinder Rolls Royce engine, this car had no equals. Upholstered in everything the finest, this beast boasted something I had never seen before – an automatic transmission. This contraption and car’s amazing ability to accelerate despite its very heavy frame made me slightly envious of the late Secretary General. Not that I particularly craved his current permanent address by the Mausoleum, but rather his lifestyle used to be remarkable. Apparently, the man was fond of fast driving so instead of racing on some speedway, Soviet authorities used to close long tracks of highways so the beloved leader could indulge his passion for all things racy. Now, it was our turn to enjoy the supercharged beast minus private use of highways, of course. Such audacity would require a massive bribe so we had to wait for the time of first Russian oligarchs of the mid 90s.
Red ZIL made a great splash just about anywhere we went. Women, of course, fell first under the charms of Vladimir’s almost innocent smile duly buttressed by many glistening Cartier diamonds and other tools of apparent potency and power. The next were photographers who attended the Film Festival. Few of them loved to linger around our booth and snap pictures of American novelties. One of such photographs depicting David enjoying one of his huge and very Cuban cigars survived longer than necessary in some photo archives, as it managed its way all the way into the New York press three years later. Just imagine my surprising delight at serendipity when I cracked open the New York based “Russian Word” chasing some article on Russian Nuveaux Riches only to discover David’s very visage on the centre fold. Sort of ironic that very American Mr. Winters finally made it as a stand-in for the likes of Khodorkovsky, Berezovsky and Co. They are all Jews after all…
The power of the red beast was so mesmerising that even Soviet film functionaries left impressed by the waxing job that shone all over its fiery carcass. We could seemingly open any doors, windows and other crevasses of the unyielding system immersed in monumental structural changes. Getting a meeting with deputy minister of culture was not a problem any longer. Being American, independent and crocodile-clad was definitely a huge boon. David’s empire was no longer selling just films; it sold ideas and other capitalist junk. We were about to move on some joint ventures to run movie theatres, sell videos and arrange for other things hardly related to the film industry. Hand-shakes, nods and smiles waited for us just around any corner. David was offered anything from apartments at fire sale prices to warehouses – just about anything threatened to be privatized. After generations of strictly prescriptive communism, so many felt overcome by the opportunity for quick gain that suddenly every Ivan and Kolya were ready to trade, sell and exploit. The state had exploited us since time immemorial, now all of us were capitalists ready to pillage mom’s piggy bank.
Banking – Soviet Style
In those heady times I was having hard time keeping my head straight. What happened in everyone else’s was even more difficult to tell. All opportunities lied bare to those who dared. Around David it was particularly dizzy since he seemed to have every rouble in the whole white world in his bank account. And herein lied a hack of a problem. The hydra had at least two heads that our fearless leader had to deal with. Unlike transparent western currency regime wherein any money on your account could be easily transferred in respective amount of ready cash, the Soviet system had two completely different notions of money.
One dealt with what the state actually printed and put in one’s pocket to procure the basics of life. The state issued these quiet freely by running many of its printing presses extra time. They had to do it since the burdens of military complex and realities of economic stagnation were on the head-on collision course that could only be partially resolved by limited Soviet excess to foreign debt. The rest was borrowed from the likes of you and I. Some of it, of course, came in a form of formal debt obligations. However, majority was borrowed through creeping inflation helped alone by ever-larger issuances of paper money. Every year one seemed to receive salary that could buy less than in the previous year. Everyone noticed but not many openly complained. After all many of our basic necessities – housing, health care and even transportation were essentially free.
Since every Soviet enterprise, although state controlled, had its own accountabilities, it had to deal with all other similar counterparties, such as suppliers and buyers, in a like manner. Through the years of clandestine inflation, many a factory or a trading coop producing much needed consumer goods accumulated ever larger notional amounts of money on their accounts. The phenomenon occurred when “cheap” industrial resources were converted into “dear” consumer goods. This accumulation of “funds” really skyrocketed in the late eighties. Consumer goods were getting ever scarce and more expensive, while labour and basic resources, subsidized by the state, were not priced accordingly. Just to remember one anecdote - in the 1990 one could fly a round trip of 1,200 kilometres’ between my home town and Moscow for mere $3USD. And yet you could not even buy a pair of cheap Soviet shoes for this amount. Go figure.
