The Troika Today, Putin, Medvedev, and Luzhkov?

 In Russian politics, there is always the “troika,” like three horses unevenly pulling the sleigh thorough the cold and rugged Russian countryside. I had wondered if or where was the third horse with Putin and Medvedev in their “tandem” harness. The third horse was evidently the mayor of Moscow, Yury Luzhkov. I had overlooked that. I thought Luzhkov was some way permanent in that city. Maybe he still does assume that, even though President Medvedev has sacked him. After all, until, in 2005, when then President Putin eliminated direct gubernatorial elections, Luzhkov had won three elections with majorities of about 80%. Moscow, in many ways, operated as quasi –state.

The troika is a perfect metaphor for the predictable unpredictability of Russian politics, and the future of a man whose wife owns Moscow real estate valued at $2-9 billion in the capital city representing about a quarter of the GDP of the whole country clearly has claim to a seat on the unpredictable  troika. Or does he? Has Medvedev shown his power by pulling the sword on Luzhkov? Or has Putin shown his power by keep his sword sheathed in this affair, letting Medvedev take the action, and maybe the penalty if it “somehow” it was a mistake. We will have to wait and see.

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“You know the fact!”

“You know the fact! I am the best. I wear Levis and Nikes”

                                                                                   An unknown Russian boy

These words were scribbled by a child in small English letters on the yellow brick wall of a residential Moscow building near where I lived in 1994. That says more about the future of Russia than any academic think tank with their computer generated prophesies based on arguable statistics. There is the quest for global status in those scribbles of the young. And in the end (and the end may be down the road a bit) it is the young that count. That is where the promise lies—with those who can wear Levis and Nikes and still be Russian. That is “the fact.”

On one of those early post-Soviet days, walking down the Old Arbat, just after Mayor Luzhkov had banned the street kiosks and the pandering of KGB uniforms and Lenin T-shirts, I was approached by a small boy with a big bag. The boy, about ten, furtively looked over both shoulders to assure no police were watching, and pulled out of his plastic bag a matryoshka doll so badly painted I thought it was done by a dyspeptic. He said in near perfect English, “Look at this beautiful matryoshka doll, only $5.99.”

I said, “This is the ugliest matryoshka doll I have ever seen.”

“Then how about $4.99?” he snapped back.

“No, you could not pay me to take this doll.”

He quickly dropped it back into the bag and pulled out an equally ugly lacquer box, smiling, “Then how about this beautiful box.”

“That is worse than the doll. What is your name?

“Peter.”

“Well, Peter, you tell the guys who sent you out with this trash to give you really good dolls and boxes and you will make them and you rich.” He puffed up with pride and looked over his shoulder again to see if his mentors were watching. I continued, “When you grow up, you come see me, and I will give you a good job, because you are a great salesman.” He stuffed his ugly box into the bag with the ugly doll and ran off to tell his bosses of his promising future. That boy will go far in the new Russia—or anywhere.

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