“What Is To Be Done?”

How to succeed in Russian business is the question. While it does not require sleeping on a bed of nails, as the hero did in Nikolai Chernyshevsky’s famous novel What Is To Be Done? to prove his commitment to his Marxist ideals, it does require a clear and serious intent, dedication, perseverance, and many other things. In a land historically devoid of the predictability of law, the cement of society is built on personal relationships. This takes time.

That interwoven matrix is complex. That is why one never makes commitments he cannot deliver. It is deeds, not words that count. Character is more important than contracts. Once that trust develops, I found the Russians reliable, resourceful, dedicated, and hard-working. New leadership is developing out of that growing pool of forward-looking younger men and women. After you understand the system and the relational foundation of Russian society, the pathway is reasonably predictable. You learn in short order how to pick your friends. You may make mistakes, but learn from them and move on.

 Unfortunately, my biggest problem was dealing with Americans who somehow felt the rules that constrained their ambitions at home did not apply in Russia. In the end, most of them learned the hard way. Some returned home posing as experts. Some returned disillusioned and broke. One, at least, is buried there. In Russia, like anywhere else in my experience, honesty, intellgence, reliability, and good hard work are respected and gain the kind of reputation on which solid business is built. Having said all that, in dealing with Russians sometimes it helps to think of two dogs. Remember The Grand Inquisitor’s “authority.” You never want to be in the submissive position. You lose respect. You also don’t want to be the dominant aggressor. You growl a lot but get little done. You must assume the authority to be equal, never submissive. Even if you have to fake it, never be the bottom dog in Russia.

One Soviet joke illustrates this in a different way. Two sailors, one a Russian and the other Ukrainian, were walking down the street in Sevastopol and on the sidewalk they find a ten-dollar bill. The Russian says, “Great, let’s share this like brothers.” The Ukrainian however says, “No, let’s split it 50/50.” Partnership can be subjective.  I don’t belittle the issue. But, I never let it slow me down. You can steer around it.

One of the perplexing answers to “what is to be done,” comes from Victor Chernomyrdin who in 1997, at the end of his stint as premier of The Russian Federation said, “We hoped for the best, but it turned out like always.” Or another of his historical remarks, “If one considers what could have been done, and then what we did do over this long time, one can conclude that something was done.” Really?

At the Crossroads

Under all the turmoil of a thousand years, Russians are yet a colorful and creative people. Sometimes you have to look hard to see it. But the artists, writers, composers, and the brilliant scientists and inventors through the ages have left an indelible mark on the word.

I’ve worked mainly with the younger Russians, those under forty-five today. There is a large mental gap between the young who graduated in the last days of the Soviet Union and the older generations who lived the greater part of their lives under the Communist regime. For the most part, the young are dedicated to a better life as they might imagine it or have personally witnessed it in their frequent travels in the rest of the world. It is an attitude nurtured by their sense of possibility and a growing sense of responsibility. They are often well educated, traveled, cultured, and speak English and other foreign tongues. I don’t think there was a woman (or many men) in our offices in Russia, while being from the top technical institutes,  who could not discuss Rus­sian and Western literature, the stage, music (classical as well as rock and jazz), and dance.

But, Russia is also losing many of best and brightest who cannot wait for the men in power to create a domestic environment for their creativity and energy. So they leave, these young and impatient Russians, although reluctant to leave Mother Russia and families. On the other hand, some come back with their MBAs and become leaders at home.  Russia doesn’t seem to know what to do with these bright young men and women. A recent poll stated that eighty percent of Russians do not want to emigrate. Amazing—so what does that say of the remaining twenty percent? Are these the creative minds that hold the future promise? I know this is a philosophical view, but I am reminded of the famous painting of  A Knight at the Crossroads by Viktor Vasnetsov: (The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg,seen above) They are all, these young, ambitious and committed like the knight at the crossroad. For the sake of their homeland, I hope they stay.

Excerpted from “Walking on Ice, An American Businessman in Russia”

Moscow Dogs

There has been a lot reported recently about the dogs riding the Moscow Metro in search of food. But some can’t afford that. I have one of those stories.

