Недавно я наблюдал, как утром в Москве съемочная группа картины “Ты и я” (она же “В поисках t.a.T.u”. – Прим. ред.) – фильма на английском языке, который делает британский режиссер Роланд Джоффе, – уныло толпилась у алого Ferrari в тени гостиницы “Украина”. Сцена с Ferrari играет ключевую роль для сюжета – драмы о взрослении двух девушек, ведущих светскую жизнь в Москве, – но съемочная группа простаивала без дела уже несколько часов. Для съемок требовался милицейский эскорт, о котором договорились загодя. Но московские милиционеры, с которыми пришлось иметь дело, словно вознамерились познакомить киношников с правдой жизни – дать им понять, что в России целая эпидемия необъяснимых, доводящих до белого каления и зачастую практически бесконечных опозданий. Съемки картины “Ты и я” – третьего фильма, который делают в Москве для западного зрителя, – изобилуют подобными случаями “культурного обмена”: российские странности идут вразрез с голливудским приоритетом “время – деньги”. У иностранцев, занимающихся бизнесом в Москве, порой просто руки опускаются: складывается впечатление, что специалисты только и делают, что пытаются действовать им на нервы или свести с ума. “У меня и других членов группы западные амбиции, но к их осуществлению мы идем русским путем, – говорит Джоффе, номинированный на “Оскар” за картины “Поля смерти” и “Миссия”. – Такое ощущение, что нам дали запчасти от “Лады” и требуют собрать из них Maserati”.

Тем не менее, киноиндустрия – как и многие другие сферы в современной России – переживает бум: кассовые сборы от проката отечественных картин, в 2000 году составившие 25 млн долларов, в прошлом году, по некоторым оценкам, достигли без малого 600 млн. Будь то съемка картин для российской аудитории или натурные съемки фильмов, предназначенных для международного проката, голливудские киностудии и кинематографисты включаются в работу. Они стремятся воспользоваться познаниями местных экспертов, а заодно поспособствовать возрождению системы, которая когда-то создала некоторые из величайших шедевров мирового кинематографа – например, работы Сергея Эйзенштейна и Андрея Тарковского. Советское кино рухнуло, когда на закате советского периода прекратилось государственное финансирование. Подавляющее большинство режиссеров ушло в рекламу и телевидение – сферы, которые более органично адаптировались к капитализму. В результате киноиндустрия пришла в упадок: в середине 1990-х в России выпускалось чуть больше дюжины игровых фильмов в год. Теперь же “Мосфильм”, старейшая российская киностудия и бывший центр советского кино, постепенно вновь находит себя. Он вступает в партнерские отношения с рядом независимых студий и продюсеров, гостеприимно привечая в своих съемочных павильонах, например, московскую “Российско-американскую кинокомпанию” (РАМКО), которая и делает картину “Ты и я”. “В течение последних 15 лет российское кинопроизводство находится на очень низком уровне, – говорит Сергей Конов, генеральный директор РАМКО, с которым мы беседовали в его офисе на “Мосфильме”. – Сейчас оно пытается модернизироваться, но сложностей масса”.

Конов и его деловой партнер Леонид Миньковский создали РАМКО в 2004 году. Благодаря связям в киномире Лос-Анджелеса, а также знакомствам в политических и финансовых кругах Москвы они впервые привлекли в Москву западных режиссеров и актеров. В 2005 году РАМКО сняла в Москве политический триллер “Теневой партнер” с Тарой Рид в главной роли. Эта же компания выступила в роли продюсера недавно вышедшего на экраны фильма “Плен” с Элишей Катберт, почти все сцены которого снимались в павильонах “Мосфильма”.

Ключевым подспорьем для съемок в Москве являются низкие расходы. Этот город прославился своей дороговизной, но дешевая российская рабочая сила может положительно повлиять на бюджет. “Голливудские профсоюзы похуже русской мафии”, – говорит Миньковский. По его расчетам, съемки картины наподобие “Ты и я” в Москве обойдутся на 25% дешевле, чем в США.

Однако РАМКО пока не довела процесс до совершенства. Покамест ожидания, что Россия превратится в “мекку для кинематографистов”, не подтверждаются реальными результатами. Бюджет “Плена” первоначально составлял около 10 млн долларов, но когда все пересъемки сцен и монтаж завершились, оказалось, что пришлось потратить почти вдвое больше. Кроме того, сверхдешевые съемки не могут компенсировать кассовый провал: “Плен” собрал в прокате всего 8,5 млн долларов, “Теневой партнер” вообще издан только на DVD, а картина “Ты и я” пока не нашла дистрибьютора, хотя РАМКО надеется выпустить фильм в прокат по всему миру к осени будущего года. Конов и Миньковский заканчивают работу, а тем временем в офис РАМКО для “пробных переговоров” прибывают несколько высокопоставленных представителей Warner Bros. (которая, кстати, принадлежит компании Time Warner, издающей, в том числе, журнал TIME). В последнее время по Москве рыщут почти все крупнейшие голливудские студии, пытаясь установить, каким образом и в какой момент включиться в индустрию, которая в потенциале обещает столь высокие доходы. Twentieth Century Fox, купившая международные права на “потусторонние” российские фильмы о вампирах “Ночной дозор” и “Дневной дозор”, в прошлом году открыла в Москве свой офис. Paramount и Disney, так сказать, от досады “пинают покрышки”. А Sony в лице ее подразделения Columbia Tristar вместе с рядом американских инвесторов в прошлом году создала компанию Monumental Pictures, которая делает фильмы на русском языке для российской аудитории. Генеральный директор Monumental, американец Пол Хет, построил в России первые кинотеатры западного образца. Он и его деловой партнер Шари Редстоун, дочь председателя правления Viacom Самнера Редстоуна, наблюдали, как российские фильмы начинают вновь отвоевывать собственную территорию. В российских кинотеатрах все еще преобладают голливудские фильмы, но в последние три года первое место по кассовым сборам занимали российские картины.

Российские фильмы постепенно возвращаются к былому качественному уровню. “Одно время в России перестали писать сценарии, так как игровых фильмов не снимали”, – говорит Хет. Monumental выпустила два фильма и снимает еще четыре. Использование ресурсов Sony в области разработки сценариев и кинопроизводства помогло поднять уровень сюжетов и общее качество профессионального труда. “Российские кинематографисты ничем не хуже других, – поясняет Хет. – Просто они пока не набрались опыта”.

Что в России есть, так это деньги. Многие представители класса олигархов достигли стабильного положения и уверенности в себе, которые необходимы для того, чтобы отказаться от своего права на частную жизнь, которым они столь дорожат, и выйти в эту чрезвычайно публичную сферу в качестве инвесторов и продюсеров. На входе в офис Игоря Десятникова, расположенный в центре Москвы, посетители вынуждены проходить через металлоискатель, ежась под угрожающими взглядами нескольких телохранителей. Десятников сидит за огромным письменным столом с ореховой столешницей. В дальнем углу лежит полковничья шапка из овчины. Десятников разбогател на продаже частного банка в 2004 году, а ныне возглавляет группу инвесторов, которая вкладывает в картину “Ты и я” примерно 15 млн долларов. Он и сам снимается в картине в роли сурового человека по имени Иван. Десятников уже сыграл в нескольких фильмах на русском языке. Он также является фронтменом некой рок-группы, владеет несколькими молокозаводами и выступает в качестве хозяина вечеринок в ночном клубе под открытым небом, где занимаются дрэг-рейсингом. “Это мой первый опыт международного сотрудничества, – говорит он, проводя рукой по своей бритой голове. – Наверно, я никогда не вернусь в российское кино. Меня как инвестора оно не интересует. Все на свете мечтают о том, чтобы поучаствовать в американском кино”. Вот в чем состоит сделка: обмен голливудской ауры на право окучивать все эти новые богатые угодья в России. Но на поверку они могут оказаться опасным болотом. Голливудский продюсер и консультант Роберт Кейн проработал в Москве несколько лет. Хотя он лелеет надежды на будущее, о современном состоянии российского кинематографа он не может сказать почти ничего хорошего. “Похоже, русские – большие специалисты привозить в Россию знающих людей, а затем игнорировать все их мудрые рекомендации, – говорит он. – Кроме того, есть такое огромное препятствие, как коррупция. В России контракт – это, по сути, ничего не значащая бумажка. Если кто-то решает его нарушить, у вас почти нет возможностей возбудить против него иск”.

Помимо таких опасностей, как коррупция и взяточничество, есть бессчетные примеры культурных нестыковок. Американский продюсер картины “Ты и я” Стивен Немет – голливудский ветеран, продюсировавший “Страх и отвращение в Лас-Вегасе”, а также документальный фильм “Догтаун и Зет-бойз”. В Россию он приехал работать впервые. Немет очень надеялся, что съемки будут проводиться с минимальным ущербом для окружающей среды. “Меня подняли на смех, – сообщает он. – Им даже некуда сдавать мусор на переработку”. Иностранный главный оператор, снимавший другой фильм, обиделся на российских подчиненных и сорвался на этнические оскорбления; вскоре с декораций сорвался фрагмент и ударил его по голове, и оператор заключил, что кто-то из съемочной группы задумал его убить. Джоффе, со своей стороны, поведал, что однажды приехал на съемки и обнаружил, что здание, где он планировал проводить съемки, снесли. “Надо просто упереться и бороться с системой, не отступая от своих принципов, – говорит Джоффе. – Я чувствую себя Дон-Кихотом. Но иначе кино не снимешь”.

Вечером в сумерках, после окончания съемочного дня, продюсеры и группа выпивают вместе среди колоссальных корпусов из красного кирпича – это заброшенный пивной завод. Седой музыкант в гавайской рубашке играет классический рок. “В будущем здесь разовьется большая конкуренция, – говорит Немет. – Новые деньги обычно стремятся к славе. А новых денег здесь предостаточно. При всем моем уважении к этому великому городу и великой культуре, побудительной причиной для киносъемок здесь являются деньги”. В этот самый момент один из русских осветителей, вконец опьянев, начинает громить припаркованную машину. Несколько коллег пытаются его удержать, но это настоящий исполин, и лишь дюжине парней удается повалить его на землю. Но осветитель не сдается. Проходит десять минут, а он, вырвавшись на свободу, шляется по площадке в одном белье и ищет, с кем бы подраться. Немет наблюдает за всем этим со стороны. “Трудно ли это было?” – спрашивает он сам себя. И сам же отвечает: “Да. Сделаю ли я это еще раз? Определенно”.

Исполин снова повергнут на землю, но он сильнее: повалив одного из коллег на асфальт, он начинает бить его по лицу. Немет бросается к дерущимся, негодующе крича, пытаясь их разнять. Все остальные сохраняют безразличие. По съемочной площадке бесшумно кружит Rolls-Royce, выкрашенный золотой краской.

지금 앉아있는 칸의 카페에 이런 변화를 계획하고 있는 두 사람이 있다. 둘 다 190cm가 넘는 큰 키의 스칸디나비아인들이다. 니클라스 젠스트룀과 야누스 프리스는 테러리스트들처럼 세계의 통상망을 납치해 자기들 방식대로 바꾸기 위해 프랑스를 방문했다. 2000년, 이들은 레코드 업계를 공황 상태로 몰고 간 파일 공유 프로그램 “카자(KaZaA)”를 만들었다. 그에 이어 세상에 선보인 스카이프를 통해 하고 싶은 것은 세계의 모든 전화를 장악하는 것이다. 이들은 생활의 대부분을 런던과 룩셈부르크 그리고 기술 본부가 위치한 에스토니아에서 보낸다. 특히 영하의 추운 나라 에스토니아는 경비 면에서도 유리하고 실리콘 밸리의 무수한 소문에 휩싸일 걱정이 없는 안전한 곳이다. 니클라스 젠스트룀과 야누스 프리스는 그들이 드디어 이 세상을 무선으로 새롭게 연결할 수 있는 암호를 풀었다고 믿는다.

‘Y 미팅’ 시간이 다가오자 이들은 붉은색 페라리를 잽싸게 몰고 해변 거리에 있는 호텔로 달려간다. 호텔 바에는 사냥감을 찾아 사방으로 뛰어다니는 투자가들과 그들의 돈을 끌어당기기 위한 새로운 아이디어로 무정한 사람들이 한데 엉긴 열기로 가득하다. 낯선 사람들이 젠스트룀과 프리스에게 다가와 말한다. “당신들의 앞날을 지켜볼 겁니다” 하지만 정작 당사자들은 극도의 냉정을 유지한 채 미팅이 열릴 때까지 침묵을 유지하고 있다.

일년에 한 번씩 열리는 국제 이동통신 카르텔에서 누가 영광의 왕관을 차지할 것인가는 명백하다. 스카이프는 인터넷을 통해 세계 모든 곳에서 전화를 걸 수 있게 해 준다. 물론 스카이프는 세계 유일도 최초도 아니다. 그러나 인터넷 통신 업계의 전문가들은 스카이프가 세계의 거대 통신 회사들에 새로운 도전장을 받아드리도록 강요하거나 그들을 시장에서 몰아낼 것이라고 예측한다. 아마도 양쪽 다 일 것이다. 스카이프의 통화는 일반 전화처럼 감이 뚜렷하고 게다가 무료다. 많은 거대 기업들은 이미 이 시장에 뛰어 들었지만 사람들은 스카이프가 인터넷 전화의 ‘AT&T’ 같은 존재로 떠오르는 것을 막기에는 너무 늦었다고 말한다.

스웨덴 출신의 젠스트룀과 덴마크 출신의 프리스는 다가올 통신 혁명을 이끌기엔 지극히 평범한 모습으로 크림색 소파에 앉아 있다. 분명 그건 다른 종류의 반란이었다. 우리는 무료 음악 공유 인터넷 프로그램인 냅스터가 결국에는 음반 업계로부터 호되게 당한 것을 모두 기억하고 있다. 냅스터가 무너지자 카자는 인터넷의 짧은 역사 속에서 가장 많은 수의 소프트웨어 다운로드 수를 기록하며 다시 싸움의 깃발을 치켜 들었다. 매달 사용자들은 서로 30억 개의 파일을 전송하고, 받았다. 이 엄청난 성과에도 39세 기혼에 아이가 없는 젠스트룀과 29세의 독신인 프리스는 그 순간을 만끽할 수 없었다. 2001년 10월, 미국영화협회와 미국음반협회의 회원으로 속해 있는 회사들이 카자를 고소했다. 젠스트룀과 프리스는 “단지 분별력이 있는 성인들에게 그들의 소장품을 타인과 공유하게 해 주었을 뿐이고 이용자들은 이미 라이선스 협약을 준수하고 있었다”고 주장하면서 조심스럽게 행동했다. 그들은 사법권에 대한 어떠한 논쟁도 일으키지 않기 위해 2002년 이후 한 번도 미국 땅에 발을 들여 놓지 않았다.

카메라 앞에 모습을 드러내기 꺼려하게 된 젠스트룀과 프리스는 구 소련의 연방국에 숨어 프로그래머들과 함께 새로운 폭탄을 만들기로 결정했다. 그들은 결국 백만 달러에 카자를 호주 회사에게 남겼다. 미국 대법원은 그들을 음반, 영화 회사의 저작권 침해에 잠재적으로 영향을 끼칠 우려가 있는 파일 공유 기술의 제공자라는 혐의로 기소했다(이 두 사람은 자신들이 손을 뗀지 2년도 넘은 일에 대해 미국 법원이 소송을 걸 사법권이 있는지 이의 신청 중이다). 프로그램 개발자들은 저작권 침해에 대한 부담을 느끼지 않으면서 새로운 프로그램을 만들 자유를 원했다. 음반과 영화 회사들은 고전적인 이익 창출 방법을 억지로 바꾸고 싶어하지 않는다. 물론 젠스트룀과 프리스는 이런 사건에서 자신들의 이름이 언급되지 않기를 원할 것이다.

