Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“It’s government corruption then that holds your business back?” I asked for clarification.

“Yes, corrupt, self-serving bureaucrats that are robbing the people blind, laming private businesses like mine by giving rights and licenses to their friends and family and not allowing competition. They take every day and give nothing back of any value to Mother Russia,” he restated more calmly this time.

“You also have a very popular night club in a unique setting. Can you tell me about that business and what plans you have for that in the future?” I asked going out on a limb a bit.

“Did you like The Monastery?” he asked with obvious pride in his voice.

“To be honest, it didn’t feel good to me to be dancing like that in an old church. It lacks respect. But this is just my opinion,” I said apologetically.

“OK, you can have your opinion. No problem,” he said brushing me off and protecting his pride.

“Can I ask how you purchased a church to make into a nightclub?” I queried, truly wanting to know the answer.

“It was easy. No more monks. Russian girls are too pretty. They were chasing girls when I bought it!” he laughed at his own joke.

“Yes, I agree. It would be difficult to be a monk in Russia,” I truly agreed with that sentiment. “Do you have further plans to expand the night club operations, or are you satisfied with it?”

“It is a fun little club, but it does not make much money. It does not attract the people with the money. It is more for students to dance. It is not open every day, just weekends. So I am planning to build a new one very close to it,” he said with a bit a disappointment.

“How will the new one be different?” I was sincerely curious.

“Do you know Las Vegas?” he looked at me and winked his left eye, letting me in on a secret plan.

“Yes, of course…,” I stammered not understanding what he was telling me.

“To get people with money you must have more than dancing. You need shows, a casino, buffets and someplace for them to sleep,” he paused waiting for my acknowledgment, “Nizhniy has no good hotels. My friends, when they come from Moscow to The Monastery, they always complain to me that they need someplace to sleep that makes them comfortable. Nizhniy is a great town, a great Volga town, but it is not a modern city.”

“So, you plan to make Nizhniy Novgorod the Las Vegas of Russia?” I asked with a pinch of repulsion.

“If God won’t stop me, yes!” he replied convinced of his crusade. “It will bring new construction, new hotels, new jobs, money from gambling, restaurants, airport. Just look at Macau! It’s a great model for a city-state.”

“Is this just a dream you have or are you working on plans already?” I swallowed my personal indifference to his plans to keep him talking.

“We are working on the plans already. Would you like to see the drawings? Maybe you can give some good tips about how to make it better, more American?” he said with enthusiasm.

Mr. P. retrieved some plastic tubes from behind his desk and rolled the technical drawings of a master plan on the glass coffee table and secured the corners of the thin paper with heavy granite chess pieces and began to explain the specifics of the plan.

The drawings were impressive. The artist’s sketches looked to give the hotel and the other buildings a unique modern style but unmistakably with a rich Russian influence. It seemed almost to be a complimentary sort of architecture to the local kremlin and incorporated the architectural aspects of The Monastery as it now was. I studied it for some time as Mr. P. explained his favorite elements of the design and the layout and the architecture. There would indeed be a casino, fine dining, a hotel with three hundred and fifty rooms. The hotel though would not be a sky scraper like the monstrosities in Las Vegas, but a three-floor stone structure that encircled the entertainment facilities, much like a fortress with a church and a village in the middle. The hotel rooms would all have a great view of the Volga, perched on and built into the the panorama slope of the bluff. Somehow, the design of the hotel held true to Mr. P.’s belief and quasi-worship of the Volga river and the Russian aesthetic. It was ingenious, even to my eyes.

“And you see, here is The Monastery, so we will make sure that we keep the church and its buildings preserved. This was our agreement with the church and the city when they let us buy it. We will not keep it as a club forever. I promised if I could build my hotel on the land next to it that we would restore and preserve it for our history,” he said with a bit of reverence and respect, which surprised me.

At once I recognized that this land for the Noviy Monastir as Mr. P. was calling it, was very close to if not the same parcel of land that Del and his company were trying to receive permission to build on.

I chose my questions carefully now as I did not want to appear to know too much already. “When will the construction start? It looks like you are ready to start any day.”

“We are waiting for the approval from the city council and the governor and this takes a long time now because there is a question about selling land for private use, for business,” he remarked astutely.

“We’ve come back to the privatization process again,” I pointed out

“Yes, I suppose so,” Mr. P. shrugged his shoulders. “We are waiting to know if we can lease the land or purchase it to own it.”

“How long will this take?” I kept my questions short to not give insight into my insider knowledge.

“We expect to have a decision at the end of May, before the summer holidays. We would then start building maybe one year from now. One can’t start construction in Russia in the autumn. The ground will freeze too soon and you can’t lay a good foundation that won’t sink in the spring. We have these problems all over Siberia with buildings that sink in the spring. Each year they sink another few centimeters,” he was sounding more and more educated and knowledgeable.

“This is, of course, a huge project. Do you have partners or investors?” I knew I should not have asked this question as soon as it left my mouth.

“Yes, we have investors who are ready to help with the hotel building once the land is secure,” he answered without giving details.

“Are you financing that land purchase yourself with the help of a bank?” What was I asking?

“No, no banks. Banks are criminals too. They will find a way to rob me of my land if I borrow the money from them,” he answered with the enthusiasm in his voice evaporating quickly.

“Well, your car imports and your electronics imports for Russian prices certainly have not been able to create profits enough to purchase this much land. You don’t have any foreign investors who will help secure the financing?” For some reason, I could not stop asking these questions, I knew I was on thin ice now, but the adrenaline of the hunt had gone to my heart already. I almost had him in my net.

Mr. P. replied gruffly to my impertinent questioning, ’No, I don’t believe in foreign money. They will have too much control over Russia if we keep borrowing from them. I have some money my father left to me that I will use to pay for the land.”

With that comment Mr. P. began to roll up the technical drawings, briskly without care, and slid them back into the plastic tubes and put them away behind his desk from where he had retrieved them. As he walked back towards me at the couches he did not sit down again, to signal that the interview was over. Getting the hint, I quickly gathered up my notebook and pen and put them in my book bag and stood up to meet Mr. P.’s eyes. He did not extend his hand for a farewell handshake as I extended mine. He kept his hands in the pockets of his slacks.