Rise of an Oligarch: The Way It Is: Book One Read online

  Gigo was yelling, I was yelling. Nazar, yelling like a mad dog, picked up the amputated finger and tossed it to the side. A large, ugly rat came out of a broken water pipe, grabbed the finger and scurried away with its prize.

  Nazar pointed the cleaver at me and shouted, “Now it’s your turn, you little fucking ball sucker. I’m going to chop off your dick and force it down your fingerless friend’s throat.”

  I felt that I was going to throw up. But before I had a chance to do so, everything went black. I was knocked out, unconscious.

  A voice entered my dream-like state.

  “Misha...Misha...come on,” the voice urged.

  I awoke to find Gigo’s battered face looming over me. My mouth felt salty with blood.

  “Come, Misha. We should leave now.”

  “What? What’s going on? Where...”

  “Nazar has gone, but they’ll be back soon. Come on.”

  Dizzy, I noticed that Gigo was holding his bleeding finger. I quickly removed one of my shoelaces and wrapped it as a tourniquet around the bloody stump.

  Together we staggered back to campus in a terrible state. I needed thirty two stitches and my left arm was broken. Gigo lost his finger and it wasn’t going to grow back. But we were lucky; apparently, just after I passed out, one of Nazar’s gang came running into the compound and told him that a rival gang was in the area, and everyone left to confront the intruders, giving us an opportunity to escape. I reached for my dick and thankfully it was still there. The last thing I needed was another circumcision.

  The relief was only temporary. Nazar would be looking to kill me.

  ***

  The economic conditions in young independent Ukraine were tough. The country entered a deep recession, pushing people to escape in alcoholic and narcotic virtual realities. Everything was consumed to get high. Radiator liquid, medical spirit, au-de-cologne, glue steam, codeine, ephedrine. Anything with psychoactive effects. If you could swallow, smoke, snort, inject or stick it up your butt and it got you high, someone in Ukraine would’ve tried it.

  Vodka was my choice of a drug. We either bought vodka or used its homemade substitute. The vodka that we distilled was cheap, awful shit, but who cared about the taste after a couple of shots?

  Many students replenished the stock of the ingredients - wheat, rye, barely, corn and potatoes - from their home villages, and chemistry students provided basic lab equipment. We had a splendid little brewery running at the dorms, ensuring we avoided producing fatal amounts of methanol, a by-product of homemade alcohol - so don’t try it at home.

  I had nothing against smoking weed or against smokers. Some of my best friends were more often stoned than sober. I enjoyed smoking marijuana, but I liked vodka better. Weed makes you think more and vodka makes you think less. I was thinking all the time so I liked the smoothing effects of vodka, giving my mind some well-deserved time off.

  The weed smokers were a fertile ground for making extra money. Gigo had a Georgian cousin - one of countless cousins, who was a dealer of marijuana and hash. The dealing was done under the cover of an apricot stand at Kiev’s central market. I used to buy from Gigo’s cousin in bulk, cut the pack to small plastic bags and sell them to students.

  Ukrainian weed smokers were always looking for ways to make the smoking more economical. Rolling paper wasn’t cheap, so smokers emptied cigarettes and used them instead, after removing the filter so the good stuff wouldn’t be filtered down. The cigarette’s tobacco was mixed with the marijuana so it lasted longer.

  Another way to increase the smoking’s efficiency was the parovoz, literally meaning locomotive in Russian. With a parovoz, one weed smoker exhaled into the mouth of another smoker so the smoke could be recycled and used again. This was Ukrainian efficiency and high-tech industrialisation at its best.

  I stayed away from heavy drug users. The main reason was that local gangsters controlled all the dealing of heavy drugs, such as codeine, ephedrine and morphine.

  Messing with drug barons or stepping into their territory could mean serious trouble, like finding yourself at the bottom of the Dnieper River with cement shoes around your feet. Dealing light drugs to fellow students could’ve been done unnoticed. As I’ve learnt over the years, flying below the radar was a key for safely reaching old age.