젠스트룀은 교사로 재직 중이던 부모님 슬하에서 지극히 순종적이며 성실하게 자랐다. 하지만 미시간 대학의 교환 학생 프로그램 기간 동안 많은 것이 변했다. 그는 경영학과 공학을 공부했고 맥주를 마시면서 많은 미식촉구 경기를 관람했다. 프리스는 인도 봄베이의 소프트웨어 회사에서 일하고 돌아온 후 스웨덴 장거리 통신 회사의 구인 광고를 보았는데 그것은 젠스트룀이 낸 것이다. 그 후 몇 년 동안 젠스트룀은 프리스를 암스테르담돠 룩셈부르크 등 여러 도시의 프로젝트에 대동하고 다녔다. 1999년에 그 둘은 높은 연봉을 뿌리치고 나놔 카자의 아이디어를 여러 각도에서 생각해 보았다(카자라는 이름은 레스토랑 이름을 따서 만들었다). 스카이프라는 이름은 지금까지 지구상 어디에도 존재한 적이 없다. 원래 그들은 스카이퍼(Skyper)를 마음에 두고 있었으나 그 이름이 독일의 문자 서비스 회사라는 것을 알았다. 그래서 마지막 철자 ‘r’을 빼면 동사가 될 수 도 있다는 아이디어를 프리스가 제안했다. “우리는 그것이 인터넷 전화와 동의어가 되기를 원합니다. 좀 있다 스카이프 할게, 라는 식으로 말이죠”라고 그들은 말한다.

젠스트룀과 프리스는 스카이프를 탐욕이 아닌 신뢰를 바탕으로 한 세계적인 통신 회사로 만들고 싶어한다. 사업을 시작한 지 채 2년도 안되었지만 하루 13만 건, 총 1억4천만 번의 다운로드 수와 세계 4천4백만의 사용자들을 끌어드린 스카이프는 그들의 첫 작품인 카자 보다 더 빠른 속도와 더 큰 규모로 급성장하고 있다. 129년 전 벨이 처음으로 목소리를 전송한 이래, 전화에서 가장 커다란 기술 혁신은 1950년경 이루어진 디지털로의 전환이었다. 젠스트룀과 프리스는 그 다음 단계가 훨씬 더 놀랍고 충격적이란 걸 입증해야 한다. 젠스트룀은 만약 전화를 이메일처럼 무료로 걸 수 있다면 지금의 거대 통신기업들은 스카이프의 승승장구를 먼산 보듯 바라보며 광케이블 판매자로 전락할 거라고 말한다. 자, 다 좋은데 수익은 어디에서 발생할까?

스카이프 사용자가 다른 스카이프 사용자에게 전화를 걸면 무료다. 스카이프를 사용해 스카이프 미사용자에게 전화를 걸거나 스카이프를 사용하지 않는 사람이 스카이프 사용자에게 전화를 걸면 분당 2-3센트의 요금이 부과된다. 보이스메일 같은 프리미엄 서비스에도 요금이 부과된다. 스카이프는 2004년 7월 이래, 이 부가 요금 방식으로 이미 1천8백만 달러 이상의 판매고를 올렸다. 두 번에 걸친 펀드로 모은 2천만 달러로 사업 자금은 충분하다. 스카이프는 광고도 하지 않는다. 프리미엄 서비스는 모두 선불제이기 때문에 이렇다 할만한 청구서 담당 부서도 없다. 지금과 같은 방법으로 사용자 중 5퍼센트만 부가 요금을 내도 재정적인 안정성이 보장된다.

특히 지난 몇 년 동안 인터넷 전화 시장은 경쟁자들로 넘쳐 났기 때문에 스카이프가 이 영역에서 지배권을 갖긴 어렵지 않다. 이 시장에 참가한 회사들은 버라이즌과 AT&T 같은 전통적인 통신 회사들, 타임 워너 케이블과 케이블비전 같은 케이블/DSL 회사들, 그리고 ‘보나지’ 같은 인테넷을 기반으로 새롭게 진출한 회사들이다. 이 모든 회사들은 스카이프에 대항하는 하나의 핵심적인 판매전략을 가지고 있다. 스카이프가 여전히 컴퓨터에 로그인해야 하고 헤드셋으로 의사소통하는 불편함을 가진 데 반해, 그들의 인터넷 전화 서비스는 일반전화로 사용 가능하다는 것이다. 하지만 스카이프의 소프트웨어는 무선 테크놀로지의 힘을 입어 컴퓨터에서 집과 휴대전화로 영역을 확장하기 시작했다. 게다가 대부분의 인터넷 전화 서비스는 한 달에 25달러에서 35달러쯤을 내야 하지만, 스카이프는 무료이고 사용방법도 간단하다. 대략 10분 안에 등록에서 전화 걸기까지 끝난다.

사람들은 스카이프가 엄청난 자금을 가진 통신 회사들과 경쟁할 수 없거나 후발 주자인 마이크로소프크와의 싸움에서 질 게 뻔하다고 말한다. 이등 스웨덴인과 덴마크인은 그들의 시장을 미국과 영국에 국한시키기보다는 다른 주요 경쟁업체들처럼 전 세계를 타깃으로 하고 있다고 말한다. 이 게임이 막 시작됐을 때 추측들이 난무했고, 비판도 곳곳에서 들렸다. 젠스트룀과 프리스가 새로운 통신의 역사를 쓰고 싶어하는지는 사실 확실할 수 없다. 하지만 수익을 창출하는 회사를 원하는 것만은 분명하다. 카자에 대한 그들의 주된 불안은 황금알을 낳는 방법을 내놓은 후에도 그걸 이용해 정당한 돈으로 연결시키는 법을 찾지 못한 것이다. 지독했던 카자의 경험을 통해 그들이 얻은 것은 명성뿐, 돈은 없었다. “스카이프의 가장 큰 장점은 분명히 성공한다는 겁니다”라고 20년 동안 MIT 미디어 연구실에서 컴퓨터 분야를 담당하고 있는 미하엘 블렛사스는 말한다. “어머니께 집 전화 설비를 다 뜯어고쳐야 한다는 말을 어떻게 해야 할지 모르겠네요.”

블렛사스는 스카이프의 중요성은 수익을 내는 새로운 수단이라기보다 인류에게 도움을 주는 도구의 일종이라고 설명한다. 그는 ‘100달러짜리’ 컴퓨터 개발의 중추를 담당하고 있는데 이 프로젝트는 빈곤층도 인터넷을 이용하게 만드는 것이다. 가난한 사람들에게 무료 전화의 기회도 제공할 것이다. “스카이프와 저만의 생각이죠. 우리 상상력이 실현되느냐에 달렸습니다.” 거대했던 소련 전화교환국은 이미 몇 십 년 전, 소련 최고의 컴퓨터 과학자들을 이곳 탈린에 심어 놓았다. 소련이 EU에 가입하는 과정에서 중앙 정부의 주거 프로젝트와 돈 많은 소매상들이 생겨났고 그 결과 탈린은 기술 친화적인 환경과 배고픈 프로그래머를 얻게 되었다. 젠스트룀과 프리스는 다른 곳에서는 좀처럼 찾아 보기 힘든 최고의 실력을 갖춘 프로그래머들이다. 여기서는 휴대폰 문자 메시지로 주차비를 낼 수 있다. 에스토니안 항공사가 발행하는 잡지의 역사와 문화 섹션에서는 NATO, 세계 2차 대전과 나란히 스카이프가 언급되고 있다. 탈린의 거리를 따라서 건다 보면 200여 개 이상의 Wi-Fi 핫 스팟을 경험하게 된다.

스카이프가 위치한 여기 에스토니아의 작은 마을에서는 모든 것이 거꾸로다. (스타워즈)의 바운티 헌터 보바 펫이 화제에 오르자 그들의 이야기는 기름을 부은 장작불처럼 활활 타오른다. 능란한 사교성은 오히려 마이너스 요인이 된다. 사회성은 미달이지만 어쨌건 스카이프의 컴퓨터 천재들은 자신들이 승리하는 팀에 소속된 운 좋은 선수라고 기뻐하고 있다. 사실 스카이프를 만든 건 그들이다. 젠스트룀과 프리스는 발상을 했을 뿐이다. 프로그래머들은 비가 오나 눈이 오나 하루 종일 실눈을 뜨고 컴퓨터 화면을 응시하고 있다. 그러나 술 한 모금 입에 대지 않는 일중독자들이라고 단정짓기엔 이른다. 그들은 중앙 서버가 사용자들의 요청을 들어주는 대신 스카이프에 로그온한 컴퓨터로 직접 다른 사람과 의사 소통할 수 있는 P2P 기술을 바탕으로 스카이프와 카자를 만들었다. 이 기술은 이등 회사의 가장 핵심적인 장점으로 이상과 희망 사이에 존재하던 생각이 구체적인 현실 속으로 나아가는 발판이 되어 주었다.

전통적인 전화 회사들은 신규 가입자를 모집할 때마다 청구서를 발송하고 기술자를 보내기 때문에 그때마다 비용이 발생한다. 스카이프도 리스트에 고객을 추가할 때 돈이 들지만 그것은 1센트도 채 안 된다. 게다가 사용자가 일단 로그인 하면 다른 컴퓨터는 기존의 P2P 네트워크를 더욱 강하게 만들어 준다. 새로운 사용자들이 다른 컴퓨터들과 강한 연계를 갖게 되면서 이 사이클은 피라미드처럼 방대해진다. 결국 이 피라미드의 규모는 무한대로 커진다.

이런 현상은 휴대전화의 핸즈프리 헤드셋을 소지한 회의 참가자들보다 앞으로 어떤 통신 세상이 다가올지에 대해 더 잘 알고 있는 스카이프 천재들의 열의를 설명하는 데 도움을 준다. 자신들이 원하기만 하면 더 좋은 연봉의 직장을 얻을 수 있음에도 불구하고 스카이프 고위직에는 사회성 좋은 사람들이 있다. 탈린에서 자란 러시아인 에드가 말로베리안은 네트워크의 인포메이션 시스템의 우두머리로서 아주 미미한 시스템 결함까지 알려주는 보고 전화를 위해 항시 대기하고 있다. 31세의 그는 최근까지 샌디에고에 있는 ‘퓨처 트레이드’라는 소프트웨어 회사에서 9만 불의 연봉을 받으며 일했지만 그만두었다. “너무 지루해서요.”

스카이프 직원의 대다수는 대학교 중퇴자들과 아직 재학 중인 잠재적인 대학 중퇴자들이다. 평균연령 20대, 프로그래밍 실력 이외에도 전반적으로 괴짜 기질이 이력서의 필수 조건이다. 별종들은 세계의 기존 질서를 파괴하려는 회사의 모토에 따라 매우 존중 받는다.

많은 시 당국들이 인터넷 접속료를 부담하고 도시 전체에 Wi-Fi 인터넷 운영 체계를 구축하는 데 보조금을 주고 협력을 고려하고 있다. 일례로 필라델피아는 이미 시 자체적인 무선 네트워크 건설에 착수했다. 그리고 곧 Wi-Fi의 영광은 30마일까지 신호를 전송할 수 있는 ‘WiMAX’로 이어질 것이라고 그들은 말한다. 확실히 이들은 세계의 거대 통신 회사들에게 문제를 일으킬 무리로는 보이지 않는다. 그러나 거대 통신 기업들과 인터넷 회사들은 음반 회사와 오토바이를 타고 소환장을 건넨 사람들이 그랬던 것처럼 젠스트룀과 프리스를 향한 감시를 강화할 것이 확실하다. 그래서 야후, 구글, AOL 같은 회사들이 스카이프와 계속 만나면서도 그것을 비밀로 부치는 것이다. “큰 회사들이 움직이는 데는 시간이 걸립니다. 하지만 한번 시작하면 막강한 힘을 갖고 움직입니다.”라고 방금 테이블에서 내려 온 프리스는 말한다. “만약 야후가 일 년 전에 그들만의 독자적인 프로그램을 들고 나왔다면 그들은 우리를 목사발로 만들었을 겁니다. 그러나 지금은 우리만의 사용자 기반을 가지게 되면서 그들과 동등할 뿐만 아니라 주목해야 할 존재가 되었습니다. 일년 전에 우리는 하루에 1만5천 건의 다운로드를 기록했습니다. 지금은 하루에 15만 건을 기록하고 있습니다. 카자도 마찬가지였습니다. 이 숫자는 눈덩이처럼 불어나고 있고 이것을 막을 수 있는 것은 없습니다” 거세게 몰아치는 스카이프의 기세와 함께 이들은 모든 사람들의 스카이프와 서로 손을 잡고 싶어하는 지금의 인기를 기회로 삼으려고 노력 중이다. 그들은 새로운 돌풍을 몰고 올 기술의 일부가 거의 완성단계에 가까웠다고 말한다. “힌트를 드리죠, 그건 P2P 입니다.” 프리스의 말이다.

글/퍼레스크 프렛

Nonostante continuasse a non amare la sua città d’adozione, Kushir vi si era creato un’esistenza comoda. La sua impresa, il American Language Center (ALC) che insegnava l’inglese ai russi, stava prosperando sull’onda di una incessante campagna di spam. Venticinque milioni di e-mail al giorno generavano un numero di nuovi clienti sufficiente a finanziare i suoi epici attacchi alla ricerca di locali e sesso, in cui indulgeva a tal punto da risultare ragguardevole anche in una città nota per la sua assoluta mancanza di vergogna.

Kushnir sognava di diventare un famoso sviluppatore di software – «Come Bill Gates» – ma intraprese un cammino decisamente più inglorioso. Il suo spam incessante e le sue vanterie lo avevano reso fonte di irritazione in tutta Mosca. Battagliava con i funzionari del governo ed esasperava tutti gli altri, in particolare i suoi dipendenti. Ma la fede in Scientology gli dava una calma particolare. Anche se il suo stile di vita all’ingrosso lo trascinava nel caos più totale non alzava mai la voce, non sembrava mai infuriato. Il disprezzo che sembrava suscitare lo divertiva e riusciva a tenere i nemici a distanza.

Fino a quella notte. Kushnir divideva con la madre Olga e i gatti randagi che adottava di continuo un appartamento in via Sadovaya-Karetnaya. Come faceva sempre quando il figlio portava a casa delle ragazze, Olga andò a dormire in un monolocale lì vicino. Il mattino successivo tornò all’appartamento e trovò sul pavimento del bagno il cadavere coperto di sangue del figlio. La polizia arrivò subito. A distanza di un anno non però rivela ancora l’esatto corso degli eventi. Secondo i giornali l’imprenditore trentacinquenne era tornato a casa alle prime ore del mattino con tre ragazze di cui una incontrata all’Hungry Duck, un club moscovita. Erano stati preparati dei cocktail e le ragazze avevano versato del tranquillante nel suo bicchiere. Quasi subito Kushnir era andato al tappeto. Ma la dose non lo aveva tenuto addormentato a lungo. Quando era tornato in sé le ragazze lo avevano colpito alla testa.

Kushnir era nei guai, e guai peggiori lo stavano aspettando. Arrivarono alcuni uomini – amici delle ragazze. Un giornale li descrive mentre si arrampicano alla grondaia ed entrano nell’appartamento dalla finestra. Adesso il gruppo era composto di almeno cinque persone, che cominciarono a pestare selvaggiamente Kushnir fracassandogli il cranio e lasciandolo immobile sul pavimento, il sangue che si spandeva lentamente sulle piastrelle.

Quando il mattino successivo la madre lo trovò, il corpo era già freddo. «C’era tantissimo sangue» rivela.

I poliziotti andarono e venirono e quando il cadavere era già sulla fredda lastra dell’obitorio uno dei giornali gialli di Mosca titolò l’episodio con trionfante cinismo: «LO SPAMMER E’ STATO SPAMMATO».

Vardan Kushnir era cresciuto in Armenia. Il padre era scappato quasi subito e la madre lo aveva cresciuto da sola. Da adolescente eccelleva in matematica e fisica e vinse un invito a recarsi a studiare all’Istituto Tecnologico per l’Industria Leggera di Mosca. Dopo la laurea trascorse un anno a Los Angeles e tornò a Mosca con una perfetta padronanza dell’inglese, parlato quasi senza accento. Nel 1994 aprì la ALC, sfruttando gli espatriati americani per insegnare inglese ai russi.

Alla metà degli anni ‘90 la Russia era afflitta da una guerra aperta fra bande e dal furto incontrollato delle proprietà statali. Arricchirsi – fino a diventare miliardari – aveva poco a che fare con il lavoro diligente o le nuove idee quanto piuttosto con la forza bruta. Segnali palesi del privilegio erano le Mercedes nere e l’impudente andatura da barone del petrolio. Fu in quel periodo di cospicua ricchezza che Kushnir lanciò una nuova impresa che sperava gli avrebbe fruttato tonnellate di denaro.

