More Social Change

The commercial considerations I raised yesterday clearly had an impact on individuals; Russian people have seen a lot and survived terrible weather and totalitarian governments, the upheaval of fast track capitalism was just the latest thing to come along in the mid 1990s.  Some people adapted very quickly, for others it took a little longer.

The strategy of the firm I worked for was to hire bright young people straight from University and to train them in-house in the ways of audit and tax advising.  I made surreal visits to the Finance Academy and Moscow State University to give ‘milk round’ type presentations, followed by one to one interviews in our offices.

I interviewed a lot of people.  I tried not to be overly swayed by the candidate’s facility with English, although at the time they were required to speak it.  Instead I tried to get them to speak to me, about anything.  At first, I did mental somersaults with glee if I could get them to say something, anything, other than, they thought they wanted to work for the firm because it would be interesting.

‘What do you think would be interesting about it?’

‘To work with a foreign firm would be interesting.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,  it would be interesting.’

As time went by I developed a better array of questions, but the candidates also developed better answers; so much so that I sometimes wondered if some enterprising person had prepared a crib sheet for them.  I’d like to think so.

The Russian trainees’ salaries were quoted to them in US dollars, but were paid in Roubles as was required by law.  Every month, the trainee then had to be given time off one afternoon to go to the bank where they withdrew their salary in Roubles, converted it to US dollars and then either redeposited it in their US dollar bank account or kept it in cash.

There was fierce competition as to who could go to the bank first, as in a period of rapid Rouble devaluation, the real value of the salary could fall from one day to the next.

Having a salary paid by reference to a dollar amount was probably the most interesting thing about working for a foreign firm for many of my Russian colleagues.  Without access to US dollars, people who, in the Soviet era, enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle were sinking into poverty.

Access to this dollar salary for the young members of a family changed the power balance in many homes.  The parents, perhaps long serving civil servants or teachers earned barely nothing from their jobs, but did retain their rights to the family flat.  The children had the cash, but not enough to move out and get their own home as the cost of accommodation in Moscow was astronomical at the time.

My Russian teacher, Volodya, a lecturer in Russian as a foreign language at The People’s Friendship University, earned the money he needed to keep his family fed and clothed by teaching me, and others like me, at a dollar rate per hour, but could not afford to give up his university job, as to do so would lose him his apartment.

His relative affluence came from the happenstance that he had learned English as his second language and could therefore teach incoming expats.  He had learnt English at a time when it was very unlikely that he would ever have the opportunity to meet anyone who spoke it as their first language.  But then the Soviet education system taught all its students a foreign language, many of them not obvious choices; I saw CVs with Hindi and Africaans as second languages, although never had the opportunity to test them on it.

Social and Economic Change

The blurb, or so-called ‘elevator pitch’ that I am developing to sell you my novel in the shortest possible time, has, from its very first draft contained the phrase ‘set against the backdrop of the  social and economic change in Russia in the mid 1990s’.

Feedback I have received always includes comment that one of the strongest elements of the work is the sense of place and time that I have evoked.  This is gratifying as I’ve put a lot of thought into conjuring the sense of place without it sounding like a travelogue.

Tverskaya, looking towards Red Square, circa 1997

The changes that were underway is harder to dramatise as it is only with the benefit of hindsight that we can see their extent; living them at the time it wasn’t always clear what would last and was in fact a real change and what was just a temporary blip.  And as my novel is written from the point of view of a newly arrived expat for whom everything is strange, I found myself attempting to balance and remember how things affected me and those I knew at different times during the years I was there.

It was during this period that the people we now know collectively as ‘the Oligarchs’ were acquiring control over vast swathes of Russia’s natural resources, but I had neither knowledge or experience of it.

We knew about the pyramid schemes and the ‘paper shares’ bought for the equivalent of kopeks from elderly former workers in state industries, and we knew about people being swindled out of the apartments they had lived in all their lives; we saw the proliferation of new Banks on every street corner, but the scale of the personal privatisation of Russia’s mining and oil industries only became evident later.

I worked for the Moscow office of one of the large international accounting firms.  The vast majority of our work was to assist foreign multi national companies establish themselves in Russia and the other countries of the former Soviet Union.  Depending on the nature of the products they were trying to sell, they either wanted to set up their own manufacturing facilities (for example for fizzy soft drinks), or establish joint ventures with former State operated enterprises (for example tobacco and chocolate).

The idea that there would be any Russian investment going out of the country was laughable at the time.  But it was only three of four years later that friends who were still working there told me that they were working for newly rich Russian entrepreneurs; and more recently this kind of advisory work has grown to dominate some of the practices.

