The series of negotiations in which I participated concerned the details of a long-term trade agreement involving the sale of chemical products. The contract itself that we, representatives of various trading companies, had drawn up had to be signed by the appropriate ministers in December. We were nearing the last round of talks, there wasn't much time left. Everyone was nervous, the prices hadn't been fixed, though this in itself was nothing unusual. Even after they'd been set, prices could still fluctuate.
In socialist business dealings, prices are arrived at in a manner that has precious little to do with pricing as we know it in conventional trade relations. It's as if someone was trying to catch a mouse and ended up trapping the cat instead. We usually refer to this as the double-trap principle. The process begins with a socialist commercial firm asking for a price quotation not from another socialist firm but from a capitalist one, for a product which it has no intention of buying but which in fact it wants to sell. The capitalist firm knows exactly what is going on, so it quotes not a realistic price but a blatantly unrealistic one that does not threaten its own real trading partners. However, the socialist firm takes this for the real world-market price of the product in question and makes its own offer to its socialist trading partner accordingly. The partner knows of course that the so-called real price is not real at all and, just as arbitrarily, makes a counter-offer, amounting to perhaps one-third of the quoted price. As a result, they wrangle over two totally unrealistic prices that, during the course of negotiations, acquire an air of reality. If two people who do not believe in ghosts begin to talk about ghosts in a dark room, sooner or later a ghost will appear, though they won't be able to touch it.
The process continues with the seller trying through further negotiations to narrow the gap between the two unrealistic prices, knowing well that the considerable difference can be made up only with the help of a state subsidy. But the buyer also knows that if the deal is important enough for commercial or industrial-policy reasons, he too can count on state funds, so he eases off, which in terms of the bargaining process is tantamount to driving up the price. If he misjudges the situation, and the seller is not swayed by insurmountable political considerations, then either there is no deal or some compromise is worked out. But regardless of whether or not a bargain is struck, neither party will ever be aware of the true relationship between the price finally arrived at and the real value of the commodity on the international market.
My superior, ingeniously combining the teaching techniques of the peripatetic Greek philosophers with the habits of French kings, used his morning toilet to lead me into the mysteries of these negotiations. He was of the opinion that the Russians were the world's most unpredictable business partners. They could be unexpectedly flexible on one occasion and equally stubborn and immovable on another. Whether you deal with Swedes, Italians, Armenian-Americans, or Chinese traders, what drives the negotiations is the logic of mutual interest. Differences arise from different assessments of a given situation. If you're dealing with Russians, however, you can give logic a rest.
Later, having gained a certain amount of experience myself, I came to regard my supervisor's conclusions as an enjoyable myth. It would take too long to expound my own view, which differs greatly from popularly held beliefs. To put it simply, I think Russians view the relationship between reality and unreality differently from the rest of us. Whatever we might consider an unreal phenomenon — because by violating realistic value relationships it brings our inner order to a halt — from their point of view is something incidental and negligible, for their inner order, independent of the outside world, remains functional.
On the first day of negotiations my boss fell ill during lunch. To make sure he didn't notice my forbidden nocturnal absences, and to make sure, too, that I could wake him up at six in the morning, as he requested, and while he splashed in his tepid bathwater I'd be ready to listen to his always instructive musings on economic concerns, I had to get up at the crack of dawn in that flat on Pervomayskaya, far from the center of town. Also, that morning, I was too sleepy to make much of his complaint that he wasn't feeling quite right. Anyway, he was a big, robust man.
We had trouble getting down to business that morning. It was hard to find the right tone. If I abandoned my sense of humor and accepted what they considered a realistic position, then I myself became unrealistic; and if I didn't accept it and made light of things, then my position in our relationship would become unrealistic. These are the times one really feels how much flexibility, imaginative insight, and infinite patience it takes to function as a son of a small nation. In my days as an apprentice negotiator I often felt it was best to get past the table-pounding stage quickly; I was frustrated because my boss, with the experience of four years in Russian captivity behind him, preferred holding back, delaying, putting things off, turning evasive — but even with these tactics we made no headway.
After the morning session we had lunch with two of our local commercial representatives in the hotel restaurant, a cavernous affair, more like a grand hall of columns than a restaurant. At one point my boss slowly put his knife and fork down on his plate and said it might be a good idea to open a window. Considering the size of the place, the suggestion didn't make much sense, so we more or less ignored it. There is no air, he said. I never saw anyone sit so still. A few moments later he spoke again: we should get his medicine from his pocket. At the same time he opened his mouth, letting his tongue hang out a little. Beads of perspiration were forming on his ashen face. He said nothing more, he didn't move, his eyes stared vacantly, but the way he was sticking out his tongue clearly indicated that he wanted the medication placed under his tongue. As soon as the tiny tablet dissolved, he felt much better, let go of his knife and fork, wiped his face, and color began to return to his cheeks. But again he complained that there was no air, and as if groping for air in the air, he got up restlessly and went in search of more air. We tried to support him, but he took such forceful steps he didn't seem to need us. We let go of him. When he got to the lobby he collapsed. He was taken to a hospital. In a deep coma, he lived for two more days.
The talks were broken off. I called the director of our company to tell him what had happened. Hopes for recovery were slim, and the patient could not be moved. I asked him to notify the family. Conversations with my boss had centered exclusively on professional matters, yet I imagined members of his family, whom I had never met, to be just like him: strong, agile, a little worn-out, but sturdy. My director's position was that the talks must resume without delay. He thought that all the wrangling had been mostly a show and therefore superfluous. The Russians' offer had to be accepted. He had given my boss — who always started fussing when there was no need — very specific instructions to that effect. He was authorizing me to lead the negotiations with these instructions in mind. He would telex his decision to the head of our trade office, who would then officially inform the Russians of the change in our delegation. If the whole thing weren't just a matter of formality he would send a replacement, but as things stood now, I could step right in. I should keep that well in mind, too. But it didn't happen that way at all. A senior member of our embassy's commercial section took over formally, but he let me handle the practical end of the negotiations, saying he hadn't been sufficiently briefed.
In the next two days I had a great many things to attend to. Feverish activity always generates more energy and the need for more activity, which is maybe why I couldn't stay put at night in my four-poster bed in the hotel, though I knew I should be there to receive a phone call. I went to sleep with a guilty conscience in the flat on the Pervomayskaya. In the embrace of a strong, calm female body I relived the death of my father, whom I now lost forever.