Kushnir rivolse la sua attenzione alla Sophim, azienda con sede negli Stati Uniti che aveva fondato con un socio in Florida. Avevano sviluppato un’applicazione chiamata Edifact Prime, basata sul pre-Internet, che permetteva la gestione standard degli ordini tra azienda e azienda. Ma dopo alcuni anni e molti viaggi in Florida, Kushnir aveva visto il suo denaro inghiottito da costose fiere del settore. Nel 2001 la sua avventura si era già esaurita, così Kushnir tornò a concentrarsi sulla ALC, che gli aveva permesso di mantenere se stesso e la madre mentre lavorava alla Sophim.

Questa volta, però, il suo arsenale possedeva una nuova arma: lo spam. Aveva usato le e-mail di massa per vendere azioni della Sophim (fino a quando lo stato del Kansas lo aveva informato che aveva bisogno di una licenza da mediatore). Ora si lanciò nella sua operazione russa di spamming con l’energia frenetica del tipico imprenditore post-sovietico. «Cambiava idea e decisioni ogni due ore» racconta un dirigente di vecchia data della ALC. «Aveva troppe idee. Voleva fare tutto in una volta, il più velocemente possibile».

Dopo essere rimbalzato tra server russi e tedeschi, Kushnir si rivolse al mercato cinese, dove con 1000 dollari d’affitto mensile si poteva usufruire di un server in grado di inviare 7 milioni di e-mail al giorno. Mentre amministrava le operazioni quotidiane della ALC si ingegnava per battere i filtri anti-spam, per localizzare nuovi server, acquistare elenchi di indirizzi e-mail e qualsiasi altra cosa gli permettesse di ampliare la sua ragnatela. Funzionò. Nel 2003, ad appena un anno dal primo attacco, gli incassi della compagnia erano raddoppiati. La ALC aveva oltre 110 studenti e raggranellava fino a 13.000 dollari il mese. Con spese d’affitto e di impianto praticamente inesistenti, Kushnir intascava la parte del leone. Per gli standard americani non era propriamente una fortuna, ma a Mosca, dove il salario medio è di circa 2.600 dollari l’anno, lo collocava tra l’aristocrazia.

IGOR VISHNEVSKY SI TOGLIE l’auricolare Bluetooth metallica dall’orecchio prima di scivolare sul divano di pelle di Le Gâteau, una mediocre imitazione di un caffè francese. Getta un’occhiata al di là del vetro e osserva il movimento sulla Tverskaya, luccicante arteria principale di Mosca, una macchia indistinta di cartelloni pubblicitari e insegne al neon. A quasi un anno di distanza dalla morte di Kushnir, Vishnevsky, ingegnere dello spam che Kushnir aveva reclutato in Bielorussia per dirigere le operazioni tecniche della ALC, non ha rimorsi sul modo in cui trovavano nuovi clienti. «Se qualcuno dice di odiare lo spam», dice soffiando sul suo espresso, «allora vuol dire che odia la pubblicità, cosa che vede ovunque».

L’operazione di spam della ALC era rozza ma efficace: Vishnevsky mandava un programma spider a scandagliare la Rete e raccogliere così indirizzi e-mail che aggiungeva agli elenchi a diverse centinaia di migliaia per volta. Lavorava anche con i fornitori – un milione di indirizzi a qualche centinaio di dollari. Per imbrogliare i filtri antispam Kushnir inseriva spazi a caso tra le parole dell’oggetto, oppure modificava il corpo in un file di immagine. Al suo apice l’attività generava una media di 15 potenziali studenti ALC al giorno.

Ma il sistema era tanto fallace quanto grezzo e a volte inviava e-mail allo stesso indirizzo anche cinquanta volte al giorno. Le lamentele cominciarono a fioccare. La gente imprecava e minacciava, si infuriava – qualsiasi cosa pur di fermare la molestia. «La parola “vaffanculo” era la più usata» ricorda Vishnevsky.

Kushnir reagiva con un’alzata di spalle trovando spesso conforto in uno dei libri di Scientology sparsi nel suo ufficio, e borbottava che le opinioni importavano davvero poco di fronte alla crescita finanziaria. Per lui lo spam era efficace e qualsiasi altra cosa erano chiacchiere inutili. «Spammavamo chiunque, cinque giorni la settimana» racconta Vishnevsky. «Davamo una piccola tregua solo nel fine settimana».

Con il trascorrere dei mesi si diffusero sui siti Web in lingua russa i gruppi di protesta – uno dei quali chiamato Centro Anti American Language. Kushnir era oggetto di aperto disprezzo ma la sua determinazione si trasformò in un infantile compiacimento. «Era il classico modo lineare di pensare sovietico» commenta Mike McAtavey, ex insegnante della ALC. «Mi ritrovo con 250 clienti e un miliardo di telefonate fastidiose. Se triplico il mio input avrò 750 clienti». E, naturalmente, tre miliardi di telefonate fastidiose.

Lo spam era talmente a buon mercato che Kushnir cominciò ad usarlo semplicemente per attirare l’attenzione sulla ALC – anche in luoghi dove non c’era speranza alcuna di generare affari. Spammò paesi distanti come Israele, Spagna, Francia e Stati Uniti. «Non gli interessava essere amato» dice Rick Farouni, che ha lavorato per due anni alla ALC.

Poi Kushnir cominciò ad attirare un tipo di attenzione diversa. Nel 2003 il suo spam raggiunse Andrey Korotkov, all’epoca vice ministro russo delle comunicazioni. Presto Korotkov cominciò a ricevere 10 e-mail ALC al giorno. Quando cercò di cancellare la sottoscrizione i messaggi raddoppiarono, addirittura con testi dedicati a lui personalmente. «Lo presi come uno scherzo» racconta Korotkov, «per farmi vedere che non c’era nulla che potessi fare per fermarli».

Nel 2005 Korotkov sollevò la questione durante un simposio Internet tenuto presso l’edificio del Telegrafo Centrale di Mosca a cui parteciparono influenti ISP, pubblicitari, giornalisti e funzionari del governo. La Russia non aveva leggi contro lo spam per cui Korotkov sollecitò i presenti chiedendo che cosa si potesse fare per fermare Kushnir. L’unica soluzione offerta fu di ripagare la ALC con la sua stessa moneta – inondarla di messaggi. Il mattino seguente la ALC venne investita da 1000 telefonate preregistrate con la voce tuonante di Korotkov: «Voglio avvertirla che se prosegue nella sua attività illecita verranno prese le misure necessarie, e non solo da me». Era solo una tattica per spaventare e Kushnir lo sapeva. «Ne ridemmo molto» racconta Vishnevsky, facendo notare che l’episodio spinse Kushnir a vantarsi che nessuna attività spam aveva mai generato una reazione così negativa.

Kushnir accusò ricevuta del contrattacco prendendosi gioco di Korotkov: inviò un numero ancora maggiore di e-mail nella casella del vice ministro, ma con un tema diverso. «Hai un bisogno terribile di Viagra» si leggeva nel testo, «E noi qui abbiamo ragazze pronte al tuo servizio. Ti faremo un test speciale per verificare il tuo potenziale sessuale. Devi acquistare una tonnellata di Viagra».

Korotkov, sconfitto, si limitava a cancellare i messaggi. «Che cosa potevo fare?» commenta, paragonandosi a un animale in gabbia. «Puoi prendere in giro un orso allo zoo, non ti acchiapperà mai. Si guasterà semplicemente il fegato». Kushnir gongolava dei problemi che stava creando. «Vardan mi mandò un link sul conflitto in corso tra lui e il vice ministro delle comunicazioni» racconta Mikhail Urubkov, programmatore russo che lavorò per la Edifact Prime. «Diceva “guarda quanto sono famoso”. Per lui era un gioco». E non era il solo in cui amava impegnarsi.

LA SERATA POTEVA INIZIARE al Mio, un club non molto distante dalla sede della ALC dove fare colpo su adolescenti insicure dietro occhiali da sole Fendi era facile come spiegare loro gli ingredienti degli involtini California appena ordinati. In ambienti come quello un imprenditore Internet di successo veniva visto come un re.

All’età di 35 anni i capelli biondi di Kushnir si erano diradati in rade ciocche spettinate, e sul viso portava evidenti i segni di molte notti brave. Ma da uomo di imperscrutabile esperienza internazionale mai a corto di rubli, in locali come il Mio Kushnir non doveva sbattersi molto per fare colpo sulle ragazze. Si guardava intorno e si presentava come direttore dell’American Language Center, fino a che qualcuna non abboccava. «Quasi tutte le ragazze avevano sentito parlare del suo spamming» commenta Vishnevsky. «Lo trovavano un uomo affascinante». E se non fosse stato sufficiente, Kushnir raccontava di quando aveva una grande casa in America, dove era uomo di grande importanza.

Ma Kushnir cominciò presto ad annoiarsi e iniziò esplorazioni che lo condussero oltre il solito scenario da club. Ex dipendenti raccontano che scivolò nel buco nero delle orge, della prostituzione e di qualsiasi cosa oltrepassasse i limiti. Faceva affidamento sulla rete di bordelli che circonda la città. A volte si recava in una bisca galleggiante ormeggiata in un canale di Mosca. E lì si stendeva nudo mentre due ragazze lo leccavano da capo a piedi.

Il lunedì mattina Kushnir arrivava spesso al lavoro con un sorriso compiaciuto raccontando l’ennesima storia di bizzarri traguardi raggiunti. Un pomeriggio esclamò: «L’ho trovato, finalmente!» e convocò un dipendente nel suo ufficio, dove gli mostrò un annuncio pubblicitario Internet di un duo sessuale composto da madre e figlia.

I dipendenti erano scoraggiati dal comportamento di Kushnir, ma ancora più infuriati dal non essere pagati. Molti dei suoi collaboratori erano avventurieri espatriati, gente arrivata da poco a Mosca che alla fine capiva la situazione e lasciava la ALC dopo avere appreso le regole russe del lavoro. Quando un dipendente lo affrontava Kushnir metteva su una faccia pacifica. «Perché mi metti addosso tutta questa pressione?» chiedeva con tono di superiore condiscendenza. «Perché ti arrabbi così? Dovresti leggere un po’ di L. Ron Hubbard» e gli offriva un volume di Scientology preso dallo scaffale.

La nobiltà del gesto lasciava per lo più interdetti. «La sua unica autorità era L. Ron Hubbard», racconta Vishnevsky. «Non vedeva gli altri come degli amici. Per lui esisteva soltanto se stesso, era lui l’unica cosa importante».

Mentre chi gli stava intorno schiumava di rabbia per quella noncuranza Kushnir restava indifferente, scivolando ancora più profondamente in comportamenti bizzarri. «Spendeva tutto ciò che guadagnava» dice McAtavey, spiegando come Kushnir, tra varie sbornie di sesso e spam, battesse a tappeto la città alla ricerca dell’accessorio all’ultima moda che lo avrebbe fatto risaltare tra la folla dei facoltosi corteggiatori. «Un giorno arrivò in ufficio con un costoso ascot di seta argentea» racconta McAtavey. «Ricordo bene – l’ascot argenteo e niente paga per me».

«Quando Kushnir è morto non è che nel suo giro fossero tutti in lacrime» aggiunge un altro ex dipendente. «Aveva nemici. Su questo non v’è alcun dubbio».

La statua più alta di Lenin è sulla Piazza d’Ottobre di Mosca. Lenin marcia a fronte alta, l’impermeabile svolazzante, immortalato nel vento tumultuoso di ciò che si pensava sarebbe stato il progresso. A poca distanza dalla quella statua l’American Language Center occupa un ufficio al terzo piano di uno stabile di mattoni rossi. È un ufficio all’americana con un poster del Ponte di Brooklyn dietro la bandiera a stelle e strisce, e una carta geografica degli Stati Uniti. L’ALC è ancora operativo, sebbene abbia messo la sordina. Vi sono molti meno studenti, nessuna campagna di spam e le poche telefonate vengono prese da chiunque si trovi a passare nelle vicinanze. Adesso è la madre di Kushnir a dirigere le attività. È una figura di mezz’età, solitaria, che mostra le foto del figlio e racconta della sua ultima sera.

Pare che la notte dell’omicidio gli assalitori abbiano rubato alcune cose dall’appartamento, tra cui un computer portatile. Ciò ha indotto la procura di Mosca a ipotizzare che si sia trattato di una rapina finita tragicamente. Ma la madre non ci crede. «Erano in tre o in quattro» aggiunge, «Se avessero voluto derubarlo potevano legarlo e rinchiuderlo in bagno. Sono invece venuti per ammazzarlo».

IN PARTE DEVOTO AVVENTURIERO sessuale, in parte spietato spammer, Kushnir ha lasciato dietro di sé una scia di malcontento. In un mondo ordinato sarebbe stato un paria. Ma Mosca ha un tipo di ordine proprio ed è facile immaginare come la sfacciataggine di Kushnir possa avere spinto troppo oltre la persona sbagliata. Questa città forse non prova molta vergogna, ma si pagano comunque le conseguenze. Nell’oltrepassare il confine tra imprenditore sfacciato e scocciatore senza rimorsi Kushnir si è reso vulnerabile.

Poco prima della morte lui stesso aveva cominciato a dolersi dei suoi eccessi. Disse a un dipendente che voleva contenere il desiderio, che aveva bisogno di un po’ di auto controllo per diventare, nelle sue parole, «un uomo forte».

Nell’agosto del 2005 le autorità di Mosca hanno arrestato quattro persone collegate all’omicidio di Kushnir. Non sono stati fatti nomi né è stata fissata la data del processo. Polizia e procura russe hanno posto l’embargo su tutte le informazioni riguardanti il caso. Per cui, a distanza di un anno, si sta giocando tutto a porte chiuse. O non si sta giocando affatto. Con il trascorrere del tempo l’omicidio si perde sempre di più nella memoria. Dopo tutto, a Mosca tutte le settimane decine di persone trovano una fine violenta. Kushnir è stato sepolto a mezz’ora di strada dalla città, tra erba alta e lapidi disordinate. Dopo una tranquilla cerimonia funebre un autobus portò i presenti all’American Language Center dove mangiarono e bevvero tra chiacchiere di circostanza. Avevano capito che Vardan Kushnir era troppo da sopportare anche per la Russia.

Esse é, de fato, o antigo barco de Joseph Stalin, o “Maxim Górki,” destinado aos prazeres proibidos do partido na época comunista. Agora, tornou-se o ápice da noite vip de Moscou, desfrutada apenas por quem tem conexões certas e imaginação fértil. Um manequim com o rosto de Stalin está sentado numa imitação do escritório do ditador. Duas garotas de 20 e poucos anos, que perderam qualquer noção de limite, tropeçam nas cadeiras, enquanto se devoram com o olhar. Logo, os tops são tirados, elas começam a se beijar e o chão treme com o barulho do motor original de 1934.

Do lado de for a, uma lancha no acompanha: no leme, de pé, éstá um homen de cabeça raspada. Ele sorri. É Aleksei Goróbi, que levanta os olhos e observa, de longe, território que é só seu: a noite de Moscou. Ele traz 20 garotas do Óssen, uma de suas casas noturnas em terra. O clube é apenas um entre os vários points que Goróbi e seus sócios possuem na cidade—Moscou tem hoje uma das mais fascinates cenas noturnas do planeta. Esqueça a etiqueta e a moderação. Para essa nova geração, que esta na faixa dos 30 e tem muito dinheiro, o que interessa é celebrar. Dificil é acompanhar esse ritmo. Moscou é uma espécie de inferno, e no inferno você pode se divertir pra valer.

Goróbi e seus associados criaram um tipo de vida noturna que provoca inveja nas cidades mais baladeiras do mundo. Há 15 anos, não havia um único clube desse gênero na major capital da Europa. Então, em 1992, o capitalismo passou a dar as cartas, e tudo mudou. Hoje, frequentar os clubes controlados por Goróbi e seus dois amigos, Mikhail Kozlov e Sinicha Lazarévitch, significa ter acesso a um mundo exclusivo, cheio de conforto e regalias. Por isso mesmo, não dá para ignorar o poder desses três homens.

FAÇO UMA VISITA ao Óssen para conhecer o reinado de Goróbi em terra firme. Já é madrugada e Goróbi se retira para o quarto reservado que mentém alguns andares acima da pista de dança. Seu refúgio é cheio de telas de plasma e candelabros baixos. Ele veste uma camisa branca e nada mais. A mulher deitada sob ele tem diamantes no olhos e chiclete nos dentes. Um andar abaixo, as go-go girls misturam glitter com óleo hidratante nas mãos. Num movimento sensual, elas espalham essa mistura sobre as peles bronzeadas: a idéia é refletir as luzes que pulam na pista de dança. Nas escadas, uma dúzia de meninas que parecem modelos, usando botas de cano alto, sussuram versos eróticos.