In the shadow of the Ministry of Foreign affairs, one of those seven giant Stalin buildings that punctuate the Moscow skyline, is a shell of a building that was once an Orthodox church. Under the sagging wooden gate with a sign from that Russian church that someday hopes to return, came the dogs, all mutts. First, a dog sired by a German Shepherd, then a cross between a sheep dog and a cocker spaniel, next a black and white short hair with a limp, and others, all nondescript, eight in all. They hung around the hole under the gate, like gang members waiting for the boss. And then he appeared, slipping under the gate and shaking himself with his authoritative nose in the air. He was the smallest of them all.

He had a square face and a cocky air that reminded me of James Cagney as a Chicago gangster. They all fell in behind Jimmy and wrestled for the favored spot downwind just behind his tail. Within a block they were in the right order, and spreading out on their scavenger hunt. It was not a game, it was survival.

They lived in my neighborhood and were not unfriendly. Like any group of unruly Russians, they made lots of noise, but give them something to eat and drink and they will love you forever. I had nothing to give them, but they didn’t shy from asking. Neither did they take offense, but headed on for more likely targets.

Resourcefulness is a valued Russian trait. Nearby was a building under confused reconstruction, the mess of timbers looking like a pile of pick-up sticks, Mud was everywhere. The workmen, sloshing around in the mud and spilled cement from the hand-cranked mixer, wore knee-length rubber boots. One day, on my way to work, I noticed one of the dogs from Jimmy’s gang, furtively running away from the building site with a leather boot in his mouth, looking side to side over his shoulder like a boy with a stolen candy bar. The thief squiggled under the chain-link fence with his catch and into a neighboring yard of guarded BMWs and Lincolns where his buddies were applauding and laughing the way dogs do. I could only imagine the boot owner, at the end of the day, wearily doffing his rubber boots, but finding only one of his leather ones, and exclaiming to his exhausted buddies, “Which one of you bastards hid my boot?” Surely he had only one pair of boots. Meanwhile the dogs were smiling sickly across the street at having devoured the delicious morsel.

These dogs are the underworld, the bumsh, the homeless, those on their own, having been turned out of warm homes for lack of enough food even for their masters. They are victims of the wrenching change affecting Russian society, like many in this country of promise. But, also like amongst the people, there are others who live in another world of limitless luxury, the Novo Russki dogs.

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The Mechanical Piano~Chekhov Returns

In the Moscow home of the famous Russian actress, Maria Yermalova, I heard a short talk on the play “The Mechanical Piano” by Oleg Tabakov based on Chekhov. It was in the late 1990s. The expert speaker was Sergei Ostrovsky, himself from a famous theatrical family.   He was then an intelligent and unassuming young student of theater history studying at Tufts University near Boston. His mother was curator of the Yermalova home, which is now a Theatrical Museum.

Tabakov, he explained, was one of the rebellious writers who, during Khrushchev’s time, broke loose from state cultural control and brought new life into Russian theater. In times of Stalinist control, Chekhov and other great writers were performed according to official interpretation, and not according to the interpretation of the directors and actors, or even the intent of the author. The Maly Theater, one of Russia’s leading theatrical institutions, was known only for its state approved productions, especially of Chekhov―the presentations being boringly proper. Tabakov, he told us, was one of those out to break the mold.

Tabakov chose to write a play based on a drama by Chekhov, written by that great Russian author at eighteen. It was apparently Chekhov’s first play, overly long, full of everything he ever dreamed to put into a play―crashing trains and dancing gypsies. When he brought it to Maria Yermalova for an opinion, she told him it was terrible. He burned it saying the worse day of his life would be the day the play was put on the stage. He never even gave it a name, but it is commonly called “Platonov” after the main character. But a second copy of that play survived. It resurfaced, modified as a movie by Nikita Mikhalkov in 1977 – “An Unfinished Piece for a Mechanical Piano.” Three hours long and according to some Russians, one of the best films ever made. The story became the basis for a shorter stage play now also called, “The Mechanical Piano.”

