http://www.arabnews.com/?page=7§ion=0&article=84694&d=2&m=7&y=2006
Sunday, 2, July, 2006 (06, Jumada al-Thani, 1427)
On Summer in Moscow
M.J. Akbar, [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Moscow seems shamefaced about summer. Thirty degrees
centigrade in the forenoon of last Wednesday is forty degrees higher than
during my last visit in December. Moscow then was a gray world flecked with
snow white. The wind screamed at the fur hat and taunted the earmuffs. Local
faces had the confident serenity of a winter people, and a mild chuckle in the
eyes at the visitor's bewilderment at winter. Summer heat has surprised men and
disoriented technology. The air-conditioner in my fancy, new hotel room leaks
like an overburdened tarpaulin in monsoon. Complaints evoke genuine sympathy
and the occasional mechanic, but no solutions. If the heater had been giving
trouble in December they would have known precisely what to do. The male dress
code for summer is linen half-sleeves. For women, it is a bit of an undress
code: They peel off as much as they dare and store up the sun in their skins
for the long dark winter just around the corner. I wonder if the side-to-side
and back-to-back traffic at noon is another sign of summer, with people finding
any excuse to get out of office. This is not office-rush; this is out-of-office
rush. By Friday afternoon this escalates into out-of-town mass escape. The
weekend is sacrosanct from Siberia to California: As they put it, only thieves
and policemen work on weekends. Not even newspapers are published on weekends.
Information is an unnecessary intrusion on tranquility. If a world war broke
out on Saturday Muscovites would probably not know until Monday. On the other
hand, they did fight a world war, albeit a cold one, for five decades - with
both sides taking the weekend off. Very civilized. I wonder what would have
happened if the Soviet Union and the West had fought each other on all seven
days.
The role model for new Russia is a former KGB agent,
Alexander Lebedev. A fortnight ago he threw a party in England at the
8,500-acre estate in Northamptonshire where Princess Diana was born and now
lies buried. When Lebedev throws a party, it travels very far indeed. His idea
of entertainment was a volatile mixture of Russia Wild East, Hollywood,
confused Arabian Nights and high art. Extras in 18th century dress lounged
among the distant trees. Others wandered around leading wolves on a leash.
Cossacks charged across the English landscape. A camel or two sauntered by. The
Christ Church Cathedral schoolboys' choir sang from the balcony to shift the
mood. One of the Russia's finest pianists, Andrei Gavrilov, soothed guests
along with oysters and champagne. After dinner dancing was in charge of the
Black Eyed Peas (a band) with help from a video-linked U2.The guest of honor
was former Comrade Mikhail Gorbachev. The cause: Funds for the Raisa Gorbachev
Foundation to help children suffering from cancer. Money was raised by auction
(of a ride in the world's fastest MiG, for instance). Salman Rushdie was among
the guests, but I have no idea whether he coughed up anything. One million
pounds were raised in a single night. How much money was spent on that single
night? 1.3 million pounds. Lebedev could have saved everyone the trouble and
handed his bill for the party to the foundation, but that wouldn't have been
any fun, would it? Charity begins at home.
How did Lebedev become a billionaire, starting from a
KGB salary? He resigned and set up an investment company during the heyday of
Gorbachev's glasnost. He stood on the same side of the barricades as the
reformers when the old established order nearly pulled off a successful coup in
1991. In 1995 he was rewarded with the chairmanship of the National Reserve
Bank, which was struggling to stay in business. It stopped struggling after
Lebedev got the account for Gazprom, the massive state-owned energy
conglomerate. Lebedev now owns 31 percent of Aeroflot, among other things. He
also contested for mayor of Moscow and semi-secretly dreams of becoming
president of the Russian Federation one day. Watch the news.
. . .
I gather that the new international corporate mantra
for upwardly mobile management types is to look each morning in the mirror and
call yourself a rock star. This apparently provides enough of an ego boost to
send your competence soaring. But take your time about behaving like Lebedev,
or indeed any other rock star. Here is what I gathered from one article in a
magazine abandoned at an airport. When Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt went to
Namibia to have their baby in the mother of all nations, they demanded, and
got, a no-fly zone over their villa. Foreign journalists were permitted to
enter the country during their stay only if the Jolie-Pitt gang had cleared
their arrival. A South African journo who violated this ban ended up in prison
for three days.
Namibia declared a national holiday to celebrate the
birth of the infant Jolie. What makes you laugh-cry more? Rock-star stupidity
or Namibia's idiocy? Elizabeth Taylor wanted Buckingham Palace swept for
security when she went to collect the gong that made her Dame Commander of the
Order of the British Empire. (It exists. Britain still rules a couple of tiny
islands in the West Indies.) Tom Cruise's servants had to sign a contract that
punished them with an escalating series of fines if they were caught passing on
information to the media. A nanny could, theoretically, end up with a bill for
a million dollars. Any management trainee with a hint of such airs is likely to
get the sack rather than a promotion.
. . .
Maxine Maters, my Dutch friend who lives in Moscow and
is the publisher of Moscow News, thought it a big relief that Holland had not
qualified for the World Cup. It gave her the liberty of being neutral.
Modestly, I pointed out that I had the same freedom. India had not qualified
either. I changed the subject before she could ask me at what point of the
tournament India had been eliminated.
I had the liberty of being neutral while watching
Argentina play Germany on the big plasma screen set up in the hotel foyer. The
commentary was in Russian, and it did not matter. There is no verbal commentary
that can match the swooping cameras darting upon faces, on the field, on the
sidelines or in the stands. Cameras create the ratings in sport. If the cameras
had been inside our hotel at that hour, they would have dwelt I suspect on the
undress-code ladies occupying the sofa between me and screen. I did wonder
though if the real game of these ladies was football.
Since neutrality is anemic, I have tried out a
variation of historical determinism in order to find out whom I should support.
This system might also be called Losers' Ladder. It is based on empire and
colonies. As an Indian, my first preference was for the old colonies:
Australia, Ghana, Togo. The whimper-exit of Ghana eliminated that option. My
sympathy should, logically, have then transferred to the comparatively
underdeveloped world, and thus to Latin America. The Latins also play great
football. But, frankly, it is difficult to support a continent one has never
visited. You can't put a context to your cheering. Logic took me to the next
category: The countries in which one had good friends.
I am pleased to report that some of my best friends are
English, but England ruled itself out because it had made the mistake of ruling
India once. That left me with Germany and Italy.
Both won on Friday night. Thank you, Moscow.
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