Goróbi, hoje com 37 anos, começou a ganhar a vida gerenciando bandas que tocavam em casamentos. Um dia, resolveu dar uma festa no Pavilhão Cosmos do parque VDNKh. Ele montou algumas luzes, ligou o toca-discos e viu os clubbers irem a loucura entre falsos motores de foguetes e outros lixos espaciais. Milhares de passoas freqüentavam essas festas, que foram, de fato, as primeiras raves da Rússia. Goróbi não ganhava nada com isso, mas se divertia bem mais. Em 1993, depois do sucesso dessas raves espaciais, ele chamou alguns sócios e abriu sua primeira casa noturna em Moscou, chamada Penthous. Com o sucesso do empreendimento, outros promotores se animaram, novos clubes foram abertos. Nos anos seguintes, Moscou cresceu alucinadamente para todos os lados. Jipes americanos e ternos feitos sob medida ganharam as ruas (veja quadro).

POUCO DEPOIS DE ABIR seu primeiro clube, Goróbi e seus colegas tiveram uma idéia simples, mas efetiva: nao deixe o seu clube sair da moda, nunca. Planeje o próximo clube enquanto o público ainda está lotando o primeiro. Depois de seis meses, feche a casa noturna original, ainda no auge, e abra a seguinte. Seguiram o plano a risca. Goróbi, Kozlov e Lazarévitch abriram a Zimá (“inverno” em russo), fecharam alguns meses depois e abriram a Liéto (“verão”). Em seguida, veio a Óssen (“outono”). Depois de uma breve pausa, Goróbi e parceiros abriram seu maior clube, o Diaghilev.

O império de Goróbi criou uma figura lendaria na noite russa: Pacha, o homen a quem todos querem agradar. Ele é o responsavel pela door policy (ou face control, como os russos a chamam): é ele quem barra ou deixa passar as centenas de pessoas que se aglomeram todos os dias na porta de Óssen. Pacha se tornou notório por impedir a entrada na casa de celebridades e políticos conhecidos. Certa vez, o rei do carvão russo desceu do seu Bentley exibindo um relógio de US$ 500 mil. De nada adiantou. “O mais importante é quem você é,” diz Pacha, que já virou até tema de música. Nos últimos dois anos, uma cançao chamada “Pacha Face Control” tocou sem parar nas radios russas: na letra, Pacha censura as garotas que oferecem sexo em troca da entrada numa boate. O temido leão-de-chacara não revela o nome completo, com medo de represalias de gente que foi rejeitada.

Mais uma noite, mais uma festa. É véspera da Páscoa quando o tenista russo Marat Sáfin entra no campo de visão de Pacha. Chega acompanhado por quarto garotas e armado com uma dezena de pílulas escondidas nas meias. Ele passa pelo crivo de Pacha, mas pára no engarrafamento na porta. Lá dentro, nas mesas vip, Karina, da cidade de Volgagrado, comemora seu aniversario. “Todas essas garotas vêm a Moscou tentar a sorte.” Diz, olhando para o mar de mulheres embaixo, muitas das quais percorreram grandes distâncias para cacar petroleiros a banqueiros. Muitas têm ate um bom emprego. “As meninas que vêm aqui procuram um cara que dê de presente US$ 10 mil na conta.” Karina sacode o cabelo louro. “Eu nao. Quero mesmo é faturar US$ 10 milhões.” Nas balades de Moscou, a idéia de igualdade de gêneros passa longe. Ao contrario, elas fazem de tudo para realçar seus atributos e exercer seu poder de sedução. “Gosto que cuidem de mim,” diz Dúnia Grónina, dona de uma loja de acessórios chiques.

ENCOSTADO AO BAR em forma de ferradura está Mikhail Kozlov, de echarpe de seda e paletó de veludo escuro. Kozlov, 40 anos, foi professor de história durante sete anos antes de conhecer Goróbi, num show de Michael Jackson, em 1993. Hoje ele supervisiona as mesas vip, que podem custar até US$ 15 mil por noite: seu trabalho é paparicar clientes que ganham US$ 15 milhões por mes. Kozlov trata esses novos ricos com a dose certa de intimidade. Todos entram no jogo. “É importante que o cliente rico suspeite qeu há alguém mais rico sentado ao seu lado,” revela Pacha. “Existe essa competição.”

As luzes pintam todas as pessoas de preteado—os sujeitos ricos ou as garotas qeu farão de tudo para seduzilos. O relações públicas do homem mais rico da Rússia (Roman Abramóvitch, fortuna estimada em US$ 25 bilhões) fica paralisado diante da perna untada de óleo da bailarina que danca num pedestal bem atrás de sua esposa. Uma das cantoras da dupla russa Tatu surge usando óculos de sol. Ninguém a reconhece. Da mesma forma, não houve comoção quando Elizabeth Hurley deu as caras por lá. O superstar Will Smith precisou subir nas mesas com um microfone para chamar a atenção. Coisas tolas como a fama não têm importancia em lugares que levam a diversão a serio, como Moscou.

O DJ Dam, sem camisa, comanda as pick-ups apenas com uma mão; o outro braço esta levantado no ar, regendo a animação dos clubbers. Ele contra sobre o famoso episódio do trem. No ano passado, um grupo de promotores armou uma grande festa no trem que ia de Moscou para São Petersburgo. A festa durou oito horas, depois foi transferida para um barco, depois para um restaurante, depois para um clube, e de volta para o teem. “Quando chegamos a Moscou, os clubbers ainda estavam dançando e não queriam sair,” conta Dam. Algumas pessoas, diz o DJ, haviam se encarregado de colocar ecstasy ne bebida.

Mais um fim de semana, mais uma balada. Esta noite, coelhinhas de rosa e branco sobem ao palco do Óssen, substituindo uma dúzia de garotas de lingeries mínimas. É assim que Lazarévitch celebra seu aniversario. O empresário russo Igor Artukh relaxa em sua mesa habitual com uma amiga em vestido de lantejoulas, enquanto um garçom serve conhaque. Antigamente, era facil para os americanos ganharem as russas: eles eram charmosos e tinham dinheiro. Os rapazes russos ainda não aprenderam a ser charmosos, mas ficaram ricos. No banheiro, você não sabe se aquele zumbido insistente é musica, o efeito das caixas de som na sua cabeça, ou o cellular do vizinho, com um traficante de drogas oferecendo sua mercadoria.

Antes do amanhecer, saio um pouco na rua para tomar ar. É o Dia da Vitória [feriado que comemora o fim da Segunda Guerra Mundial], e um homem de cabelos broncos se arrasta pela rua Tverskáya com o peito forrado de medalhas. Fogo de artifício estouram no céu. Um cachorro vadio lambe a placa de um carro. É uma surpresa descobrir que a chuva caiu a noite toda.

As portas espelhadas do Óssen se abrem e um homem sai voando, caindo de costas na calçada. Um hematoma se forma em seu olho e o sangue escorre da sobrancelha. É hora de voltar para o clube. Subo ao camarim das dançarinas. Lá está Gulliver, o promoter mais versatile de Moscou, que teve participação importante no empreendimentos do trio da noite. Sentado entre dançarinas seminuas, Gulliver aponta as mulheres que já dormiram com ele. “Ainda não estou satisfeito,” sorri, depois de apontar para uma dançarina com uma peruca de Maria Antonieta. “Quanto mais você tem, mais você quer.”

HORA DE VOLTAR ao “Maxim Górki,” para mais uma festa exclusiva. Quem me recebe, a frente dos marinheiros, é o homem conhecido como General. Há muitos boatos sobre ele. Dizem que ele reolve qualquer tipo de problema, não importa o tamanho ou a complexidade. As festas do General são tão exclusives que quase ninguém fica sabendo quando elas acontecem. E aqui estou eu. Embarcando num mundo sem regras. Lá dentro há belos tapetes, muito crystal e muitas mulheres.

Como sempre, existe uma seção vip: lá embaixo, numa sala onde dignatarios do governo já passaram a noite, homens e mulheres se divertem nus. Tamerlan, de Vladikavkaz, no sudeste da Rússia, está sentado num canto com uma mulher de pink no colo. “Eu tinha orgulho de ter nascido na Uniao Soviética,” diz. “E agora temos toda essa merda,” diz rindo. Algumas garotas, com roupas que custam tão caro quanto um carro, cantam uma rima infantile: “Sou uma garontinha/Eu não vou a escola/Se você me comprar sandálias/Eu caso com você.” O General aparece ao seu lado, um sorriso confiante nos labios. “Você está conhecendo as melhores pessoas de Moscou,” ele me diz. O “Maxim Górki” sai lentamente do porto, a música explode e uma loura, que tem tudo o que um homem pode desejar, poe as maos sobre a meu peito. “Sou atriz,” diz, “mas por dentro sou virgem.” E o barco segue o seu caminho, deixando para trás todos os que já perderam a chance de embarcar, e vao continuar perdendo.

В такой тёплый июльский вечер прошлого года Вардан Кушнир возвращался в свою квартиру в центре Москвы. В одном из типичных ночных клубов, где девицы танцуют топлесс на стойке бара, он пропустил несколько стаканчиков отличного спиртного, и от этого в голове была приятная легкость. Самое время выпить еще рюмку или две в компании нескольких девчонок, одной из которой было лет пятнадцать. Эта ночь ничем не отличалась от других ночей самого скандального интернетчика России.

Кушнир неплохо устроился в неродном для себя городе. Его предприятие – Центр американского английского – процветало за счет неутомимой спам-кампании. Двадцать пять миллионов имейлов в день привлекали достаточно новых клиентов, чтобы Кушнир мог позволить себе безумные подвиги по части секса и клубной жизни – а он распрягался слишком рьяно даже для города, известного полным отсутствием стыдливости. Кушнир мечтал стать знаменитым разработчиком программного обеспеченья – «как Билл Гейтс», но вместо этого пошел по менее славному пути. Его бесконечные рассылки спама и хвастливые эскапады раздражали всех в Москве. Он шел на конфронтацию с чиновниками и выводил из себя всех, в первую очередь собственных сотрудников. Однако вера в сайентологию придавала ему странное спокойствие. Даже когда этот звонко стремительный стиль жизни приводил его к хаосу, он никогда не повышал голос и никогда не выглядел рассерженным. Кушнира откровенно забавляли потоки ненависти и угроз в его адрес, а прямого физического контакта удавалось избегать.

Кушнир жил в квартире на Садовой-Каретной со своей матерью Ольгой и дворовыми кошками. Как обычно, когда сын водил девок, Ольга согласилась переночевать в соседней студии. На следующее утро она вернулась в квартиру и обнаружила его окровавленное тело на полу ванной. Вскоре приехала милиция. Даже год спустя органы скрывают, что же произошло на самом деле. По сообщениям прессы, 35-летний предприниматель вернулся домой под утро с тремя женщинами, одну из которых он встретил в клубе Hungry Duck – не самом утонченном московском заведении. Как только разлили коктейли, девушки подсыпали ему клофелина. Кушнир тут же вырубился. Но дозы надолго не хватило. Когда он очнулся, девушки хрястнули ему по голове. События развивались по худшему для Кушнира сценарию – подъехало несколько мужиков, друзей этих девушек. Как описывает одна газета, они влезли в окно по водосточной трубе и теперь уже впятером принялись жестоко избивать Кушнира, раскурочили ему череп и оставили лежать на полу, который тихо заливала свежая кровь. Когда наутро мать Кушнира обнаружила тело, оно уже было холодным. «И повсюду столько крови, столько крови». Тело еще лежало в морге, а циничные журналисты развлекались заголовками в духе «Спамер напросился».

Вардан Кушнир вырос в Армении. Отец быстро свалил, и мать воспитывала его в одиночку. Подростком он делал успехи в физике и математике, затем поступил в Московский технологический институт легкой промышленности. Получив диплом, он уехал на год в Лос-Анджелес. Через год, вернувшись в Москву, он говорил по-английски практически без акцента. В 1994-м он открыл ЦАА, наняв экспатов, чтобы те учили русских английскому. В середине 1990-х колоссально выросла социальная мобильность, а знание иностранных языков стало обязательной строкой в любом приличном резюме. В эту эпоху капиталистического бума Кушнир и основал свою фирму, которая должна была принести ему кучу денег. Сначала Кушнир занимался компанией «Софим» с программой «Эдифакт прайм» – системой заказов B2B доинтернетовской эпохи. К 2001 году это предприятие практически закрылось, и Кушнир направил всю свою энергию на ЦАА. Однако теперь в его арсенале было новое оружие – спам. Когда-то он уже делал массовую рассылку имейлов с предложением купить акции «Софима» (пока ему официально не сообщили, что в штате Канзас для этого требуется брокерская лицензия). На этот раз он запустил российскую спам-кампанию с безумной энергией, свойственной постсоветским предпринимателям. «Бывало, он менял свои мысли и решения каждые несколько часов, – говорит долгое время проработавший в ЦАА офис-менеджер. У него было слишком много идей. Он хотел делать все и сразу, как можно быстрее». После переходов с сервера на сервер в России и Германии Кушнир вышел на китайский рынок, где $1000 стоил месяц аренды сервера, рассылавшего в день 7 миллионов имейлов. Ежедневно он из кожи вон лез, чтобы обмануть спам-фильтры, найти новые серверы, купить списки имейлов и делать все для расширения своей сети. У него получилось. К 2003-му, после года упорной работы, доходы компании удвоились. В ЦАА было более 110 студентов, и он приносил не меньше $13 000 в месяц. При минимальной арендной плате и накладных расходах Кушнир забирал себе львиную долю этой суммы. Особо, конечно, не разгуляешься, но в Москве со средней зарплатой около $2600 в год эти деньги вознесли его в ряды малой аристократии.

Игорь Вишневский, спам-инженер из Белоруссии, которого Кушнир перетащил в ЦАА заниматься технической стороной вопроса, через год после смерти босса нисколько не стыдился того, как они находили новых клиентов. «Если человек ненавидит спам, – говорит Вишневский, потягивая эспрессо, – значит он просто ненавидит рекламу, которую он видит везде».

Слэм-машина ЦАА работала грубо, но эффективно. Вишневский засылал свой паучий софт гулять по сети собирать новые адреса, добавляя в свой список по несколько сот тысяч за раз. Он также работал с поставщиками. Чтобы обманывать спам-фильтры, Кушнир вставлял случайные пробелы между словами в теме письма или превращал его в файл формата GIF или JPEG. На пике своего могущества система приводила в ЦАА пятнадцать новых студентов в день.

Но система, будучи изначально довольно грубой, еще и не была застрахована от ошибок. Иногда одни и те же люди получали рекламный имейл пятьдесят раз в день. Получатели негодовали, ругались и неистовствовали – что угодно, лишь бы избавиться от этой чертовой рассылки. «Матом с нами разговаривали чаще всего», – отмечает Вишневский.

Кушнир отмахивался от любых жалоб, приговаривая, что частные мнения ничего не значат на фоне финансового роста. Спам эффективен, все остальное – болтовня. «Мы слали спам всем и каждому пять дней в неделю», – говорит Вишневский. Через несколько месяцев в рунете возникли первые протестующие группы. Кушнир превратился в объект всеобщего презрения и ненависти, но его уверенность в себе только укрепилась. «Это было классическое советское мышление, – говорит Майк Макатави, бывший преподаватель в ЦАА. – У меня 250 клиентов и миллиард жалоб. Если я утрою мощности, то у меня будет 750 клиентов». И конечно же, три миллиарда жалоб. «Он и не хотел нравиться людям», – говорит Рик Фаруни, два года проработавший в ЦАА. В 2003-м спам пришел Андрею Короткову – в то время замминистра связи. Законодательства против спама в России не было. Коротков попытался организовать телефонную кампанию против ЦАА, чтобы парализовать работу центра. У него ничего не вышло. В ответ на шквал звонков Кушнир начал издевательски предлагать Короткову «Виагру».