  Dealing drugs, of course, was officially illegal. However, while it was a serious offence, its illegality was only a small nuisance and a big business opportunity. If a policeman caught you dealing drugs, an envelope might solve the problem. But if another drug lord caught you dealing drugs, an envelope would solve nothing. He would take the envelope and still shoot you if you were lucky, or torture you and then shoot you, if you were unlucky. You were better off with a policeman than with a hard-core drug dealer.

  Another aspect that provided safety to small drug pushers was that nobody was likely to snitch to the police. The police was the enemy. Snitching was a serious crime in gangster rules, which were predominant in comparison with state laws. The penalty for snitching was physical punishment - broken limbs or death. The students knew that if they were to snitch to the militsiya, they would need prosthetic knees, and with the poor healthcare system in Ukraine you were better off avoiding its services.

  ***

  While my Jewish mother always taught me to complain, I had no reasons to do so. Overall, between my protection business, light drug dealing, card hustling, the monthly university stipends and fees from helping students in their exams, I was doing quite well for a seventeen year old university student, boasting a nice business diversification.

  I wasn’t ashamed of my economic position anymore. From the outcast among my schoolmates, I became almost rich in comparison with most of my fellow students. That felt good! Nobody dared to ignore me at university, and many admired me.

  After a few months at the institute, I was able to move out of the dorms and rent a small one-bedroom apartment. It was well equipped with a video cassette recorder and a colour television.

  The Godfather movie was my favourite. I felt an affinity with the character of Michael Corleone. He, like me, was inherently moral but was pushed into a life of crime by necessity. Michael had to do what he did to protect and provide for his family. I had to do what I did to stop living like a poor, worthless Jewish boy.

  My apartment soon became a mecca for small student parties. I entertained my guests with vodka, smoke and the latest movies and music. This made me extremely popular with the ladies, and provided a comfortable place to keep a low profile under Nazar’s radar.

  During the break between semesters, students were sent to a labour camp in the countryside. I probably could’ve escaped this pointless activity by buying a certificate from any doctor, but, since it offered some time off and a good hideout from Nazar, I actually embarked on it enthusiastically. It wasn’t like I really intended to work there anyway.

  I thought that it was a crime against humanity to send us to the fields in the middle of the rainy, freezing, intolerable November weather. While I didn’t expect a limousine to take us to the countryside, seeing what looked like a World War II truck waiting for us fell below even my modest expectations. It was roofless, so we were exposed to the cold downpour for the entire journey. Our vodka supplies started to vanish immediately, as we passed the bottles around, attempting to warm up.

  Drinking vodka on a truck wasn’t the wisest idea. Since the truck hardly had springs and shock absorbers, the ride felt like taming a mustang. The first few students vomited right inside the truck. After another fellow did it next to me, I warned the rest that I would personally throw the next one to do so out of the truck. The threat was heeded and the next round of pukes was delivered outside, by bending over the truck’s sides.

  We were heading southbound on the Kiev-Odessa highway. However, approximately thirty kilometres away from Kiev the truck turned left on to a dirt road that had been washed away by recent heavy rains. The famous saying ascribed to Gogol, that Russia has two trouble
s - idiots and roads - was still actual.

  After the third time that we had to push and pull the stuck lorry out of the mud, the driver suggested that we might continue on foot.

  “Laddies. You’re too heavy a load. It’s only one kilometre left, so you’ll be in the labour camp in no time, if you walk instead of struggling with this truck in a swamp.”

  He had a point, so we disembarked, looking forward to reaching some dry, warm shelter soon. After walking an hour and without seeing any sign of a settlement on the horizon, it became clear that the driver’s distance estimate was - how to say it mildly - a little bit fucking inaccurate.

  After walking for three hours, we started to smell the cows’ shit. Civilization was near! After another half an hour the stench became unbearable. I was sure that now it wasn’t a dirt road anymore - we were treading on a shit road.

  Soon we found further evidence of humanoids: the drunken kolkhozniks staggering, lying and moaning along the road.