Those companies trying to establish joint ventures with existing State enterprises in many ways faced some of the greatest challenges.  There was a huge divide in experience and expectations.  Many Russian managers didn’t understand the  consequences of accepting financial investment from a Western company; had no idea how to provide the information that was required, had no yardstick against which to measure the value of what it was they were producing, and at first didn’t understand the multiple strings that came attached to foreign investment.

Many neophyte western investors got their fingers burnt when local deals were undone by a random change in regulation, or the realisation that they were expected to fund the whole town where the factory they had targeted was and always had been the sole employer in the area.

And that’s not taking into account the many ‘novii ruski biznessmen‘ who interpreted free market economy in their own idiosyncratic ways.

Familiar Aromas

I changed my washing powder this week.

Now, before you click away to something more interesting, stay with me, for a couple more sentences, at least.

It wasn’t a plan.  I went to buy the stuff I normally get, but I couldn’t see any, and as there is something in the washing powder aisle in the supermarket that sets my eyes running and my nose to itch, I can’t stay there very long making informed choices.  So I picked the most familiar looking box of non biological cleaner and rolled my trolley round the corner for coffee.

The first time I used it and hung it out to dry my flat was filled with an aroma that was both remarkably familiar but which I knew I hadn’t encountered for a very long time.  It thrust me back to a younger self in a different place.  It was a smell of childhood, and was surprisingly comforting; the smell of fresh sheets on a single bed, and clean pyjamas and big towels that engulfed me after a bath.

Aromas have a great power to trigger memory; they take us back to a time and place.  Sometimes we can’t recall straight away, we just know that it’s familiar.

When I was writing my novel about Rose Fleming’s adventures in Moscow I spent quite  a lot of time thinking about the smells of the city which would augment and shade the portrait of the time and place that I wanted to paint.

But it’s quite tricky to describe aroma isn’t it?  They are so distinctive and for there to be any point to the inclusion of the description it has to capture what is unique about it.

I spent ages trying to find the right way to describe that particular smell of the air just outside the door at Sheremetyevo airport.  The routine at arrival was always that a driver would wait in the bustling melee of the arrivals area, when he had found me we’d walk to just outside the door, and then I would wait with my luggage while the driver went to get his car and pick me up.

This outside waiting area was underneath a huge concrete canopy; every inch of the road and parking area was jammed with cars with their engines running.  As soon as I inhaled the freezing air laden with the fragrance of  unburned petrol and paraffin I knew I was back in Moscow.

I’d been living in the city for a few weeks before I found Stockmann, at the time the only decent supermarket.   I’d tried various ‘retail outlets’ near my flat, but found a bewildering lack of anything I really wanted to buy.

I don’t think I’d ever before spent any time analysing what a supermarket should smell like, but when I first visited the Finnish shop I knew that I had found what I thought of as a ‘proper shop’ simply from the aroma as soon as I stepped through the door.  That mixture of soap powder, cabbage leaves, milk and coffee, somehow promised that I would find things I could buy.

There is a particular scent that, whenever I catch a whiff of it walking past someone in the street, takes me straight back to the office in Nikitsky Pereulok where one of my Russian colleagues wore it, in some quantity.

The problem is, I never liked it, and at first thought it was a Russian product, until I caught a whiff of it in a Paris street.  Then I found out a little more about my young colleague and realised that the most likely reason I wasn’t familiar with it, was that it is very expensive.

Occasionally I think about trying to find out what it is, but how would I describe it?  I think it’s expensive, and it smells a bit sour?  Which one of those over made up assistants in the perfume department is going to help me out with that, do you think?

Time Specific

When did you first use the internet?  Have a mobile telephone? Send a text message? Have your own computer at home?

Technology moves on so quickly these days it’s often hard to remember when things arrived.  Hasn’t it always been there?

Of course not.  But I need other milestones to allow me to remember.  When I was writing my novel about Rose Fleming I set it very specifically in the mid 1990s, the period in which I lived in Moscow, because so many things have changed so dramatically in the 15 years since that I wouldn’t know how to describe it now, and I wanted to avoid anachronisms.

The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, one of Moscow's 'Seven Sisters'

I remember very specifically the technology that was available to me then.  I didn’t have internet access, I didn’t have a mobile phone; I watched VHS videos and listened to the BBC World Service on a short wave radio.  When I made occasional visits to London I used pay phones as, if pay as you go mobile phones existed then, I didn’t know about them.

In the office we had a satellite phone system because the local lines were poor quality and like speaking through a rustling crisp packet, and international calls were automatically terminated at 20 minutes.  We communicated with clients outside Moscow by fax, and those in the city by hand delivered letter.