Кушнир частенько заходил в «Мио» – ночной клуб неподалеку от работы, где было легко произвести впечатление на беззащитных девушек, сверкая черными Fendi. Правда, к тридцати пяти Кушнир сильно оплешивел, но с его туго набитыми карманами и заграничным опытом всегда было легко запутать молодых красавиц. Вскоре ему это наскучило. Бывшие сотрудники центра рассказывают, как он погрузился с головой в мир проституции, оргий и всего выходящего за рамки традиционных представлений о морали. К его услугам была сеть борделей, а иногда он ездил в казино-кораблик на окраине Москвы, где раздевался догола и ложился весь наготове, после чего две профессионалки облизывали его с ног до головы. Часто Кушнир приходил на работу с рассказами об очередном своем подвиге. Или восторженно восклицал: «Эврика!» – показывая сотрудникам газетную рекламу про секс-команду дочки с матерью. Работникам центра такое поведение было не по душе, но еще сильнее озлобляло, что Кушнир задерживал зарплаты. Многие экспаты смекнули, что к чему, и ушли из ЦАА, получив небольшой урок российской трудовой этики. Когда Кушнира спрашивали о деньгах, он миролюбиво отвечал: «Зачем так злиться? Вы лучше почитайте Рона Хаббарда» – и доставал с полки томик по сайентологии. Все негодовали, но Кушнир не желал ничего брать в голову. «Он тратил все, что зарабатывал», – говорит Макатави. Урывками между безумными загулами Кушнир любил прошерстить столицу на предмет последних новинок в мире моды. «Когда Кушнира убили, не все здесь сильно расстроились, – говорит другой сотрудник. – У него, безусловно, были враги».

После убийства из квартиры пропало несколько вещей, включая лэптоп, что позволило следствию выдвинуть версию об ограблении. Мать убитого не верит в это: «Его не хотели ограбить, они могли связать его или запереть в ванной. Нет, его пришли убивать». В стране с нормальными порядками сексуальный авантюрист и безжалостный спамер вроде Кушнира стал бы отщепенцем. В Москве терпимость к вызывающему поведению на порядок выше, однако, похоже, Кушнир перешел дорогу кому-то не тому. Скромность здесь не в чести, но у всего есть свои пределы. Кушнир подставился. На поминках в ЦАА было тихо. Все понимали, что то, что делал и как себя вел Кушнир, оказалось чересчур даже для новой России.

Los profetas de ese apocalipsis son dos tipos escandinavos. Uno de ellos mide 1’95 metros; el otro, 1’98. Niklas Zennström y Janus Friis han viajado a Francia como parte de su estrategia para desmantelar completamente el modo en que el planeta Tierra se comunica. Ya en el año 2000 este combo radical creó Kazaa, el famoso programa de intercambio de archivos que se cebó en la ya maltrecha industria musical. Con Skype, su nueva creación, sólo pretenden controlar todos los teléfonos del mundo. Armados de una juvenil energía, Friis y Zennström dividen su tiempo entre Londres, Luxemburgo y, sobre todo, Estonia, donde han desarrollado su revolucionario programa sin todo el rollo que se trae la gente de Silicon Valley (California), y donde han dado con el código para comunicar todo el planeta gratis.

RESULTA QUE LOS CREADORES de Skype tienen un misterioso encuentro con Y, y ya es la hora, así que, dejando el Ferrari rojo aparcado, nos internamos en un hotel de la playa. Nada más entrar, se tiene la sensación de que allí se mueve mucho dinero. Unos extraños se acercan. “Yo te vigilaré a ti”, dice uno. Detrás aparece Y, que resulta ser un trío de ejecutivos de Yahoo. ¡Acabáramos!

Las presentaciones van bien hasta que toca el turno de presentar al periodista. Entonces, el principal emisario de Yahoo reacciona como si una cuerda alrededor de su cuello se tensase de pronto. Porque, oficialmente, este encuentro no está teniendo lugar.

Es la primera noche del Congreso Mundial 3GSM, un encuentro anual de la industria de la telefonía móvil, y está claro quién es la niña bonita: la palabra más repetida es “Skype”, ya sea en tono despectivo o de alabanza.

En cristiano, Skype es una aplicación informática que permite hacer llamadas telefónicas a todo el mundo a través de Internet. No es el único programa que lo hace, ni tampoco el primero. Pero los que saben del tema están convencidos de que casi todas las llamadas telefónicas se harán muy pronto a través de la Red, incluidas las de móvil, y de que la pequeña (sólo tiene 140 empleados) Skype obligará a los gigantes de la telefonía a aceptar la nueva religión o a ser espectacularmente derrotados o ambas cosas. Las llamadas a través de Skype tienen la misma claridad que las normales y (aquí viene la gracia) son gratuitas.

Voice over Internet protocol (VoIP) (en castellano Protocolo de voz por Internet) separa la voz en pequeñas partes, las transmite como un correo electrónico y luego la reconstruye en destino. Todas las compañías grandes se han subido ya al carro de la VoIP, evitando así las tasas y las regulaciones que soportan los servicios de telefonía convencional. Algunos opinan incluso que Skype se convertirá, inevitablemente, en la Telefónica de la banda ancha.

Como I-Mate, grupo productor de PDAs (agendas electrónicas) y teléfonos móviles que, al igual que Motorola, ha firmado un acuerdo para dotar a todos sus terminales de Skype. Estamos en el yate que I-Mate ha alquilado durante todo el 3GSM. En una esquina, Friis y Zennström mantienen una discusión linguística:

”El danés es sueco barbarizado”, dice Zennström, que es de Suecia.

“Sí, claro, pero es que el sueco es un derivado del danés”, apunta Friis, que, cómo no, es de Dinamarca.

Sentados en un sofá de piel, parecen dos más entre el ejército de ejecutivos y nadie diría que son los artífices de una revolución (así se les ha considerado desde el año 2000, cuando su nombre empezó a sonar en los círculos de la tecnología).

CRECIERON DE UN MODO poco habitual: ¿quién no recuerda Napster, aquel programa de intercambio gratuito de música que finalmente fue derrotado por la industria musical? Una vez que Napster cayó, Kazaa tuvo pista libre para convertirse en el programa más descargado en la historia de Internet; en total, 390 millones de descargas, y tres billones de ficheros intercambiados al mes.

Con ese parque de usuarios (equivalente a la población total de Estados Unidos, y aún sobran 95 millones), la cosa podría haber sido más que suficiente. Pero no. Zennström (de 39 años, casado y sin hijos) y Friis (de 29 y soltero) no pudieron disfrutar del momento. En octubre de 2001, los miembros de la Motion Picture Association of America y de la Recording Industry Association of America demandaron a Kazaa, alegando que la compañía facilitaba el robo directo de material con derechos de autor. Zennström y Friis reaccionaron tímidamente y basaron su defensa en el libre intercambio de canciones entre adultos responsables y en ciertos acuerdos de licencia que, dijeron, estaban a punto de conseguir. Por seguridad, no han pisado Estados Unidos desde 2002. No en vano, en otoño de 2003 Zennström y su mujer se vieron perseguidos en Londres por un motorista, citación judicial en mano.

Visto el patio, Zennström y Friis decidieron vender Kazaa a una empresa australiana por un millón de dólares y emigrar a Europa del Este para trabajar en una nueva bomba con otro grupo de programadores.

La pareja escandinava lleva la antorcha de la tecnología disruptiva (aquella que revoluciona los mercados al ser significativamente más barata), corriente que genera tantos héroes como villanos.

“DICEN ALGUNOS QUE DISRUPTOR es sinónimo de anarquista”, se queja Zennström; “esto es, alguien que destruye cosas de valor por el simple placer de destruirlas, porque cree que deberían ser libres. Pero lo cierto”, continúa, “es que, la mayoría de las veces, la tecnología disruptiva es lo que favorece la evolución. El PC fue, en sus orígenes, una tecnología disruptiva. Y el ferrocarril. Y el avión. eBay y Amazon son empresas disruptivas…”

Para Zennström, hijo de profesores, todo cambió tras un programa de intercambio que le llevó a la Universidad de Michigan, donde estudió empresariales e ingeniería, entre partido y partido de fútbol.

Friis da más el perfil de disruptor: dejó el instituto de su Copenhague natal a los 16 años para irse a la India. Al volver de Bombay, se presentó a un puesto de trabajo a distancia para una compañía sueca. El anuncio lo había puesto Zennström.

Durante varios años, Zennström contó con Friis para abordar diversos proyectos en Amsterdam y Luxemburgo. Por fin, en 1999 renunciaron a sus respectivos sueldos y comenzaron a trabajar a tiempo completo en lo que sería Kazaa (nombre que tomaron de un restaurante, por cierto).

El nombre de Skype no tiene, por el contrario, referentes reales. Al principio, Friis y Zennström pensaron en bautizar su creación como Skyper, pero ese era ya el nombre de una empresa alemana, así que le quitaron la última letra, convirtiendo el nombre en verbo. “Queremos que sea un sinónimo de telefonía por Internet”, dice Zennström; “que la gente diga: ‘Luego te hago un Skype”.

BASTA CON ECHAR un vistazo a sus cifras actuales (150.000 copias de Skype descargadas cada día, 140 millones en total desde el primer día, 44 millones de usuarios en todo el mundo…) para comprobar que, sólo dos años después de abrir el negocio, el sueño de convertirse en “la empresa global de telefonía” podría hacerse realidad.

Desde que hace 129 años Graham Bell consiguió transmitir la voz a distancia, el mayor avance en la industria de la telefonía se produjo en los años 50, al pasar de la tecnología analógica a la digital. El siguiente paso tendrá mayores consecuencias aún si cabe: si llamar por teléfono se convierte en otro servicio gratuito de Internet, como el correo electrónico, entonces, como predice Zennström, los actuales gigantes de la telefonía tendrán que limitarse a ser proveedores de Internet de banda ancha, dejando a Skype el trabajo de conectar las llamadas. Y todo eso está muy bien, pero ¿dónde está el dinero?

Si una llamada va de un usuario de Skype a otro, es gratuita. Si llamas a un número que no es usuario de Skype, o si un no usuario de Skype te llama, entonces pagas alrededor de dos o tres céntimos por minuto. Skype ofrece además servicios premium, como el correo de voz, que han generado 18 millones desde julio de 2004. Por lo demás, no se publicita y no tiene departamento de administración, ya que todos los servicios son prepago. Así, para ser rentable le basta con que un 5% de los usuarios contrate algún servicio.

La única pega es que hay que encender el ordenador para usarlo. Pero es tan fácil que cualquiera puede darse de alta y hablar en apenas diez minutos.

COMO RESULTADO DE TODO lo anterior, Skype está siendo tan vigilado por los gigantes de la telefonía como lo fue en su día Kazaa por las industrias musical y cinematográfica. Es por eso también que los grandes nombres de Internet (Yahoo, Google…) se reunen una y otra vez con Friis y Zennström (finalmente fue eBay la que se llevó el gato al agua; ver despiece). “A estas empresas les cuesta mucho trabajo tomar decisiones, pero cuando por fin las toman, lo hacen con mucha fuerza”, opina Friis. “Si Yahoo hubiese lanzado un programa como Skype hace un año, nos hubiesen machacado. Entonces sólo teníamos 15.000 peticiones al día; ahora tenemos 150.000. Pasó lo mismo con Kazaa. Ahora mismo es una bola imposible de parar”.

Con Skype autopropulsado, sus creadores intentan aprovechar (esta vez sí) el momento. No piensan desvelar aún su próximo proyecto; sólo aseguran que está casi terminado y que será también P2P (la tecnología que permite a dos ordenadores comunicarse sin necesidad de pasar por un servidor central, creada para Kazaa y base también de Skype). “Es la única pista que puedo dar,” ríe Friis.

В салоне на борту немногие счастливчики из русской элиты развлекаются не торопясь. Громкие пустые аккорды осыпают собравшихся тут девиц в туалетах и ароматах от Валентино, Готье и Булгари. Глаза их неприступны, но всем своим существом они источают жар, каким раньше вы не обжигались . По современному стильные мужчины с деньгами фланируют неподалёку с довольными улыбками, и сковзь их тысячедолларовые солнечные очки просачивается их устойчивое спокойствие. Захотят – поцелуют, захотят – убьют, знай своё место.

Стоящие на набережной тощие рыбаки не машут вслед кораблю, чьи двухметровые динамики ревут на всю округу. Что, милицию вызвать? Так мы и есть милиция.

Это действительно бывшая яхта Иосифа Сталина – теплоход «Максим Горький», при социализме прогулочное судно, шикарное по советским меркам, и доступное только людям со связями и талантом. Кукольный Сталин сидит в макете своего кабинета в натуральную величину. Это диорама за стеклом, которое дрожит от музыкальных аккордов, сохраняя оспины прошлого. Сталин сидит за столом, поднося спичку к своей чёрной трубке. Председатель ВЦИКа Михаил Калинин склонился к нему, ожидая совета, а советский писатель Максим Горький присел на диванный валик и жуёт свой ус, размышляя о пути, которым идёт партия.

Жевать – не пережевать, этим теперь и занимаются здесь, когда место прежней партии заняли партии гостей. Двое двадцатилетних девиц, которым уже море по колено, наталкиваются на витрину диорамы, пожирая друг друга в этиловых парах. Бретели спускаются, языки и груди вываливаются, а палуба дрожит под глухой стук родного мотора, 1934 года выпуска. Наконец свобода.

За окном проносится катер. На носу стоит человек с бритой под ноль головой. Он улыбается. Это Алексей Горобий, повелитель того, на что сейчас падает его глаз – ночной Москвы. Он привёз двадцать своих девушек из клуба «Осень». Слово «Осень» загорается над входом по пятницам вечером и гаснет в воскресенье, это одно из модных мест, превращенных Горобием и его партнёрами в истинное адское пекло.

Хотя бы только из-за этого стоит получить визу в Россию. В Москве теперь самая лучшая в мире ночная жизнь. Оставьте умеренность и правила хорошего тона за порогом. А «красоту на мгновение» оставьте русским, особенно с деньгами, тридцатилетним, из последнего поколения, воспитанного при прежнем строе, которые без устали пьют за свою удачу, и всё это в замечательном стиле тех самых романов толщиной в кирпич. Понадобится – грудь разорвут и сделают открытый массаж сердца, посмотрим, сумеете ли устоять.

Всё как в кино, хотя это даже слабо сказано. Москва – это сущий ад, но в этом аду можно здорово оторваться. К тому же в аду, как и повсюду, есть свои правила. Одно из них – никого не жалей. Поэтому яхта Сталина не замедляет ход, чтобы принять на борт короля ночной жизни.

Горобий понимает. Останавливаться нельзя. Именно поэтому он с партнёрами и закрутил ночную жизнь города, а теперь владеет ею – и теперь все прочие развлечения в мире кажутся по сравнению не стоящими тех денег, которые на них уходят. Если вам удастся проникнуть в те заветные клубы, соображённые Горобием и его двумя сотоварищами – Михаилом Козловым и Синишей Лазаревичем – то вы вступите в мир твёрдых гарантий. Эти трое вроде новых Иэна Шрегера и Стива Рубелла, однако поэнергичнее и с клиентами, у которых никогда не пустеет карман. Катеру надоели гонки, он отворачивает к берегу, а яхта Сталина идёт дальше.

НАЗАД НА ТВЕРДУЮ ЗЕМЛЮ, ещё одно раннее-раннее московское утро, заключительный уикенд в «Осени». Девушки все такие аппетитные. И губы, и попки аппетитные, стоят – руки на бёдрах и попках. Вот кредитка «Мастеркард/Дельта» щёлкает о стеклянную столешницу. «Колёса» накручиваются на позвоночник. И на диване уже вроде удобнее сидеть. Тут всегда безвременье, окутанное сигаретным дымом, под звуки несмолкающей громкой музыки из динамиков.

Горобий ретируется к себе в спальню, несколькими этажами выше «Осени», в облачно-белую комнату с высокой кроватью-насестом. Убежище озаряет огромный плазменный экран, низко парящая люстра, со шторами на окнах борется занимающийся рассвет. Время осыпается, будто преграда, отделяющая в душе верное от неправильного. На Горобие одна только белая рубашка, а у распростёртой под ним девушки бриллианты на глазах и розовая жвачка на зубах. Располагаешься и смотришь.

А за соседней дверью танцовщицы смешивают в ладонях блёстки с вазелиновым маслом и натирают им свои тела, покрытые пятнадцатидолларовым загаром, чтобы отражать огни пляшущих по залу лучей прожекторов. Они меняют свои тоненькие одежки, снимая трусики, под которыми всё гладко. По-деловому, без спешки, что тут сложного.

