Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“That you are watching him, trying to learn about him and what he does,” the Dean clarified.

“It’s not that he was hiding very well. The drugs, the booze, the girls, the cars, the other hooligans he was hosting on Saturday makes it very obvious what he is doing,” I proclaimed.

“Oh yes, and what is that and what proof do you have of it? Is it obvious how he does it? Did he tell you how he has earned his money?” the Dean remarked and grilled me sarcastically.

“Well, when you look at it like that no, but…,” I stammered.

“And this is why Russia, Yeltsin, and Nemtsov, are unable to put these guys in jail. Nobody is willing to prove it in court. Everybody knows it, but nobody is willing to talk about it, and they continue to build their wealth through illegal and violent means and then they become powerful enough, with just enough of a reputation, that nobody dares to open their mouths or lift a hand to stop them,” Karamzin stated.

“Dean, listen, I am not a public prosecutor, nor am I am detective. I can’t put these guys in jail. I’m a student,” I pleaded.

“Yes, a highly visible student who is very dedicated to his work in history and economics and is very good with the Russian language. Your reputation is very well known at the school. Everybody knows you and knows you to be a dedicated academic. That is why Mr. P. would never suspect you. Academics are harmless. They write meaningless articles that nobody reads, and if they do read them the articles are neutral, so they don’t rock the boat and nobody cares as long as something academic was published. We have a chance to change that now with you. You can write an entry that means something. If you need to, you can always leave and go back to USA. If I write it and make the wrong people angry then I could get into big trouble with the university and with others with less patience. You can just fly away.” Karamzin was dreaming of the chance to advance the visibility and usefulness of his department and field with ground breaking work written by a disposable student.

Just then the telephone on his desk starting belching its sickly buzz, instead of a ring. The Dean ripped the handset from the console and yelled, “We are very busy. Don’t call back,” and slammed it down again.

“I’m not researching criminal law, I’m researching how to improve the privatization process of state companies so that Russia doesn’t lose any more of its wealth to a few robber-barrons,” I protested.

“Mr. Turner, tell me about your observations on Saturday and then I will tell you what I know that you don’t know,” the Dean said slightly annoyed with me.

“Fine then, I will start with a question that has been in my mind since Saturday: Why would Mr. P. open up his night club for free and provide the drinks, drugs, and girls for free? What motivation does he have? With these actions, he is not earning money. In fact, it is costing him big money. Mr P., even though he is a baffoon, in my opinion, with NO education, he has street smarts, the street smarts of a capitalist, a marketeer, a PR manager. He knows how to make people like him and how to win their tolerance of what he is doing. True, I have no proof that he runs the kiosk protection rackets in town. True, I have no proof that he is pimping all the girls at his club offering free services on Saturday. True I have no proof that he is trafficking the drugs being snorted and smoked at the club. So, if he throws great parties for the university students he can slowly pull them into his world. He shows them that he is a nice guy who likes the city, and can contribute to the city. Maybe some of the people start working in his import business of TVs and home electronics from Korea. Seems legit enough. In fact, it probably is. He gives free tickets to journalists to see great concerts at The Monastery and then they don’t write bad things about him or they will lose the fun perks that they can’t afford on a provincial journalist’s salary. A fellow has to have some fun, maybe he even gets a free girl that night too. Mr. P. is using his money and people’s own vices to ingratiate himself to the city’s citizens. No bad press, nobody writing bad things about him. Who doesn’t love him, right? I can imagine on any other given night we’ll find the chief of Nizhniy police there as well with two very pretty young girls on each knee with his hand up one skirt and another under the other’s blouse thinking he’s the most attractive fat, hairy, bald guy in all of Russia. So, Saturday night, and other nights like it are a big pubic relations expense. What’s the end game though? I saw other thugs in prettier cars with prettier girls than Mr. P’s there from Moscow. Drivers dressed like supermodels carrying guns under their suits, I believe, and everybody drinking imported beers and Russian vodka. It was quite brash and obvious. But OK, everybody is paying off a police chief or two. Is Mr. P. trying to get to swim with the big sharks by showing off at these types of events? At what point will the big sharks let a provincial shark into the feeding frenzy? Is Mr. P. just picking from the floating carcasses that come down the river from Moscow or is he able to get his jaws full of something real, something that is still flailing and bleeding? What can he bring to the table to share? What are his dues for admission to the big sharks’ club? I don’t know. This is far as my thinking takes me.”

“You have lots of fact finding to do, young man. You have more questions than facts. An academic paper is written on facts, documented facts,” The look on Dean K’s face was one of ‘checkmate’! He leaned back in his chair and began to tell me his story.

“Mr. P. or Igor Ivanovich was his name when I knew him as a school mate of mine. You understand that P. is not his birth name. He changed his name after he was released from prison. I’m sure that you have heard the rumors. He likes everybody to know he is a killer, even though it was an accident. A few weeks ago, Igor Ivanovich and I bumped into each other in Moscow at a new hotel in the center. It was pure coincidence. He invited me for a drink and so we had a few hundred grams of vodka at the bar. Nothing horrible. Igor goes on tell me that he wants to be a candidate in the next provincial elections for governor. Further he wants to form a political party with a platform of law and order. He was perhaps a bit drunk, but then again, he always is, and went on tell me how the criminals were taking over Russia and steeling from the good people of the mother land. These may have been the first honest words I ever heard him speak in his life, but there they were. He went on to say that he wanted to become a benevolent dictator in order to stop the crime and return the money to the people and live in peace and happiness the rest of his days. That was his plan: to be the new Stalin with the heart of Robin Hood,” was the Dean’s revelation.

“Do you believe him?” I asked.

“What’s the difference? He’s such a small player that he wouldn’t be able to survive on a provincial platform, let alone the national stage. He may be a big fish in a small pond here in Nizhniy, but he is not hard enough to take on the system. He doesn’t have enough money to buy off so many people. He would have to discover an oil well under his Monastery to make the next step up… but none the less, he is making his move now and wants to enter politics,” was the Dean’s follow-up.

“You just said he doesn’t have a chance so how could he make that a reality?” I pouted.

“True, but that doesn’t mean he can’t put together a party and get something started with some help,” Karamzin speculated.

“Who could help him?” I asked half knowing the answer already.

“He wants to pay me to consult on how to set up and start a party here in Nizhniy Novgorod.” The Dean beamed with honor.