Just before I left the was the beginnings of a debate over whether or not it was possible to send a client technical advice on which they might rely, by email, and how the boiler plate caveats could be enforced if they’d only been sent electronically.  How could formal signature be digitally affixed?  Email simply wasn’t quite serious enough to be professional.

I raise these points because some of the feedback raised and questions I have been asked about my novel have been querying the absence of technology – why didn’t she call?  Is she really that cut off?  And all I can answer is that these are the things I actually had at my disposal during those years.

Awareness of language was another point that caught me up in a lot of discussion.  Before I went to Moscow I don’t think I had ever heard anyone speak Russian other than in ‘B’ type espionage thrillers: evil spymasters who shouted harshly.  I certainly hadn’t appreciated what a sibilant language it is, nor how softly many people speak it.

And I had most definitely never heard anyone speaking it in the street in London.  I remember being in Marks and Spencer in Paris during a short holiday trip away from Moscow, and hearing two women speaking Russian behind me.  I was so surprised I turned to look at them.  This reaction is hard to imagine now that it is commonplace to hear both Russian and the multitude of other eastern European languages spoken by many London residents now.

So when I wrote a scene in which Rose, on a short trip back to London, is afraid when she hears men she thinks may be following her speak Russian, I had to remind readers that in 1995 in Tottenham Court Road,  the sound of this language was an unusual occurrence.

I’d still be hard pressed to tell you when I first had a mobile phone, although I know it was much later than most people.  It was even later before I left it switched on other than when I wanted to use it to make a call.

Moscow as a backdrop

I am currently editing the draft of my novel set in Moscow in the mid 1990’s, a tale of friendship set against the backdrop of the major socio economic changes of the post perestroika period.

In an occasional series of posts I’ll discuss some of the themes I thought about when writing the novel.

There is a tank trap beside the road from Sheremetyevo airport to the centre of Moscow.  It marks the closest point the German army reached in its advance on the city in the winter of 1941/42.

Dom 6. Ulitsa Tverskaya, Moscow. Home, April 1995 - April 1997

It is less that thirty minutes drive from the flat in which I lived for two years from April 1995, which was itself less than ten minutes walk from Red Square and the Kremlin.  If the Germans were to retrace their route today they would have already passed by Ikea and ‘MacAvto’, the McDonalds drive-thru restaurant, before they would be brought to a halt.

It was only after I had been living in the city for a few months that the significance of the memorial struck me.   Moscow was a good deal further away, and a lot colder, than either Napoleon or Hitler had bargained for.  And in the mid 1990s the next assault was already underway, and I was a tiny part of it.

An army of buccaneers, entrepreneurs, and multi national companies was riding the wave of perestroika and the new capitalism into a place where history had shown you needed to harness your resources and at all costs make sure you didn’t over extend yourself.

I was not well prepared for my journey there.  Apart from a teenage gorging on the works of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, and growing up in a military family during the Cold War, I knew virtually nothing about Russia.  I didn’t know the language. I couldn’t decipher the alphabet.

I knew nothing about the law or taxation system: a significant disadvantage given that I was going to work as a tax adviser there.  The fact was, however, that nobody else knew much about these things either, and my new employer was desperate for staff, and assured me I would pick it up as I went along.

The view from my desk towards the Kremlin

I cannot now remember why I agreed to go.  I needed a job as I’d just been made redundant, but the firm was hiring people for all its Eastern European offices.  Why I chose Moscow over Prague, Warsaw or Budapest I cannot now say.  I certainly didn’t understand the epic proportions of the challenge I would find it.

Every time I returned to the city from a trip away I gave a sideways nod to the tank trap.

The geography of the city had a very specific and fundamental influence on my life while I was there.  It was much more than just a backdrop.

I went through phases: at first I was amazed at how just like anywhere else it was, then I noticed all the deep and fundamental differences, and finally I stopped seeing anything odd.  It was when I realised that it had become my normality that I knew it was time to leave.

When I began writing my novel about the experiences of expat Rose Fleming,  I had Moscow very much in my mind.  I wanted to describe all the myriad of weird things that I had witnessed and experienced there.

It has been important for me to fix the time of the novel in the 1995-1997 period.  Things have changed so dramatically the last 2 decades that the city I knew was radically different to that of 5 years before and it has changed irrevocably since.

In writing about Moscow in the mid 1990s I am writing about a place that no longer exists, at a time when the remarkable changes that have taken place since perestroika were just beginning.  So although many of the attitudes, actions and dilemmas of the novel’s characters are contemporary, the backdrop is historic, and embedded in a particular period of the past, for example, before widespread availability of mobile telephony and internet access in the region, and when there were still relative shortages of consumer items, all of which have an impact on the plot.