Представьте себе персонажей из «Кэнди лэнд» по два с половиной метра ростом на лестнице. С дюжину моделей стонут: «Ой, я хочу fuck», громыхая своими ботфортами от D&G. Официантка в чёрной с оранжевым форме, поднимает одной рукой в воздух бутылку шампанского водки «Кристалл», а другой – зажжённый бенгальский огонь, разбрасывающий вокруг огненные искры. Она открывает перед вами двери салуна с окнами-иллюминаторами, и вот уже понеслась, опаляя всё кругом, московская вечеринка, куда прежде было не попасть.

Пятнадцать лет назад в самом большом городе Европы не было ни единого ночного клуба. Только несколько ресторанов. Отсчёт надо вести от 1991 года. На Рождество того года пал Советский Союз, и вскоре все потеряли средства к существованию. Свободный рынок и личные армии олигархов взяли верх, сбережения граждан исчезли, кругом воцарились разбой, хаус-мьюзик, приватизация, фрибейсинг. Ельцин потом назначил после себя Путина, и никто не сел за это в тюрьму, если только специально не нарывался.

По словам Горобия, которому сейчас тридцать семь, он начал зарабатывать на жизнь, организуя выступления оркестров на свадьбах. А потом затеял большую вечеринку в павильоне «Космос» на ВДНХ – советской утопической ярмарке. Установил несколько новых прожекторов, включил магнитофон и следил за танцующими, толкущимися среди ракетных двигателей и прочей космической машинерии.

Тысячи людей стеклись на эту первую российскую вечеринку. Горобий не нажил на этом никаких денег, но наконец нашёл себе нечто намного больше по душе, чем те свадебные оркестры. Ведь ещё когда ему было 12 лет, он открыл свой первый диско-клуб, наняв группу пионеров подсобниками.

А в 1993 году, после успеха тех космических мега-танцев Горобий вместе с ещё несколькими приятелями основал первый официальный московский клуб, называвшийся «Пентхаус». Те, кто любят читать про Россию, сразу узнают место, которое он выбрал для «Пентхауса» – сад Эрмитаж. Совсем неподалеку от того самого театра, где Воланд из булгаковского «Мастера и Маргариты» облачал женщин в платья, исчезавшие, стоило их хозяйкам выйти на улицу. В «Пентхаусе» происходило примерно то же самое. Для отсчёта времени сексуальной революции в России вполне можете выбрать эту точку.

Вскоре прибыли новые промоутеры с новыми затеями. Появился «Титаник», потом «Джаз-кафе», потом «Кабаре», потом «Джет-сет», потом «Шамбала», потом «Цеппелин», потом «First». Прошло десять лет, в Москве развернулось строительство и по новому покрытию улиц люди в «Рэнджроверах» и в сшитых по мерке костюмах потянулись в рестораны, неожиданно вовсе недурные. Возникли мало-помалу и другие клубы, разного качества и пошиба, и вкус публики начал склоняться то к одному, то другому поветрию.

Они перестали быть советскими. Исчез стандарт вкуса, поддерживаемый государством. Для смягчения травмы, нанесённой обществу, в страну начали стекаться деньги, которые осели в карманах совсем немногих. После реформы экономики совокупный доход десяти процентов самых богатых людей России вырос вполовину. Капитал трёх дюжин самых богатых россиян равен почти четверти валового внутреннего продукта.

У них было из чего выбрать. Они могли уехать в Монте-Карло, в Амстердам, Ибицу, Шарм-эль-шейх, Гоа, Куршевель– куда душе угодно. Однако все, кто получал прибыли от экспорта нефти, второго по объёму в мире и при возрастающих ценах за баррель, сосредоточились в российской столице. Проводя уикенд в Москве, они ожидали чего-то необыкновенного, наподобие встречи Мити Карамазова и Грушеньки, архетипических персонажей Достоевского, воплощающих собой саморазрушение и опасную игру страсти. Постепенно они выработали безукоризненный стиль, вкус к современному дизайну и умение разбираться в одежде, и на всё накладывался отпечаток их собственного элегантного излишества. В силу обстоятельств и обладая тёмным благородством превратились в жёсткую породу.

Ещё когда Горобий с партнёрами вели дела своего первого клуба – «Шамбалы», им пришла идея: нельзя давать клубу остыть. Надо затеивать следующий клуб, пока все ещё ломятся в предыдущий. Четыре-шесть месяцев – и пора закрывать, на пике популярности.

Следующий открытый ими в конце 2003 года клуб Горобий, Козлов и Лазаревич назвали «Зима». Через несколько месяцев закрыли его и открыли в июне 2004 следующий – «Лето». Осенью того же года заработала «Осень». А когда в мае прошлого года «Осень» закрылась, настала очередь нового «Лета», с совершенно переработанным дизайном. В марте этого года, чуть передохнув, Горобий с партнёрами открыл свой самый большой на сегодняшний момент клуб – «Дягилев», названный именем знаменитого балетного импресарио рубежа XIX-XX веков.

Эти клубы явились храмами чувственной войны, и русская элита стремилась до них дорваться, чтобы потом не жалеть об упущенной возможности. Если минувший век вместил в себе монархию, две революции, социализм, капитализм и полный экономический коллапс, только одно могло соперничать со страстью к накопительству – желание потратить деньги, пока они все не улетучились при очередном стечении обстоятельств. А ничто не может сильнее подогревать романтические чувства, чем безрассудство.

ОСТАНОВИСЬ – И ПОГИБНЕШЬ. Горобий, Козлов и Лазаревич двигались, соря по городу тысячерублёвыми купюрами, которые пробивали им путь, словно горячая струя мочи снег в переулке. Стоило им ощутить признаки застоя в «Осени», как она тут же закрыла свои двери в 2005 году. Казалось, это было вчера.

Угольный король (а может, электрический) выходит из своего «Бентли», из-под манжета сверкают часы в четверть миллиона долларов. Но даже это не поможет ему проникнуть внутрь без того, что русские называют «проверкой на личность», причём по-английски – “face control”.

«Это кто ты есть», – говорит Паша, отказ которого не поколебать. Слава о нём разнеслась за последние два года по всей бывшей территории Советского Союза, где распевают песню «Паша – “face control”». В клубах Киева и Минска раздаются слова Паши, который отчитывает девиц, готовых отдаться только за то, чтобы он пропустил их в этот клуб.

Как и Рональдо, звезде бразильского футбола, перед которым он однажды открывал дверь клуба, Паше не нужна фамилия, к тому же это дополнительно защищает его от угроз тех, кого он сюда не пускает. В стране крупных мужчин Паша невелик ростом – около 170 см, что особенно заметно по сравнению с сущими великанами в бронежилетах из частной охранной фирмы при входе. Но не всё решается грубой силой. Многие получали от ворот поворот, несмотря на все ухищрения – переодевания, тёмные и всякие прочие очки. «Бесполезно», – говорит он. (Паша за это время стал менеджером ресторана).

ДРУГАЯ НОЧЬ, ДРУГАЯ ВЕЧЕРИНКА. Кругом носится некий дух единения. В России Пасха, что означает все снова могут есть вволю, 48 дней поста остались позади. Пасхальным утром президент Владимир Путин похвалил русскую православную церковь за «формирование духовного и нравственного климата в русском обществе». Парень из золотой молодёжи проводит четверых красоток в мехах мимо охранников с металлоискателями. Приближаясь к Паше, встряхивает пушистой шевелюрой Марат Сафин. Человек, которого называют величайшим неудачником (лентяем?)в мировом теннисе, проходит “face control», но и он застревает в узком проходе перед дверями.

Наверху, за V.I.P. столиками, стоящими вокруг главной танцевальной площадки, празднуется день рождения Карины, девушки из Волгограда. «Все эти девицы приезжают в Москву, – говорит она, бросив взгляд на море собравшихся внизу женщин, многие из которых пересекли полстраны, чтобы попытаться подцепить тут нефтяного магната или банкира. – Они ищут мужчину, который купит им машину и подарит 100 000 долларов». Карина встряхивает головой, её светлые волосы рассыпаются по плечам и сверкают во множестве огней. «Я не такая. Я приехала за десятью миллионами». В здешнем обществе коммерцией в основном занимаются мужчины. Прекрасный пол в основном забрасывает удочку. Из разговора с Кариной и другими становится ясно, что девушки эти дёшево не продаются. Вместо того, чтобы бороться за западный идеал гендерного равноправия, тут неуместный, они стали сверхженственными, и всегда готовы пустить в ход бронебойные чары красоты, к которым невозможно остаться равнодушным.

«Мне нравится, когда обо мне заботятся», – говорит Дуня Гронина, владелица бутика обуви и аксессуаров с 5 миллионами годового дохода. Некоторым может показаться, что русские женщины надрываются под ярмом патриархальных порядков. Но не подход намного мудрее. «Наши матери объясняли нам, – говорит дальше Гронина, – что муж голова, а жена – шея. Куда шея повернёт, туда голова и смотреть будет».

С огромного батута над лестницей, всей в позолоте, проецированный туда образ Мэрилин Монро посылает вам, пока вы поднимаетесь наверх, бесконечные поцелуи. В этом здании прежде были центральные московские бани. Теперь здесь море девушек, девушки повсюду – в пёстрых карнавальных костюмах и головных уборах. Музыканты из казахстанской Алматы наигрывают вовсю на бонго, расположившись на помосте, перекинутом через соседнюю комнату, где зеркальная мозаика с четырьмя ныряльщицами по углам выложена на потолке вокруг люстры гигантских размеров. В ней даже можно разглядеть себя.

На подковообразную стойку бара опирается человек в пиджаке из тёмного бархата и с шелковым галстуком на шее – Миша Козлов, чьи манеры не уступают манерам придворных времён Александра I. Его бритая голова отражает мягкий свет, когда он преклоняет колено перед несколькими ветеранами алюминиевых войн. По утверждениям Козлова, некоторые из его клиентов зарабатывают по 15 миллионов долларов в месяц. «Считать я умею», – говорит он, прежде чем вновь расплыться в своей фирменной улыбке и обнять следующего широкоплечего громилу в очках с просветляющей оптикой.

Козлов, которому сейчас 40, семь лет до встречи с Горобием во время концерта Майкла Джексона в 1993 году в Москве преподавал историю. Теперь он заботится о клиентах, которые заказывают частные столики по 10-15 тысяч долларов за ночь. Козлов дотрагивается до их рубашек, щупает ткань, концентрируясь на этом занятии, будто внезапно теряя нить мысли. Ему удаётся излучать истинную любовь и восхищение, а гости все подыгрывают, довольные подтверждением собственной значимости.

«Богатому человеку постоянно приходится задаваться вопросом – а не сидит ли кто рядом богаче меня, – говорит Паша. – Это гламурный клуб. Соревнование в роскоши».

Деньги покупают тут всего 30 секунд безраздельного внимания, а повелитель таких кратких встреч только что появился: Синиша Лазаревич, сорокалетний обаятельный, располагающий к себе серб, прибывший в Москву тринадцать лет назад и с тех пор завоевавший во всех слоях российского общества репутацию исключительно обходительного человека. Как и его партнёры, он бреет голову, но в отличие от них любит носить яркие шарфы и целовать мужчин в губы.

Прежде Лазаревич заправлял московским клубом под названием «Цирк». Там он частенько показывал на гостей пальцем и заявлял «модно» или «немодно». Он почти успел произнести свое любимое слово «шикарно», но тут официант шепчет ему что-то на ухо, и Лазаревич исчезает среди танцующих.

ВЕРХНИЙ СВЕТ ТУТ всех окрашивает в серебро, и богатых клиентов, и бедных девушек, старающихся их подцепить. Пиарщик Романа Абрамовича, самого богатого человека России (18,2 миллиарда долларов) и владельца лондонского футбольного клуба «Челси», отдаёт безраздельное внимание натёртому маслом блестящему бедру гибкой танцовщицы. Она извивается на полутораметровом подиуме позади жены-казашки пиарщика в бейсболке цветов команды «Челси». Появляется одна из певиц лесбийского дуэта «Тату» в очках в пол-лица. Никто её не узнаёт. Когда сюда приезжала Элизабет Хёрли – тоже никакой суматохи не было. А Уиллу Смиту, приехавшему в город, пришлось, чтобы обратить на себя внимание, прыгать по столам с микрофоном, – правда, не здесь, а в клубе на другом конце города. Разные глупости у серьёзных людей не в ходу.

Здесь, на уровне для V.I.P., расположился профессиональный разрешитель споров и телеперсона Александр Трещёв – адвокат, которого однажды ранили выстрелом в голову. Заметные шрамы остались в память о тех днях, когда он был адвокатом погибшего генерала Александра Лебедя. Теперь Трещёв ежедневно ведёт на первом телеканале России программу в стиле судьи Вапнера под названием «Федеральный судья».

Рядом с ним сидит Алексей Митрофанов, депутат Думы, известный националист. Телохранители здесь в клубе повсюду. Кое за кем они следуют даже в туалет. Кстати, сходить туда стоит доллар, наверное, чтобы меньше хулиганили. Хотя полностью устранить бесчинства, конечно, не удаётся. Ди-джей Дэм стоит у себя за пультом без рубашки, одна рука поднята вверх, другая приклеилась к переключателям. По словам Дэма он завязал с наркотиками после одного путешествия на поезде, которое столь же трудно вспомнить, как и забыть.

Одна команда зафрахтовала поезд Москва-Санкт-Петербург и погрузила туда 150 гостей в два часа ночи. Там был танцвагон, вагон-бар, вагон СВ, а остальные купейные. Восемь часов гулянки до Петербурга, потом сразу на теплоход, потом в ресторан, ночь в клубе, а потом обратно в поезд, где всё продолжалось ещё восемь часов без перерыва. «Когда мы вернулись в Москву, люди всё ещё танцевали и не хотели прекращать, – рассказывает Дэм. – Они не могли понять, как это они так быстро вернулись в Москву». Тогда нашлась пара умников, подбавивших всем в выпивку экстази.

ОДНАКО, ВОВСЕ НЕ ОБЯЗАТЕЛНО накачиваться химией, чтобы быть в таком тонусе. «Москва – город, полный энергии, – говорит Влад Назеренко, редактор и издатель «Nightpeople» , иллюстрированного журнала о московской ночной жизни. – Сильным людям эта энергия поможет преуспеть в карьере. Слабых же эта энергия уничтожит».

Запечатлеться на страницах «Nightpeople» – ближе всего к понятию неофициальной знаменитости в городе, где подобного статуса не существует. Тут просто негде его поддерживать. Нет ничего подобного Уильямсбургу в Бруклине, где можно выйти на крылечко с своим бульдогом и вытатуированной на груди колючей проволокой и презрительно смотреть на мир вокруг, который тебе в подмётки не годится.

Теперь тут играют в поло. Покупают яхты, хотя тут недостаёт широких водных путей, чтобы получить удовольствие от катания, и «Ламборджини» с окидывающимися дверьми и низким клиренсом, несмотря на неровное дорожное покрытие. Говорят, члены правительства принимают в Кремле портных от Бриони дважды в год. В этом городе считается, что если богатство не бьёт в глаза – его просто нет.

«У вас, в Америке, нет гламура», – говорит Козлов.

Нет гламура? А как же Анжелина? А Мэрилин?

Козлов стоит на своём: «Разве Мэрилин Монро не из Германии?» Они не знают и им всё равно, потому что кругом и так происходит масса всякого, что бьет по нервам. Но что, собственно, тут происходит? «То что мы продаем – воздух, – объясняет Козлов. – Это вроде трубки, из которой идёт дым. Иногда белый, иногда чёрный. В зависимости от настроения».

Всему этому придёт конец. Только не сейчас.

ЛАЗАРЕВИЧ ПОДХОДИТ К СТОЛИКУ клиента, который затребовал аудиенции. У мужчины костюм из дорогой ткани, рука обнимает молодую женщину тоже недешевую. «Думаю, чтобы ты подошёл, тебе бутылку надо поставить, – говорит он. – И ещё одну, чтобы ты присел со мной». Он наклоняется под стол и в каждой руке у него оказывается по Кристаллу.

