Val Karren: The Deceit of Riches

“Me! I am the head of the History and Politics faculty and the publisher and editor of the journal.” He looked very proud of himself to tell this fact to other people.

Dean Karamzin not only went on to agree with all my proposals for my academic agenda in Nizhniy Novgorod but was stacking up resource upon resource for me that would make it almost easy and certainly a source of rich materials for researchers that would follow after me.

“Would you like to interview Nemtsov?” referring to the current governor of the province, Boris Nemtsov, “He is old friend of mine.”

“I sure would. I’ve heard great things about him?” I replied like a little boy getting to sit in a fire truck for the first time with wide eyes.

“I know people in Moscow too. We could travel to Moscow and interview Yeltsin’s people.”

“Tii-Shto!” (Get out!) I blurted in street slang.

“Yes, I know them too,” he boasted again.

“Did you already receive access to the university’s American Library from Valentina Petrovna?” he asked off hand.

“The what? An American library here in Nizhniy?” I nearly jumped out of my chair on hearing this.

“Yes, it was gift from American Ambassador Pickering in November last year. There is much data and computers to use for research, in English, Russian and other languages too,” he said as a matter of fact.

“That would be wonderful if I could get access and an account there,” I agreed.

“I will ask Professor Strelyenko to go with you tomorrow and enroll you there, to open an account, etc.,” he waved his hand as if he was commanding an unseen aide de camp who would execute his whims.

He then stopped and looked at me as if surprised I was the only person in the room with him and remarked, “Strelyenko will also be your tutor for the term. He is very involved in the current political events and has written many books now being published in St. Petersburg. We have a free press now you know. He is a bit radical, but it would be good for you to speak with him regularly and balance your western views with his pro-Slavic views. You will then together see the truth in the middle.”

“Should I limit my focus at all? Is there something I should be careful about? “,I asked with a prompting caution in my intonation.

“Why? What for? I am not Stalin. Stalin is dead already many years,” he recoiled at my naive idea that the thought police were still knocking on doors in the dark of night.

“Is there anything you would like me to research that could be published in the journal?” I was feeling out the possibilities and his tolerance, but he didn’t restrict me at all.

“I just want you to use the data and information from MY library to contribute to the journal. It will be great!”

“Well, I am very interested in this whole transition from state owned to privately owned businesses. I know here in Nizhniy they are pioneering this process the right way, at least that is what the press says. With some local interviews and case studies and some nationwide data to compare, I think it could make an interesting mix of economics with politics. What is your opinion?”

“It sounds to me like you just formulated your thesis, Mr. Turner. Please consider using this opportunity to refine it and we can publish the first version of it in June! Agreed?” the Dean seemed pleased.

He stood up to dismiss me from his office with a handshake. I left him as his telephone buzzed on his desk. “HAALOH?” he bellowed as I pulled the door closed behind me.

Vitaly was folding his clothes when I returned to our dorm room after a full day. I flopped on to my bed exhausted still from jet-lag and a culture shock. My stomach grumbled disapprovingly from my neglect of it.

“Vitaly, can ask you something?” I asked sitting half way up on the bed. My roommate, sober this time, nodded silently with his back still to me.

“Isn’t it illegal from the start of this year to use dollars or German marks to pay in Russia, except when exchanging money for rubles of course?” I asked him a bit puzzled and concerned.

“Yes, but nobody cares. Everybody still wants dollars,” he commented unconcerned. “Who? Who still wants dollars?” I asked.

“Everybody. Everybody wants to exchange their salaries for dollars as quickly as possible,” he commented without drama or excitement.

“To preserve their buying power.” I understood quickly what my new friend was telling me. He explained further, “Nobody has faith in the Ruble anymore. You lose your savings as soon as you put it on your account. Poof! it disappears! Can’t even buy bread. You should talk to my grandma. Her pension is worthless.”

“Why would I have to pay for my tuition in dollars then do you think?” I asked with caution as I admitted to the morning’s drama.

“Your dollars will go right to the bankers who are the ones who run the exchange kiosks. No doubt about it! Are you paying for your room and board in dollars too?” he saw right through my agreement with the University.

“Yes, exactly. So, you don’t think that money will go to the university, eh? So, tell me, what’s the deal there?” I asked unassumingly.

“From what I’ve heard the university has a patron saint in Nizhniy Novgorod who takes his payoff in dollars,” he said with without any irony in his voice.

“A patron saint?” I asked confused and puzzled.

“A patron saint of protection from accidents, arson, and other man-made mishaps. Protection from another patron saint even,” he explained in his mysterious code.

“So, because the University has a source of hard currency, some mafia boss is muscling in to take a share?” I postulated.

“You’ll need to be careful not to say it that way! Just a little warning to you because you’re new.” Vitaly said turning to look at me with a serious look in his eyes.

“What you told me last night, even though you were a bit drunk, about the mafia bosses taking over the government?” I asked carefully.

“Oh, it’s real. We see it everywhere, but there is a very popular journalist in Moscow, a communist journalist, but a very good investigator. He broke a huge story last weekend just before the New Year. He isn’t afraid of anybody. He named names and gave figures. He must have a source in the parliament, maybe an old communist, an enemy of Yeltsin, who must have given him some real documents. He showed that government ministers are selling Russia’s assets, to turn them over to private hands, but for ten percent their real values and the gangsters are paying them big amounts of cash to do it this way. It’s crazy. Completely crazy. If the ministers say no, the gangsters kill their families, blow them up. It is too crazy for words!”

“What is the name of the journalist?” I asked wanting to research his articles.

“Bolshakov. Dmitri Bolshakov.”

The next afternoon I met Professor Strelyenko on Minin Street just up the river embankment from the history department, at the school of Linguistics. The American library was on the ground floor behind very sternly barred windows, hung nicely with white sheers on the inside.

Strelyenko a junior professor of Dean Karamzin’s faculty, a stern looking young man in his early thirties, was known for being a very vocal Russian nationalist. Some suspected him of and labeled him as an extremist. Strelyenko seemed to make everybody at the university, except the Dean himself rather nervous. I held my breath in his lectures at the foreign students’ faculty as he had no problem ruffling feathers and offending those from the former Soviet republics. The tension was at times as thick as the ice on the Volga River in January when he was lecturing. He spoke English very well and didn’t find that to be in conflict with his political leanings. He dressed like the avant-guard academic and intellectual that he was; black high-necked sweater and Russian made blue jeans. We all wore the same looking coats boots and hats in the winter.