  It was the middle of the working day when we arrived; nevertheless it seemed that the entire grown-up populace of the village was drunk out of their skulls. No wonder there was an acute shortage of workforce for harvesting.

  Seeing this decadence, we had no intention of putting our shoulders to the wheel instead of our drunken comrades. Most of us pretended as if we were diligently harvesting beets during the day, while we spent the evenings partying wildly.

  The first evening at the camp I saw a familiar face: Olga, the girl from my high school. I immediately noticed that she had her horse-like teeth fixed. Dentists in Ukraine didn’t have braces, so I didn’t know how they were fixed. But I didn’t care. She looked even better than before. I had to have her.

  As I was a slum dog, not spoiled by luxurious living conditions, the Spartan environment of the camp wasn’t much of a nuisance. Olga, on the other hand, was the daughter of a prominent communist party boss, brought up in central Kiev. The princess was on the verge of a psychiatric meltdown once she’d realised where she was. When she saw me, she smiled and walked over.

  “Oh, Misha. I’m so glad to see you here. It’s lovely to see a familiar face.”

  Olga hadn’t looked at me twice during high school since I had no money and I was basically just another poor Jewish boy. Now that I’d managed to make some money, which was obvious to anyone from my foreign outfit, Olga somehow found me more attractive.

  Like a good and caring friend, I invited her to hang out. Nothing was better than a damsel in distress for a knight in shining armour to make his move.

  “It’s nice to see you too, Olga. You look nice. Very nice,” I said, trying to act cool and aloof.

  Olga smiled shyly and played with her hair, rolling it around her finger. It was obvious we didn’t have much to talk about, so I decided not to waste any time.

  “How about going to my room to catch up? I have some music and a bottle. That’s the only entertainment here. No dance clubs or cafes. Only mooing cows and mooing locals. They might play an accordion or balalaika around here, but we shouldn’t expect more than that. What do you say?”

  Olga smiled, looked around at the scruffy students, and agreed to go with me to my room. After listening to a mix of underground Russian and English music, and emptying a bottle of vodka, Olga and I were soon making out.

  I started to undress her as we were passionately kissing and feeling each other.

  Olga panted breathlessly, “We shouldn’t do anything,” while helping me to undress her.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t do anything,” I replied, and continued removing her clothes.

  She pulled her pants off and started to rub against me. I lay on top of her and plunged into her wet tight pussy.

  “Oh my god, yes, yes. Oh Misha, stop, stop. Oh my god, yes, yes.”

  She was panting and moaning, while saying in a hoarse voice, “Stop, stop, we should stop,” but wrapping her legs around me, not letting me withdraw out of her even if I wanted to.

  I could hardly talk, but whispered, “Don’t worry, relax, we aren’t doing anything.”

  When I’d finished, Olga slipped out of the bed, got dressed and headed for the door.

  I whispered drowsily, “What about a good night kiss?”

  She came back, kissed me on my cheek and left the room. Did I feel satisfaction conquering the hottest girl from high-school? Not really. I knew it was my new reputation and vodka, rather than my charm that had enabled me to bed Olga.

  Next morning I discovered that all my sheets were covered with blood. The shagging did start a bit strange, as I felt as if I was breaking through a barrier. Was she a virgin? I didn’t have any other explanation. It wasn’t her period for sure. I really felt pity for the poor girl to lose her virginity in such a brisk and unromantic manner. It was supposed to be special experience for her. To spend it drunk with a drunk and indifferent guy like me seemed a waste.

  Since no change of sheets was envisaged throughout our sojourn in the kolkhoz, I had to pay five rubles to a camp’s commandant to get a clean set. I couldn’t sleep in sheets covered in Olga’s blood.

  I expected to feel the same bliss and satisfaction as I had years ago in Leningrad with the girl from Riga. Instead, what I felt was emptiness and an unsatisfactory anti-climax. Conquering Olga felt like reaching the peak of Mount Everest only to find a flag already stuck there. In Olga’s case I was the first one, but I was irritated that an occasion I’d had so many wet dreams about went so mundanely and literally filthy.