Лазаревич отшатывается. «Фрейд учил – никогда не оставайся с пациентом дольше 45 минут, – говорит он. – Потому что после вы станете друзьями». Он поворачивается к остальным, медленно обводя море клиентов глазами. «Все эти люди пришли, чтобы увидеть меня в самой шикарной обстановке с самыми прекрасными женщинами, увидеть всего на пять секунд. Я кое-что понимаю в парапсихологии. И точно знаю, как дать людям то, чего они хотят».

Человек углу комнаты сидит угрюмый, Лазаревич обнимает его – и лицо мужчины сразу светлеет. Походя Лазаревич утирает слёзы плачущей нимфетки, и ставит две бутылки шампанского на стол завсегдатая, который снимает этот момент на память. Лазаревич подаёт себя как целителя, и город в это поверил.

«Все хотят, чтобы мы присаживались к ним и рассказывали им сказки», – говорит Козлов.

Все посетители что-то покупают, даже алкогольные и табачные компании, которые платят за то, чтобы тут в баре торговали именно их продукцией. Горобий, Козлов и Лазаревич используют эти деньги на устройство новых клубов, что стоит, по их словам, от двух до трёх с половиной миллионов долларов. (По местным меркам это дёшево, так как олигархи привыкли тут строить огромные, тоскливые заведения с колоннами из платины и инкрустированными самоцветами полами). Алкогольные фирмы иногда разрешают производить оплату за всю свою выпивку в конце клубного сезона, что означает для владельцев по сути беспроцентный кредит. Всё крутится в соответствии с плотным графиком, приглашения на закрытие печатаются в день открытия каждого нового клуба. «Мы знаем дату своей смерти, – говорит Горобий. Умирай дважды в год – и вся Москва признает тебя королём. Дай делу застояться и поскучнеть – позаботятся, чтобы о тебе больше никто не вспомнил».

ЕЩЁ ОДИН УИКЕНД, ещё одна вылазка. Сегодня розовые кролики с белыми хвостиками на цыпочках выходят на сцену Осени, заменяя дюжину девиц в бикини. В Москве нет смысла отстаивать какие-то принципы – гораздо лучше гнуть их под себя. Вот так и Лазаревич празднует свой день рождения, во фраке и цилиндре, с очередными причудами чтобы можно было поставить галочку. Бизнесмен Игорь Артюх, расслабляется за своим обычным столиком с подружкой-татаркой в чёрном вечернем платье, усыпанном блёстками. Официант наливает коньяк. Стоит, однако, заметить, что не всё так просто. Прежде американцам не доставляло труда находить русских девушек, потому что американцы были вежливы и имели деньги. Русские ребята не научились манерам, но научились быть богатыми.

Впрочем, некоторые всё еще учатся. За столиком сидит парень и фотографирует себя своим золотым телефоном «Нокия». Одиночество – некий товар, которым, как, скажем, долговыми расписками, можно торговать и обмениваться.

В туалете все звуки сливаются в неразборчивый гул и звон. Не разберёшь – то ли это доносятся звуки музыки из-за дверей, то ли это у тебя в голове звенит, или это телефон: кого-то разыскивают, чтобы он спустился и забрал свои «колёса». Всегда стоит поторговаться.

Выкатываешься из клуба, чтобы подышать предрассветным воздухом Дня Победы. Пожилые люди скандируют: «Украина, Грузия, Беларусь – вернитесь в Союз». Седовласый мужчина бредёт вниз по Тверской, позвякивая множеством наград, приколотых на потрепанный коричневый пиджак. В небе вспыхивают огни фейерверков, оглушительно разрываясь, словно выстрелы артиллерии . Всю ночь девушки посылали своим приятелям эсэмэски по мобильникам, поздравляя их с победой «советского народа над немецко-фашистскими захватчиками».

Пока же таксисты наполняют вонью своего сонного дыхания салоны машин. Дикая собака облизывает грязь с номера той, что стоит неподалеку. Проснувшаяся птица подаёт голос навстречу надвигающемуся утру, а по бульвару проносятся отдельные автомобили, прорезая шинами лужи от пролившегося ночью дождя. В клубе дождя никогда не слышно.

Зеркальные двери «Осени» распахиваются и оттуда спиной вперёд вылетает крупный мужчина. Глаз его распух, из разбитой брови течёт кровь. Теперь как раз пора проскользнуть внутрь и подняться в гардеробную танцовщиц.

Там в окружении дюжины танцовщиц сидит Гулливер, московский доставала, играющий заметную роль во всех ночных клубах нашего трио, а девушки вокруг, ничуть не стесняясь, переодеваются. Гулливер вспоминает эпизоды своего недавнего дня рождения, праздновавшегося в клубе. Кто-то преподнёс ему коробку бумаги. А когда он открыл крышку – там оказалось десять тысяч долларов.

Танцовщица крутит бёдрами, слышно постукивание бусин её мини-юбочки. Топ-лесс Ксения рассказывает о своей бытности балериной. С бокалом в руке Гулливер указывает на тех женщин, с кем он переспал, и, прикрываясь рукой, шепчет: «Мне всё мало, – улыбается он девушке, надевающей парик Марии-Антуанетты. – Аппетит приходит во время еды».

Одна из танцовщиц надела розовую пачку и теперь пробирается через обшарпанное пространство за сценой мимо женщины, которая стоя на коленях, моет пол.

Всему этому придёт конец. Только не сейчас.

ВСЛЕД ЗА ЗОЛОТИСТЫМ «Бьюиком-электра» 1960 года выпуска несёмся через желтоватые отблески фонарей транспортного тоннеля. За рулём чёрного седана БМВ, где еду я, красавец-армянин; мы мчим по Ленинградскому шоссе, темно, рассветёт ещё только через полчаса. Карамельный интерьер салона наполняет музыка, словно смерть, а с приборной доски глядят православные иконы, из другого столетия.

Машина подъезжает к «Максиму Горькому» – теплоходу, который Сталин подарил своему мастеру высокопарной прозы. Перед трапом стоят матросы в полосатых тельняшках, а с ними человек, которого все называют Генерал. О нём ходит масса разных слухов, но точно мало что известно. Говорят, он способен помочь уладить любые долги, вне зависимости от размеров и сложности.

Генерал – человек фантастического размаха, огромный любитель женщин и высококачественной звуковоспроизводящей аппаратуры, это он организовал сегодняшнюю прогулку по реке после вечеринки. И если на московскую вечеринку в «Осени» просто так не попадешь, то о вечеринке Генерала вы бы даже никогда и не прознали.

И вот вы тут, по трапу поднимаетесь в мир, где неприменимы больше никакие правила. Красивые ковры, повсюду хрусталь, над лестницей купол. Девушки разбрызгивают в воздухе одеколон и ступают в это облако; за окнами теплохода притаилась чёрная громада подводной лодки, стоящей на причале поблизости.

«Максим Горький» отходит от причала, музыка включается на полную громкость, и умопомрачительная блондинка, у которой есть всё, о чём ты мог только мечтать, уже обвивает тебя руками. «Я актриса, – говорит она. – Но внутри я девственница».

Даже здесь есть своё отделение для V.I.P., на нижней палубе, где в прежние дни знаменитости проводили ночь, а теперь здесь все без одежды. Тамерлан из Владикавказа сидит в углу с розовой девицей на коленях. «Я был горд, что родился в Советском Союзе, – говорит он. – А теперь кругом такое дерьмо».

Несколько девушек в нарядах, которые стоят не меньше, чем машина, начинают распевать детскую песенку: «Я маленькая девочка./ Я в школу не хожу./ Купите мне сандалики./ Я замуж выхожу.»

И вот наконец возникает Горобий, король ночных клубов, в катере нагруженном двадцатью девушками, который нагоняет яхту. Вот только вы уже отчалили, в этом вся проблема.

Яхта Сталина идёт своим курсом, оставляя Горобия с его компанией позади в белом буруне. Рядом появляется улыбающийся Генерал и старается расположить к себе. «Стоило вам приехать сюда, – говорит он, – как вы сразу повстречали самых лучших людей в Москве». Вы плывете вниз по реке, оставляя позади неудачников, которые и дальше останутся ими, и злорадно хихикаете. Прежде вы никогда не злорадно хихикали.

In a shipboard ballroom, Russia’s lucky few tend to their good time. Music like a lot of loud nothing pounds through the girls lathered in Valentino, Gaultier, and Bulgari. Defying you with their eyes, they throw off a kind of heat that has never burned you before. The men with money and new style hang around the edges with satisfied smiles, their low-vibrating calm punching through thousand-dollar sunglasses. They’ll kiss you, they’ll kill you, you’ll know where you stand.

Over on the riverbank, the skinny fishermen decline to wave hello as the ship glides by, its seven-foot speaker towers blasting sonar across the whole known universe. Want to call the cops? We are the cops.

This is, in fact, Joseph Stalin’s old boat, the Maxim Gorky, a pleasure cruiser during Communist days, which has faded into the apex of seafaring Soviet chic, accessible only to those with the proper connections and imaginative powers. A Stalin mannequin sits locked in a mock-up of his office. It is a diorama, and its glass sheath vibrates with the music, preserving a past that hangs around like a pox scar. Stalin is at his desk, putting flame to that black pipe. Mikhail Kalinin, chairman of the Central Executive Committee, stands beside him in close counsel, while the writer of Soviet fiction Maxim Gorky balances on the couch, chewing his mustache over the path of the Party.

Go ahead and chew, because this is what happened when it all fell down, the party after the Party. Two 20-year-old women bump into the diorama glass, losing any feeling for boundaries, devouring each other in elapsing ether. The tops come down, the tongues and the tits come out, and the floorboards quake with the kerplunk of the original, 1934 engine. Free at last.

Outside the window a speedboat guns along. A man with a shaved head is standing on the bow. He smiles. It is Alexei Gorobiy, ruler of all he surveys—which is Moscow at night. He is chaperoning a cargo of 20 girls, making a side trip from a club called Osen, his nightspot onshore. “Osen” is the word that ignites Fridays and extinguishes Sundays, one of a series of nightspots that Gorobiy and his partners have turned into hell’s hottest fire.

There’s a reason you need a visa to come to Russia. Moscow has the best nightlife in the world. Leave etiquette and moderation to everyone else. Leave “the beauty of an hour” to the Russians, especially to those with money, those in their 30s, the last generation raised under the old regime, who can’t stop toasting their good fortune, all of it with the fine style you read about in those novels the size of bricks. They’ll crack your chest and massage your heart, and we’ll see if you can keep up.

You could talk about it like it was a movie, and you still wouldn’t make it halfway to the truth. Moscow is hell, and in hell you can have a great time. Like any other place, hell has rules. No pity; that’s one of them. And so Stalin’s boat isn’t slowing down to let the king of the night come aboard.

Gorobiy understands. Must keep moving. This is why he and his associates pioneered, and now own, the nightlife in a city that makes the rest of the world’s version of going out feel like a whole lot of money, a big waste of time. If you can make it into the highly restricted clubs conjured by Gorobiy and his two collaborators, Mikhail Kozlov and Sinisha Lazarevich, you will have entered a world of guarantees. These three are the new-form Ian Schrager and Steve Rubell, with way more muscle and a clientele with money that never runs out. The speedboat has had enough of the chase, and it veers off and away as Stalin’s ship continues on.

BACK ON SOLID GROUND, it’s another Moscow early, early morning, on the closing weekend at Osen. The girls are always getting that taste. Big full lips, full asses, hands on asses. The MasterCard with Delta miles clicks along the glass tabletop. Caplets spool through the vertebrae. The couch is finally starting to feel comfortable. It’s always some equinox here, with the smoke sticking around and the speaker sound that just keeps blowing.

Gorobiy backs into his sleeping chamber a few floors above Osen’s dance hall, a white-cloud enclosure with a high-perch bed. His hideaway is all plasma screen and low-flying chandelier, the long dawn sunlight fighting the curtains. The time flakes off and falls away, like that wall inside you separating right from wrong. Gorobiy wears a white shirt and nothing else, and the girl spread beneath him has diamonds in her eyes and pink gum in her teeth. And you get to watch.

One door down, the go-go dancers are mixing glitter and baby oil on their palms, polishing up their $15 tans so that their skin will reflect the light that bounces around the dance floor. They’re stepping in and out of sheer gear, their wax jobs pencil-line or altogether smooth. It’s not a tough formula.

Mind yourself around the eight-foot Candy Land people on the stairs. A dozen models are moaning, “Oy, ya khochu fuck,” horse-hoofing on knee-high D&G boots. A waitress in a black-and-orange uniform hoists a bottle of Cristal in the air, fire spitting from the white-hot sparklers in her other hand. She pushes open the saloon doors with the porthole windows, and the Moscow party you could never get into begins to singe the edges of all you can see.

Fifteen years ago, there wasn’t a single club in Europe’s largest city. There were only a few restaurants. Think of 1991 as Year Zero. The Soviet Union fell that Christmas, and that soon kicked everyone off the dole. Free-market capitalism and the oligarchs’ personal armies took over, and a country’s life savings vanished, followed by murder in broad daylight, house music, privatization, freebasing. Yeltsin handpicked Putin and nobody got thrown in jail, nobody who wasn’t asking for it.

Gorobiy, now 37, says he started earning a living by trading wedding bands. Then he found himself throwing a party at the Cosmos Pavilion of Moscow’s VDNKh, the Soviet utopian fairgrounds. He would set up a few lights, turn on the tape machine, and watch the dancers knock into rocket boosters and assorted space junk.

Thousands of people came to what amounted to Russia’s first raves. Gorobiy wasn’t making any money at it, but he had found something that fit him better than all those wedding bands. This was a guy who had opened his first disco when he was 12 years old, having engaged the local scout troop as muscle.

In 1993, coming off the success of these space raves, Gorobiy and a few associates set up Moscow’s first legit club, called Penthouse. Readers of Russian things will recognize Penthouse’s location, the Hermitage Garden. It’s not far from the theater where Woland, in Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, dressed women in costumes that would disappear once they set foot on the street. At Penthouse, that’s pretty much what happened. If Russia’s sexual revolution has to have a beginning, pick this.

New promoters arrived, with new venues. Then came Titanic, then Jazz Café, then Cabaret, then Jet Set, then Shambala, then Zeppelin, then First. The years passed, Moscow built up and around, and the Range Rovers and made-to-measure suits began clogging the newly paved streets, many heading for the suddenly not-bad restaurants. Other clubs came, too, clubs of varying quality and sustainability, and the public’s taste began to blow with any of a dozen winds.

They weren’t Soviets any longer. Gone was state-sponsored taste. Money had arrived to soften the cultural trauma, and it collected in very few pockets. As the economy reformed, the aggregate income of Russia’s wealthiest 10 percent increased by 50 percent. The richest three dozen people in Russia had a net worth of nearly a quarter of the country’s G.D.P.

They had options. They could take off for Monte Carlo, Amsterdam, Ibiza, Sharm al-Sheikh, Goa, Courchevel, whatever the caprice. Those benefiting from the second-largest oil exports in the world, and ever escalating prices per barrel, were concentrated in the Russian capital. When they spent a weekend in Moscow, they expected something more, something befitting Dmitry Karamazov and Grushenka, Dostoevsky’s archetypes of self-destruction and malevolent flirtation. In the process, they cultivated impeccable style, a feeling for modern design and the right kinds of clothes, all with an overlay of their own elegant excess. Circumstance and a dark chivalry bore a ferocious breed.

While Gorobiy and friends were running their first club, Shambala, the idea came to them: Don’t give a club the chance to grow cold. Design the next club while everyone is still cramming into the current place. Close a club after four to six months, while it’s still hot.

Next in the line for Gorobiy, Kozlov, and Lazarevich was the club Zima (which translates as “Winter”), in late 2003. They closed that after a few months and opened Leto (“Summer”), in June 2004. Then came Osen (“Autumn”) that fall. It was a completely re-designed Leto that came after Osen closed, in May of last year. This March, after a brief pause to catch their breath, Gorobiy and his partners opened their biggest club yet, Diaghilev, named after Russia’s turn-of-the-century ballet impresario.

These clubs have been high-style cathedrals of sensual warfare, and Russia’s elite haven’t been able to keep their hands to themselves, terrified of lost opportunity. If your last 100 years have contained a monarchy, two revolutions, Communism, capitalism, and complete economic collapse, the only thing more important than collecting money is spending it before events conspire to make it disappear. And nothing facilitates romance like desperation.

STOP AND YOU’RE DEAD. Gorobiy, Kozlov, and Lazarevich keep moving, trailing thousand-ruble notes through the city like a line of hot piss in the alleyway snow. At Osen, it all became manifest before it shut its doors in 2005. It seems like yesterday.

