Autobiographical

Admittedly, there was a third option. Instead of queuing for hours and hoping against hope that the butcher might look kindly on you, exchanging a high-demand ticket for a good cut of meat, or paying far more than state-regulated prices at open-air markets, some people were able to benefit from the so-called Zakaz system. The transliterated word Zakaz is the Russian for Order. Established in the 1980s to distribute higher-quality goods that were in short supply to a limited number of workplaces and offices, as well as to the privileged few in the USSR (known as the nomenklatura), this enabled specific groups to avoid any contact with the public as a whole and not have to queue in vain for hours at food shops that offered at most second-rate potatoes and carrots and meat that looked far from fresh. 

Naturally the elite in the socialist system would enjoy access to the most varied selection of goods. As George Orwell put it in Animal Farm: all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others. This was so true that it is not surprising that Orwell’s superb novels 1984 and Animal Farm castigating the alleged communism and hypocrisy of the Soviet bloc were banned in the USSR. My dad had always claimed to be a Marxian and not a Marxist, as there was a fatal flaw in the entire concept: the people at the top did not adhere to the same rules and restrictions imposed on the rest of society, and corruption naturally became endemic. Admittedly, the ban on his books was lifted in the late 1980s by Mikhail Gorbachev, the last Secretary General of the Soviet Union.

In a way, these elites could be compared to the aristocratic ruling class, tech bros and the majority of the rich we see today in capitalist societies who do their utmost to avoid paying any tax whatsoever, while enjoying every single benefit available to taxpayers.  The communist elite were no different: they ranged from politicians and high-ranking bureaucrats in every industry to academics, army officers and other individuals with special status, writers, actors, athletes, journalists, etc, who were primarily paid-up members of the Communist Party (and this approach had been practised in all the states in Eastern Europe in the Soviet bloc until late 1989). 

And it should come as no surprise that a significant number of these people, who would trumpet for years the moral superiority of the USSR compared to the decadent west, had managed somehow to open bank accounts in Switzerland and other countries and squirrel off state funds either through secret channels or via a number of the so-called Soviet dissidents who had claimed asylum in the west, but were in fact stooges of the secret services, or via foreign agents operating in the free world. They were nowhere to be seen when the country was effectively bankrupt at the end of 1991. According to various estimates, when foreign investment poured into Russia and enterprises were privatised in dubious ways after 1992, the accounts of these individuals represented over 50% of these funds.

So the ruling elite would naturally be granted initial access to food in short supply. I assume that they were other lists for luxury goods, cars, etc. Unfortunately, I never had the good fortune to flick through the pages of such documents.  However, as I was working for a leading propaganda vehicle, I was presented one day with a massive book, which listed all manner of products that I had not seen in the shops, from caviar, all manner of fishes and meats to Soviet champagne and various concoctions I had never seen.  It must have been at least 20 pages long. This was the order book for the press agency. My eyes literally glazed over and, as you can imagine, I ticked a significant number of items, excited at the prospect of obtaining all these sought-after products and at such low prices. I thought: finally, I would be rewarded for agreeing to work there on such a low salary. You had to go to a particular address at the weekend to pay and pick up the goods.

When I arrived on Saturday and finally found the place hidden away as it ways from the prying public, I realised even more how privilege and status mattered. On arriving, I watched in excitement as a number of people came out laden to bursting with goods and got into chauffeur-driven cars. When it was my turn, I was initially angry, but then smiled wryly as Orwell’s take on communist hypocrisy came to mind: out of the list of goods I had ticked, I was given two cans of fish and some buckwheat. After trying out this option on two further occasions with similar results, I decided to stick to the open-air food markets.

While I was walking down the street in that first snowy winter, I was struck at how everyone would carry every day either a plastic bag, all manner of briefcases, even suitcases and rucksacks that had clearly been acquired from the west. At first glance, they didn’t seem to be that heavy. I couldn’t fathom why there would be such a plethora of carryalls as you weren’t as a rule allowed to take anything out of your workplace.

And then it clicked: one day I saw a massive queue forming outside a store that was selling Soviet champagne, cognac and vodka. I managed to the front. However, I was denied the opportunity to buy anything when I reached the counter – because I didn’t have an empty bottle to exchange for the vodka or champagne on top of the price. I promptly bought a couple on the underground package towards work from a red-faced tramp whose bloodshot eyes lit up at the sight of five roubles.

Fortunately, Vadim knew his way around the APN building and could somehow get into the bar reserved for the agency’s journalists which was stocked with all manner of Russian and Western alcohol at discounted prices. However, I have to admit that those trips, which were frequent in February that year, were brutal on the liver. Vadim introduced me to an alcoholic combination that I have sought to avoid ever since, known as the hedgehog (transliterated Russian word ezh). You would down a shot of vodka and then follow that by drinking a pint of beer almost at the same speed. The first time I was almost legless after a few of them. I got used to it though, but had stopped imbibing it by that summer.

I did indeed drink a lot of vodka in the first half of 1991, as there was not much else on offer: the local beer Zhigulevskoye would give me the runs, while the Soviet champagne was far too sweet, and the Armenian cognac didn’t meet my taste buds. I would indeed get wasted a fair bit in the evenings back then for reasons that will become clear soon. I also took up smoking again, mainly buying imported Marlboros from kiosks on the street. I attribute this to the people I was spending more and more time with as the months passed: as well as Tim and Moira and some great translators, I would hang out with a lot of artists and actors whom I met in early February at Pavel and Suzanne’s exhibition, where smoking cigarettes and weed, when available, was par for the course. 

And then something happened that I will never forgive or forget.