The state managers recognized earlier on the real danger of these account surpluses. If one ever allowed full conversion of such funds into cash instruments, the creeping inflation would cascade into unpredictable gallop of impending collapse. People in Kremlin would not countenance such a transformation by placing numerous and Byzantine restrictions on so called non-cash bank accounts whereby restricting uncontrolled creation of cash. This in turn spawned a whole new private “banking” industry, whose only Raison d’Etre was not to accept deposits and issue loans, but to convert non-cash amounts into wads of ready roubles through a variety of marginal schemes. Of course, they took commissions and other charges making non-cash deposits unequal in value to cash. Say, one had 100 roubles on one of these accounts. If the person wanted to get cash, he probably could not count on any more than 70 in ready cash.
Now, what did any of it have to do with AIP? Everything! The millions of roubles that David received for his creations were paid precisely in such non-cashable funds. Officially he could convert only small portions of the funds into ready cash. The rest required a wily banker.
David loved cash and quickly understood that leaving some on the table was inevitable in order to get any. A succession of slick “red” bankers appeared at our door offering a plethora of rouble conversion options. After a few interviews, David and Co. opted for an imposing figure hailing from the Venice of the North – Leonid. His bear-like frame firmly secured in the latest western pinstripes culminated in an impressive set of square jaws pulled in by an unlikely warm and trusty smile. You could not find a better banker – toll, secure and approachable. The job was firmly his minus some complicated legal matters that required further papering.
Translating Rivalry
Now I had to perform a legal written translation – something I had never done before. It was not a time to falter so I pretended and played alone. The only shining example to lead me through the impenetrable darkness of the Soviet law was Igor. Employed by a powerful independent Russian film distributor he featured prominently on their roster of talent. He was involved in numerous business dealings with AIP and intimately understood all necessary ins and outs better than most. Educated in the best traditions of Moscow intelligentsia, he spoke nearly flawless English, possessed a great deal of youthful charm and was fully equipped with all possible legal translation tricks. Usually on top of the most translating colleagues I met, Igor really gave me a ride for my money. When it came to legal translations, the only thing was to keep up and emulate.
I plunged into the dictionaries, Igor’s previous written translations and any other piece of material I could get my hands on. When banker Leonid showed up on the AIP doorstep, my time to try newly acquired skills had come. Fully cognizant of potential screw-ups I peppered every inch of paper with all sorts of “whereby-s”, “herein-s” and “heretofore-s”. I thought that thick enough layer of such gobbledygook will cover any potentially grievous mistakes. In addition, I hoped to impress David with my English even further.
“What is s…t, I can’t understand any of it” – was his first and alas only reaction. My heart dropped below my knees. It turned out that despite all the money and lawyering in the world, Broadway did not really prepare people of varying professional success for dry-bone legalese. Quite the contrary, American business preferred a vocabulary of two-year olds. “Buy-s”, “Sell-s” and “Made-s” did not require their complicated and obstreperous cousins in the least. Those purely literary terms were banished to the obscurity of NY Times book review pages. People who made money for living did not have any time or patience for any things Shakespearian. Now with my “vast” vocabulary deprecated, I had to re-write lengthy contractual treatises while cursing that slick well-coiffed Igor.
Back to Money
At long last, with all T’s crossed and all I’s dotted, David had a place to park his mounds of roubles. Now we needed to deal with the second hydra’s head – currency exchange. On this account David remained inexplicably intransigent – he did not want to convert. I guess converting millions (roubles) into hundreds of thousands (dollars) was not nearly as inspiring as the other way around.