  I lost my entire libido for her. When Olga sidled up to me the next evening, I made it clear our encounter the night before was a one-off. To my surprise, she shrugged and walked away. Released from her mama’s tight supervision in Kiev and overcoming her initial shock, she seemed to have shed her inhibitions overnight. She ambled over to a table full of male students and spent the evening drinking and flirting outrageously. Later, I glanced over and saw her making out with another student on a bench in front of everyone. Maybe it was for my benefit, but I didn’t care. Olga was a turned page for me. I think that I was key in liberating her, showing her that girls should have fun too.

  As for me, I learnt a lesson that love follows money. I recalled that episode often, each time I heard the Red Hot Chili Peppers song Breaking the Girl, released two years later.

  “Twisting and turning, your feelings are burning, you're breaking the girl.”

  ***

  Around this time, my mother increasingly spoke about leaving Ukraine and immigrating to Israel. The looming repercussions from my misunderstanding with Nazar and his gang were a strong enough reason for me to think about going with her. Every time I thought about Nazar I instinctively covered my groin with my hand. Staying in Kiev was dangerous. Maybe it was time for a change of scenery. Maybe it was time to change my place and change my luck.

  5 History Repeated

  The forces that were behind the glorious Soviet empire, working quietly in the shadows, were still pulling the strings behind the scenes.

  The man who was once known as the Puppet Master watched the news with what was his closest version of a grin. As Russian TV, carefully censored and peppered with necessary intonations, reported on the latest police crackdown on striking factory workers in Ukraine, he raised his glass of vodka and downed it in a single gulp. All that was needed was a single spark to ignite the country into flames. Ukraine was drifting ever-closer to the European Union and it needed steering in the right direction.

  Chisinau, 2013

  The four men sat around an oval table in a room filled with cigarette smoke. They hadn’t been together for nearly a quarter of a century, but they’d never lost contact with each other. Together, they had witnessed the world hanging on the brink of a nuclear war in 1962 after the Bay of Pigs Invasion and the Cuban Missile Crisis. They served as high ranking officers in Afghanistan in the early 1980s, and they’d seen their proud empire’s dissolution in 1991 after the failure of a coup d'état that they secretly supported.


  The reunion was held on neutral ground, in Chisinau, the capital of Moldova. Official papers would say they each were there for the anniversary celebrations of Moldova’s liberation from Nazi-Romanian occupation. Discretion was paramount; the last thing that they wanted was for the press to sniff around and report that the gathering had ever happened.

  They all dressed in ceremonial military uniforms, with an iron ring on the index finger of their right hands. It bore the Soviet Union’s hammer and sickle, alongside three stars. Each star represented one of the three republics in the iron union: Russia, Ukraine and Belarus - the three original republics that founded the USSR in 1922. This was a token of their loyalty, worn only at internal, secretive forums.

  The Minister of Defence of Russia, a man now in his seventies, poured vodka for everyone. After they emptied their glasses, he stood, put his hands on the table and started the meeting.

  “Well comrades, it has been a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you all. After so many years, I doubted we would ever meet like this again.”

  The three men sat around the table nodded in agreement.

  “When I received the coded message, I must admit my old heart skipped a beat. The fact that you’re all here is pleasing to an old general. I’m sure that you, like me, have had enough with being reduced to insignificancy by the Americans and Chinese. Even small countries, which feared us for years, like Poland and the Czech Republic, behave insolently. They have joined the European Union and NATO!” The minister’s voice rose almost to a shout as he spat the words out.

  “They avail their territories for NATO bases while NATO remains our enemy, no matter what false appeasing palaver they spout. There are idiots who try to drive a wedge between our fraternal nations and push towards other European countries. Make no mistake, EU is NATO, you shouldn’t have doubts about that. It cannot continue. The contingencies we arranged for so many years ago are still in place. Current events dictate we take action. Comrades...it is time to return to the glory of the East Slavic Empire.”