Kamerov also hated the pretense of being a capitalist.
At heart he would always be a communist. His bloodshot
eyes and rum red nose even appeared to be walking reminders
of his communist past. He still subconsciously bore witness
to his past hopes and nomenklatura status as a leading
member of the Communist Party by wearing red ties, and
even red shirts, as though they were silent symbols of
Marxist revolutionary ideals. Like believers in other
faiths, he had invested too much of his life in one belief
system to let go.
His peasant past had also prevented him from developing
any sense of style. He grew up in a country where pollution
was the most prominent feature: dirty streets, sewers
clogged with garbage, dirt instead of gardens surrounding
buildings, even the lobbies and corridors which the
tenants would not clean lest the buildings become so
attractive that they would be appropriated by the communist
bosses for their own friends and relatives—which
he had himself done for his own relatives.
Stuck in his mind was the comment made by an American
writer, that the Russians were the only ones who had
truly succeeded in creating Marx’s ‘classless
society,’ because no one in Russia has any ‘class.’
After an hour of pacing and a half a pack of cigarettes
Kamerov decided he was ready. He instructed his secretary
to place the phone call. When she told him the Iraqi
minister was on the line, he cleared his throat one
last time to get rid of the tobacco residue and to expel
his remaining self-consciousness. “Good afternoon,
Mr. Minister. How are you over there on the southern
side of the Mediterranean?” he said, straining
to be charming.
“Surprise of all surprises,” the Iraqi minister
responded, not answering the question. “How are
things in Moscow?”
“A little wet and cold here,” Kamerov replied.
“A typical Moscow winter. How are you handling
life without Saddam?” he tried to edge into the
conversation.
“Life is more free but more chaotic,” Foreign
Minister Sakir replied. “Trying to develop a democratic
government has its complications in a country which
has never known anything except dictators. Sometimes
I don’t see the distinction between democracy and
anarchy.”
“It takes some getting used to,” Kamerov
said. “You still have to rule with an iron fist
sometimes.”
“It’s hard to do here, even if we wanted
to,” Sakir responded. “You seem to have a
different view,” he said light-heartedly, not wanting
to be critical of Russian authoritarianism.
“That’s because we don’t have the Americans
breathing down our necks,” Kamerov joked. “That
enables us to take a few liberties here and there.”
“We notice that you’ve been taking away a
lot of liberties,” Sakir joked, referring to the
Russian government’s constant removal of civil
rights and shackling of the nascent independent press.
Kamerov laughed. “What can we do? It’s part
of our thousand year history.”
“What can we do for you? That’s the question.”
Sakir got down to business.
“I can answer you in one word,” Kamerov replied.
“Oil.”
“You need some?” Sakir asked jokingly, since
Russia has more petroleum resources than Iraq.
“No,” Kamerov laughed. “We want to sell
some, at higher prices now and then.”
“Mostly now, I would expect,” Sakir rejoined.
“Since your president’s election is coming
up in less than a year and he has to buy some popular
votes.”
“The nature of a democracy,” Kamerov said
cynically. “Not like the good old days when the
Party ruled and everything was so simple.”
“What do you have in mind?” Sakir asked.
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