No amount of persuasion and no inflation scares could move Mr. Winters to accept the fact that hard earned roubles could quickly (as they did) turn into a pile of unattractive wallpaper. He relished his status of a Russian multi-millionaire and rouble possession was its key attribute. Besides, David already had a pile of dollars – watching it grow was a slow and boring process. With roubles on the other hand the pile was large and increasing almost exponentially.
With all this in mind our banker, Vladimir and Yuri had to drum a final retreat. The roubles went to St. Petersburg, Leonid’s base, and we went on our merry way carousing in the best habits of people who lived exclusively for today.
Last Visit
My last piece of work for Mr. Winters came in the short late autumn days of 1991. Then the sun could hardly fight through the thick fog and drizzle, everyone around looked either preoccupied or downright depressed. No wonder since life outside was taking some wild turns with hardly anyone feeling assurances of bread and butter for tomorrow’s breakfast.
Mr. Gorbachev, having returned to Moscow after the humiliating arrest at the hands of 1991 Putsch conspirators, was now fighting for his political life and that of the whole country, the one I was born in anyway. Having apparently lost the pissed-off Baltics, he was desperately trying to keep the falling ship together by forging a new Union with remaining republics. He was trashing about like a fish on ice trying to accomplish a monumental task. His Putsch saviour and long-term political foe Mr. Yeltsin was pulling all stops on his way to become the only unquestionable ruler of all Russians. This could only happen if Union was dissolved and Gorbachev stood down. The Union did not seem to matter and everyone was feeling queasy.
The country was rapidly leaving warm and cuddly bosom of state socialism on its way to an indomitable free market juggernaut. Yeltsin could not resist the temptation of new challenges as long as his daily vodka supply went uninterrupted. His right wing political advisors clued in and the people on the street clued out. The upcoming winter was not only going to be cold and inhospitable in the best of Siberian traditions, it was also going to be a beginning of an age of economic and political misery still brightly reverberating through the former colossus.
All these external pleasantries were weighing on just about anybody inside. On the outside many were still celebrating the fall of communism and other bland propaganda concoctions; on the inside was a different matter. Even David was not an exception. Being an unadulterated and egotistic fortune hunter he could not resist exploiting the new climate. Forget about the movies – other things were in sight.
After placing a self-congratulatory ad in the Hollywood Reporter following the late summer Putsch, he embarked on a small PR campaign to channel all sorts of business interests through his persona. Having a considerable amount of recognition and notoriety, he was now receiving offers of transplanting American dream on the bereft Russian soil. Without knowing as many as ten words in Russian, he now qualified as a full-blown Russian expert with money, connections and political influence. All of it was, of course, a mirage but he did not think so. It could not have been any other way for Mr. West Side Story – the sweet capitalism was swiftly advancing and he was carrying the flag at the head of the column heading into nowhere.
Triumphal Entry
Arriving in Moscow with British Airways even with his first class ticket was not going to cut through huge, smoky and sweaty customs line-ups that usually beset stern Soviet officials. Plotting in advance, he declared himself disabled and in a need of a wheel-chair which was promptly provided by dutiful British Airways staff. On the other end in Moscow, his luck did not run out as they managed to round up probably the only wheel-chair available in the whole of Sheremetyevo. Few minutes later, our conquering hero cleared the proverbial (although rusty) Iron Curtain and fell safely into the hands of his effulgent undertakers.
Metropol – the Ultimate Decadence
Once miraculously healed right by the curb in front of his ZIL limo, he declared a monumental change in direction. “I am a little tired of the International Trade Centre” barely left his thick lips as Vladimir and freshly arrived Yuri started madly scrambling for options. After all, the place offered only a handful of viable alternatives.
Metropol was going to be it. Newly restored to its former scintillating glory, its beautiful neo-classic shades with a tasteful tinge of rococo offered enough inducement for those with company credit cards. Upon a quick introductory tour David was duly impressed by all-marble floors, brand new grand piano with an accompanist in the foyer and much shiny brass covering just about any surface. To his delight, the place also boasted a presidential suite that went just for slightly more money than his usual digs at the International Trade Centre. Within minutes we were escorted to the grand suite that was as opulent as it was spacious and exclusive - somewhere at around $900USD per night.