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Russian Art ~ As I see it.

A few words about Russian art which is too little known in the West and was pretty well unknown to me on my first trip in 1991. But, I was an avid learner.

Everyone knows about The Hermitage. That is not Russian art. It is one of the world’s most important collections of Western art in the most elegant surroundings. Real Russian art is to be found in The State Russian Museum in St. Petersburg, and in The Tretyakov (the old and the new museums) in Moscow.  It can also be found in many other smaller museums about the country. Under communism, the state owned everything and private collections were confiscated.

 When I first arrived, I was totally astonished to find a world of art in Russia that, in my unlettered opinion, was the equal of anything seen in the museums of the Western world. The Iron Curtain had kept it all a secret. I thought all Russian art was either religious icons, or Socialist Realism (and that being propagandistic). Indeed, religious art existed as the Russian church dominated society until the 18^th century. The next phase reflected the growing Western influences after Peter the Great,  and along classical lines (mainly portraiture, court painting, epic and religious scenes).

In the mid 19^th century things started changing—concurrent with growing unrest and change in all of Russian society. There began a breaking away from the Imperial school in St. Petersburg and a migration to a study of common people and of Russia as it really was— impressionism. Near Moscow there is an estate called Abramtsevo, the home of the rich merchant Savva Mamontov. Mamontov turned his estate over entirely to the new wave of artists who wanted to show the real Russians in real-life situations. Out of this came the art and artists I most admire. The artists would travel the land and rivers and capture the essence of the common man. They would follow the Czar’s army fighting the Turks and study in Italy, the Holy Land, and Asia. Among these was a group was called the Peredvizhniki or The Wanderers. The industrial revolution brought the train to Europe and in France the Impressionists became a movement and a style, as the artist could travel and record his impressions of the country and life. Although Russia was 10-20 years behind Europe, these Russian Wanderers did the same thing–without the train.

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The Banya

Even after eleven years in Russia, I had never enjoyed the pleasures (?) of the banya. It is an institution in that country. As we collected our sandals, sheets, and bunches of birch twigs the Russian in our group said, “Citizens of The United States, prepare to suffer.”

 The process was this: First into a room with walls and seats of hot wooden planks, too hot to touch. With a long handled cup, water was thrown on the walls to increase the temperature which was already, they said, at 200 degrees Fahrenheit. After about twenty minutes, the birch branches, soaked in water with oil of eucalyptus, were beaten on our white and frail bodies. We either did it to each other, one man standing covering his essentials and beaten by the other, or like Penitentes, we beat ourselves. Slap, slap, slap. If it were babushkas doing the beating, it might have been fatal. Some men wore felt caps, supposedly to protect the ears, making one look like a peasant in a Brueghel painting.

 The skin a beaten red, the next step was into the pool of ice cold water. The manly way was to climb up the slippery ladder (everything was slippery) and jump into it, a pool eight by fourteen feet and five feet deep.  When the body starts to shake, it’s into the private locker room, large enough for ten or so—we were five, and down a tall mug of kvass. Kvass is the Russian tea-totaler’s substitute for beer. It is made from black bread. Not bad. Some talk and gossip about poets and writers, then back to the hot room. The eucalyptus aroma soothes the insides. Soon some Russians joined us. Thin and fat, young and old. It was quitting time, we figured.

 This masochistic routine was repeated four times over two hours. By then the twigs had lost all their leaves and were switches. They hurt more. The body sways a bit, and it wasn’t just me. Sitting is better. Then a shower, drying off, and taking to the street for the long walk back to the hotel.

 Now, among Russians, I can claim some degree of legitimacy. The girls in the office said I looked healthy. So it must have been a good idea.

There is another role for the banya. A  tough business decision was to be made affecting my company by our Russian partners. At about six one evening, I was told we would hear by ten the next morning–and we did. I learned that they (the important men) got together in the banya before going home, and decided in our favor. It was explaned that is where vital decisions are made.