Unlike just two connected rooms, this suite had a grand living room, dining room with a nook and an ample bedroom. The décor and suite equipment felt like a museum. The living room was somewhat inclined to late baroque with carved ceiling, impressive paintings and Edwardian divan with twisted back and legs resting on a multi-coloured carpet resembling Joseph’s proverbial coat.
Surprisingly, the museum baroque must have run out by the time they had embarked on the dining-room restoration that stood in a bit of a contrast to the formal living room. Here the baroque ceiling touches were helped along by a good dose of Chinese silks, furniture and carpets. The silks covered entire walls creating a sort of an oasis sensation with painted opium leaves, straw hats and symbols that inevitably lulled anyone into their Confucian wisdom.
Everything was just splendid and glistening and equipped with a large TV projecting the latest images of horror around the world through the able and almost impartial lenses of CNN. With the Gulf War over, the misery was creeping around the globe in various directions. For now though I thoroughly enjoyed English speaking TV to the fullest – colourful images, perfect diction and brand name – you just could not do any better.
The best part about the whole place was the breakfast nook. Perched in the tower-like niche that jutted out of the building, it created a perfectly cozy sensation with a stunning view of the Bolshoy Theatre. Yes, there might be better views in Vancouver or Kathmandu but as far as Moscow went it was it. Being just above the sidewalk on the second floor, I got many a chance to delight in surreptitious people watching. Everything was just like on the palm of my hand. Ample material with crowds milling around all day with me entirely protected by tinted mirrors of the observer’s paradise.
Matreshki
My serene and pensive hours of contemplation were much shorter than those of an imprisoned princess however. The prince charming was not in the wings so I had to attend to some bare basics such as translating business.
After selling Fire Head and a couple of other enrapturing features, David should have felt really good about his eastern adventures. On the contrary, his energetic personality looked needed a much larger fix. After all, the economic and political changes promised to be huge and anyone willing to invest talent and energy could make a real buck. David sensed it quite acutely despite a very limited ability to take advantage of the situation. Contrary to the his domestic claims of Russian expertise, his movie selling prowess stood too far from the real couloirs of power where people were just about to pounce on valuable state owned oil and gas assets. In fact, his imagination did not take him any further than matreshki – traditional Russian dolls.
These proud representatives of our rich culture have long been subject of peculiar western fascination along with vodka and bears. These colourfully painted wooden dolls are hollow on the inside to accommodate ever smaller copies. They stack up like Chinese soy saucers of varying size. The larger the set and the more extravagant the painting job the more expensive these could get. With cheapest five-piece mass production sets going for mere pennies, twenty-piece individually crafted chez-d’oevres could fetch thousands. Russians themselves have long recognised general uselessness of matreshka dolls by keeping only the bare minimum chez-la-maison. As such it is foreigners who remain solely and entirely enthralled by matreshki thereby creating perennial demand on the Russian souvenir market. In fact, the entire pedestrian Old Arbat could survive exclusively on these for quite some time.
Recognising the artistic appeal and the potential for a healthy mark-up, David went on in pursuit of large quantities of the enigmatic art to satisfy the scale of his schemes. He now really fancied himself to be a perfect middle man. He did not want to invest his easy-earned roubles in the venture. Instead he wanted someone who would. The problem now of course was the plunging nature of the weak rouble. Nobody wanted to sell for roubles anything, lest suicidal. With dollar trade still somewhere on the outer edge of legality, the barter was the name of the game.
David grasped the notion firmly in his well-manicured fingers. After few phone calls back to the USA, the glow of his scheme was becoming scintillatingly bright, as few ships loaded with Oil of Oley were ready to depart the Manhattan harbour to face matreshki in an intrepid exchange.
Nicolai – the Trump Card
Now, Vladimir and Yuri, despite their best efforts to concentrate our international marauder on the core task, had to scour the cold and windy streets for truck loads of matreshka dolls. One of the long-term Russian partners Nikolai was ready to help out with anything painted, wooden and otherwise useless. Known for his penchant for other people’s girlfriends, his assistance was not going to come easy especially in the view of his new tweed Armani jacket.
After stealing a girl formerly known as David’s girlfriend of the previous summer with an enticement of marriage, this tall and broad-shouldered former wrestler required some extra finesse to handle. Knowing that his flinty Broadway dance moves were not going to be enough, David, surrounded by his three musketeers, went directly for the jugular.
“The people of Russia are craving for westernization. They are tired of old bland soap and general lack of cosmetics. They crave for things new. They will be ready to kill for a bottle of Oil of Olay. And when our armada docks there would be no stopping of crowds” – our experienced Russian pundit was unfurling an absolutely salivating picture.
“We know that times are tough and dollars are few. Some, preferably a boat load, of matreshka dolls would do splendidly in lieu of payment. After all we have crowds in NY waiting for ships’ return under their staggeringly valuable matreshka booty” - emerging from every shelf and cranny, matreshka dolls were flocking to the loading docks like Irish in the potato famine.
All were visibly shaken by the powerful picture. Alas, there came the time to relinquish our imagination in favour of more mundane details such as matreshka sizes, pricing and packaging. Our heated detailed discussions lasted hours as the riches were just about to be deposited into our pockets. Even I lost my impartial translating cool and plunged into the matreshki stakes by offering some firm pricing before translating anything for Mr. Winters. This latest shtick promptly landed me in the dog house with “never call the price first” admonition strongly clinging to my ears up to this very day. Sorry, I must have been distracted by the crowds milling below our breakfast nook.
Finally, ready to iron out the deal we shook hands and left our fate in the capable “Oil of Olay” people with their ships and all. What a cocker party!
Adieu to Roubles
While contemplating his almost palpable matreshka paradise, David had to countenance some nefarious issues usually referred to “such is life”. After all, his huge and fluffy pile of roubles in the St. Petersburg bank could buy less and less of anything, Soviet or foreign. This was the first time David was losing money in the Soviet Union. His stubborn interest in the local paper even gave him quick headaches of self-recriminations – “I should have known” type of problem.
Well, it was kind of late considering that since the summer his roubles lost 30% to 40% of their value and actual dollar losses were somewhere on the order of $200K – a nice mortgage helper on his Beverly Hills digs. Finally, realizing his folly we called our banker Leonid to convert all of it. Yet here another surprise was waiting for us as trustworthy Leonid, who was not a likely future holder of our accounts once they were in dollars, decided to up his commissions to milk more out of the deal. Much to David’s misfortune the timing was not on his side – the country was splitting apart and nobody was going to help in his small banking dilemma. So without as much as a peep, David managed to get 50 cents on a dollar and get the heck out of the rouble business.
After all it did not matter since future Russian “Oil of Olay” pioneer was ready for new adventures. With his stuff mostly packed we moved our charge into one the smallest rooms in the place as his suite had been pre-empted by some Brits from the IMF (International Monetary Fund). After all dollars ruled and David did not have nearly enough to compete with London based bankers – for a while at least…
Parting Glimpses
Matreshki business was still stuck bobbing in the deep Manhattan harbour when David habitually abstaining from sex during his parting night was giving his parting advice – “have all your stuff laundered and de-perfumed before going home lest your wife finds out what you really did overseas” – played on his wily thick lips.
It was dark, raining and cold, as our limo pulled into one of many ample parking slots in those early wee hours of the morning. Miserable autumn raindrops were intolerable – it felt like your very soul was razored to pieces. I had a premonition that this might the last time I laid my eyes on Mr. Winters. Much less than a fatherly figure he still managed to project a ray of hope into our dark, full of roubles, world. Now smiling with a Swiss bank confirmation of his dollars landing safely in the midst of tranquil Europe, he was striding through nearly empty customs. Briefly turning, he gave us his last hand-wave in a brash Nixon-like arch.
Adieu Mister President!
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