The coal king (or maybe it’s the electricity king) steps from his Bentley, flashing his quarter-million-dollar watch. But even this won’t see him through the door, through what the Russians refer to, in English, as “face control.”

“It’s who you are,” says Pasha, who is known mostly for steadfast denials. Over the last couple of years, a song called “Pasha Face Control” played all across the former Soviet sphere. In Kiev clubs, in Minsk ones too, you could hear the track, on which Pasha scolds girls for offering sex in exchange for entry to the club.

Like Ronaldo, the Brazilian soccer star whom he once waved through the door, Pasha goes by one name only, protecting his identity against threats he receives from those he rejects. In a land of large men, Pasha projects a smaller image, five feet seven, flanked at the entrance by the flak-jacketed giants of a private security firm. But it’s not all brute force. Some locals are known to go home after being rebuffed by Pasha—changing outfits, putting on glasses, then returning. “It never works,” he says. (Pasha has since become the manager of a restaurant.)

ANOTHER NIGHT, another party. There is some connectivity riding the air. Easter is upon Russia, which means everyone can finally eat, 48 days of Lent now tossed off. Easter morning, President Vladimir Putin praised the Russian Orthodox Church for “molding the spiritual and moral climate in Russian society.” The kid with 13 pills in his sock escorts four girls in high-necked fur straight past the wand wavers. Marat Safin’s fluffy hair bounces as he makes his way into Pasha’s view. The man they call the world’s most underachieving tennis player succeeds at face control, but even he gets stuck in the bottleneck at the entrance.

Karina, from Volgograd, is celebrating her birthday upstairs at the V.I.P. tables ringing the main dance hall. “All these girls come to Moscow,” she says, casting her eyes at the sea of women below, many of whom have traveled great distances to hunt oilmen and those who own banks. “They’re looking for a guy who will buy them a car and give them $100,000.” Karina flicks her blond hair and it kaleidoscopes through all available light. “Not me. I came here for $10 million.” In this society, it is mainly the men who practice the commerce. The fairer sex works the angles. It is clear from talking to Karina and others that these girls are not cheap. Instead of fighting for the Western ideal of gender equality, which is not an option, they have become super-feminine, exerting all the power a brutally beautiful woman can bring to bear, which is not inconsiderable.

“I like being taken care of,” says Dunia Gronina, who owns a boutique shoe-and- accessory showroom that generates $5 million a year. To a certain mind, Russian women may be laboring under the yoke of patriarchy. But there is plenty of wisdom to go around. “Our moms, they say to us, ‘The man is the head of the family, and the woman is the neck,’” Gronina says. “‘Where the neck turns, the head looks.’”

As you climb the gilded staircase, Marilyn Monroe blows endless kisses in an image projected onto a trampoline suspended from the ceiling. This building used to house Moscow’s central banya, or bathhouse. Now there are more girls, continuous girls, these in mummer costumes and carnival headdresses. The bongo players from Almaty, Kazakhstan, are making a racket on the bridge spanning the next room, and four swan-divers in mirrored mosaic surround an awfully big chandelier. You can almost see yourself.

Leaning against the horseshoe-shaped bar is Misha Kozlov, wearing a silk cravat and a dark velvet coat, operating with civility held over from the court of Tsar Alexander I. His shaved head soaks in the soft lights as he genuflects before several veterans of the aluminum wars. Kozlov claims that his top customers earn around $15 million a month. “I can count,” he says, before affixing that Kozlov smile and wrapping those arms around another big-shouldered bruiser with sniper-tint glasses.

Kozlov, 40, taught history for seven years before he met Gorobiy outside a Michael Jackson concert in 1993. Now he oversees the private tables that can cost $10,000 to $15,000 per night, coddling the clients. Kozlov touches the fabric of their shirts, rolls the thread between his fingertips, concentrating on it as though he has suddenly lost his train of thought. He manages to communicate truest love and admiration, and everyone plays along, satisfied in the affirmation of their significance.

“The rich person always has to wonder if there’s someone richer sitting next to him,” Pasha says. “This is a glamour club. It’s a competition.”

What the money buys here is 30 seconds of attention, and the sovereign of such brief encounters has just turned up: Sinisha Lazarevich, 40, the bulge-heart Serbian who came to Moscow 13 years ago and now carries the city’s most affable reputation into every stratum of Russian society. He shaves his head, as do his business partners, but unlike his colleagues he is prone to wearing brightly colored scarves and kissing men on the mouth.

Lazarevich used to run a Moscow club called Circus. He would walk the floor, pointing his finger at the clubbers as he went. “Fashionable,” he would declare, or, alternately, “not fashionable.” He is in the middle of uttering his favorite word, shikarno, which means “magnificent,” when a waiter whispers in his ear and Lazarevich fades into the main dance hall.

THE LIGHTS PAINT the people silver, the rich guys and the poor girls who have to have them, and vice versa. The publicity man for Roman Abramovich, Russia’s richest man ($18.2 billion) and the owner of London’s Chelsea soccer club, gives his attention to the baby-oiled shank of the lean-as-lean go-go dancer. She quivers on the five-foot pedestal behind the P.R. man’s Kazakh wife in the Chelsea soccer hat. One of the singers from the lesbian-tinged schoolgirl duo Tatu has appeared wearing bug-eyed sunglasses. No one recognizes her. Likewise, there was no fuss when Elizabeth Hurley showed up. When Will Smith was in town, it took jumping on the tables with a microphone—at a club across town—to get anyone’s attention. Silly things hold reduced value in serious places.

In V.I.P.-land sits the dispute solver and TV personality Alexander Treschev, an attorney who was once shot in the head. He has the scars on his skull, souvenirs from his days as advocate to General Alexander Lebed, since deceased. Treschev now stars in the daily Wapner-style program, Federal Judge, on Russia’s Channel One.

Next to him sits Alexei Mitrofanov, Duma deputy and leading nationalist figure. Bodyguards are everywhere in the club. They tend to trail certain people, even to the stalls. The bathrooms cost a buck, apparently to discourage bad behavior. Nothing can be prevented completely, however. DJ Dam stands shirtless up on the decks, one arm raised in the air, one hand glued to the switches. Dam says that he has given up drugs, after the train ride last fall that is as hard to recall precisely as it is to forget.

A few promoters commandeered the Moscow–St. Petersburg train, loading it with 150 clubbers at two a.m. There was a D.J. car, a bar car, a lounge car, and the rest were sleepers. Eight hours of partying to Peter, then straight to a boat party, then to a restaurant party, then to a full night at a club, then back on the train for eight more hours at top speed. “When we got back to Moscow, people were still dancing and didn’t want to leave,” Dam says. “They didn’t understand how they got to Moscow so quickly.” A couple of people, Dam says, took it upon themselves to pour MDMA (Ecstasy) into the drinks.

IT’S NOT NECESSARILY chemicals that make everyone act this way. “Moscow is a city of energy,” says Vlad Nazerenko, editor and publisher of Nightpeople, a flip-book of Moscow nightlife. “For strong people, the energy can help you make a great career. For weak people, the energy destroys them.”

Getting your picture in Nightpeople is the closest thing to underground celebrity in a city that places no status on anything underground. There is no keeping it real here. There is no Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where you can hang out on your stoop with your bulldog and your barbed-wire tattoos, sneering at the world that will never be cool enough for you.

They play polo here now. They’re buying yachts, even though there are no waterways big enough to enjoy them, and wing-door Lamborghinis, in spite of the poor street clearance. Members of the government, it is said, receive Brioni tailors in the Kremlin twice a year. In this town, if they’re not wearing it or driving it, they just don’t have it.

“In America, you have no glamour,” says Kozlov.

No glamour? What about Angelina? Or Marilyn?

Kozlov is certain: “Isn’t Marilyn Monroe from Germany?” They don’t know, they don’t care, with enough happening here to damage the senses. But what exactly is going on? “What we sell is air,” Kozlov explains. “It’s a pipe, and out of this pipe comes smoke. Sometimes it’s white, sometimes it’s black. It’s like the mood of a person.”

This will all end. Just not yet.

LAZAREVICH ARRIVES at the table of a client who has requested an audience. The man wears expensive fabric, his arm around a young woman comparably priced. “I guess I need to buy a bottle of Cristal for you to come over,” he says. “And another bottle if you sit down.” He reaches under the table and produces a magnum in each hand.

Lazarevich leans away. “Freud said never to see a patient for more than 45 minutes at a time,” he offers. “Because after that you become friends.” He faces the rest of the party, scanning the sea of clients. “These people have to see me in the coolest setting with the most beautiful girls, and see me only for five seconds. I understand the elements of parapsychology. I know how to give people exactly what they want.”

A man frowns in the corner of the room, Lazarevich smothers him in a bear hug, and the man instantly recovers. Lazarevich then wipes away the tears of a weeping teenage nymph before depositing two bottles of champagne at the table of a frequent guest, who photographs the moment for commemoration. Lazarevich has conceived himself as a healer, and a city has come to believe it.

“Everybody wants us to sit with them and tell them fairy tales,” Kozlov says.

They’re all buying something, even the liquor and cigarette companies that make deals to place their products behind the bar. Gorobiy, Kozlov, and Lazarevich use this money to fund the construction of each new club, which costs, they say, between $2 million and $3.5 million. (This is cheap by local standards, as oligarchs are known to build big, boring nightspots using platinum in the columns and precious stones in the floors.) The alcohol firms sometimes allow the promoters to pay for their booze at the end of each club’s run, essentially extending interest-free loans. Everything operates on a tight schedule, the closing-night invitations printed up the evening each club opens. “We know the date of our death,” says Gorobiy. Die twice a year and Moscow will call you king. Stick around long enough to become tedious and the city will see to it that you disappear.

ANOTHER WEEKEND, another prowl. Tonight pink bunnies with cottontails tiptoe onto the Osen stage, replacing a dozen girls in their underwear. There’s no standing on principle in Moscow; there is more lying down. This is how Lazarevich rolls out his birthday, with tails and top hat and another fantasy for everyone to check off the list. Igor Artukh, chairman of the Light Metals Group, relaxes at his regular table with a Tatar friend in a black sequined gown. A waiter tops off his cognac. Mind you, it’s not as easy as it looks. Used to be, American guys could land Russian girls because Americans are nice and have money. Russian guys haven’t learned to be nice, but they have learned to be rich.

Some are still learning. At a table, a guy sits taking pictures of himself with his gold Nokia phone. Loneliness is a commodity, much like debt, that can be traded back and forth.

In the bathroom the sound filters down to a single buzz. You can’t tell if that sound is the music playing through the door, or whether it’s in your head, or whether that’s a phone ringing: someone who’s trying to find someone to go down on for his drugs. Always demand fair value.

Roll out of the club for some pre-dawn air on V-E Day. Elderly people are chanting, “Ukraine, Georgia, Belarus—return to the union.” A white-haired man shambles down Tverskaya Ulitsa with a chest full of medals pinned on a ragged brown coat. Fireworks crash against the sky, booming like field artillery. All through the night, girls have been sending their guys text messages over the mobile, congratulating them on the victory of the “Soviet people over the German Fascists.”

Meanwhile, the chauffeurs stink up the sedans with their deep-sleep breathing. A wild dog licks the dirt off a car’s license plate. The birds caw as morning threatens, while solitary cars sweep up the boulevard, their tires slicing through the rain from the night before. In the club, you never hear the rain.

The mirrored doors to Osen snap open and a big man flies out back-first. A welt is forming on his eye and blood streams from his eyebrow. Now’s the time to slip in smoothly, up to the go-go dancers’ dressing room.

Here is Gulliver, Moscow’s utility infielder of promoters, who had a big hand in the nightlife trio’s clubs, sitting among a dozen dancers, who slip very naturally in and out of their costumes. Gulliver recounts the highlights from his recent birthday party. Someone at the club gave him a box of printer paper. He lifted the lid, and inside was $10,000 cash.

A dancer rolls her hips and all you can hear is the rattle of her beaded miniskirt. Topless Ksenia discusses her career as a ballerina. Gulliver lifts a drink in front of his whispers, pointing out the women here who have slept with him. “I still can’t get enough,” he says, smiling in the direction of the one putting on the Marie Antoinette wig. “The appetite comes when you’re eating.”

One of the go-go girls pulls on a pink tutu and walks toward the dance floor through the crumbling backstage, squeezing by a woman who is on her knees scrubbing the floor.

This will all end. Just not yet.

FOLLOW THE GOLD-FLECKED 1960 Buick Electra through the yellow skip-light of a traffic tunnel. An Armenian beauty steers the black BMW sedan up Leningradskoye Shosse, still dark for another half-hour. Music like death fills this caramel interior, and Orthodox icons peer out from the dash, from another century.

The car pulls up to the Maxim Gorky, the ship Stalin gifted to this master of stilted prose. Standing out front with the sailors in striped T-shirts is a man known as the General. There are many rumors about him, but few facts. He settles all outstanding accounts for you, they say, no matter the size or complexity.

The General is a man of fantastic range, a great lover of women and high-quality sound equipment, and he has coordinated today’s after-party pleasure cruise. If Osen has been Moscow’s hardest party to crack, the General’s party is the one you’ll never know about.

And here you are, walking the plank to a world where the rules no longer apply. There are nice rugs and big chunks of crystal, a cupola at the top of the stairs. Girls spray cologne in the air and then walk into it, while a thick black submarine, docked nearby, hunches in the water beyond the windows.

The Maxim Gorky eases out of the harbor, the music goes full, and a blonde woman who has everything you could ever want must lay her hands on you. “I’m an actress,” she says, “but I’m a virgin inside.”

There is a V.I.P. section even here, and people are down there without their clothes, in a room where dignitaries once passed the night. Tamerlan from Vladikavkaz sits in the corner with a pink lady on his lap. “I was proud to be born in the Soviet Union,” he says. “And now we have all this shit.”

A few girls in outfits that cost as much as a car break into a nursery rhyme: “I’m a little girl. / I don’t go to school. / Buy me sandals / And I’ll marry you.”

Finally, there is Gorobiy, the club king, pulling alongside in his speedboat weighed down by 20 young women. There is just one problem: you are already on your way.

Stalin’s boat continues on its course, leaving Gorobiy and company in its whitened tracks. The General appears at your side, grinning you into his confidence. “When you came to town,” he says, “you found the best people in Moscow.” You are pounding down the river, cutting through all those who have lost and will continue losing, and you let out a cackle. You never used to cackle.

Everyone on Transdniester’s Interior Ministry cop squad looked like he could handle himself on the wrong side at Pelican Bay. There had been a war here not long ago, a real war with gang rape and punitive amputation, and these guys were of the age and inclination to know something about that. It was only a matter of time before they started asking us about the weapons.

“We have orders from our superiors to take you directly to Tiraspol.” This was coming from a cop with bad hamburger cheeks. He tugged a pistol off his hip and started shoving slugs into the clip.

We (myself and photographer Jonas Bendiksen) were quickly stuffed into a car, and were soon tailing a crash-derby-red Lada as it cleared the streets of Dubasari, which, not surprisingly, didn’t need much clearing. The cops flipped on the toy siren anyway, as they do it on the Mob shows out of Moscow, and the noise began moaning over all our doubts. They had grabbed us a half-mile from the border. This we knew for sure. That’s about all we knew for sure. Facts are slippery in the obscure Communist-Mafia outpost known as Transdniester, evasion being something of a native birthright.

Certainly, there were a few inescapable specifics. A gnawed toothpick of land—125 miles long by 20 miles across—located between the Dniester River and Ukraine on Moldova’s eastern edge, Transdniester had declared independence from Moldova in 1990, the year before the Soviet Union officially collapsed. Since then every right mind in the Western world has passed judgment on the place as Europe’s new capital of the international weapons market. One analyst described Transdniester to us as “the El Dorado, the Klondike for illegal arms trafficking,” where a clandestine system of manufacturing and transport fed conflicts in the Caucasus, Central Africa, and the Middle East. It was also known as a back-alley bazaar of prostitution, money-laundering, and Soviet-octane graft, a bastard son of Moldova, the poorest country in Europe, which last month reelected a Communist-dominated parliament.

“The Transdniester authorities use the situation to do a lot of economically profitable things they couldn’t do if they were a part of an accountable state,” said Rudolf Perina, a former U.S. ambassador to Moldova, who currently serves as the State Department’s special negotiator for Eurasian conflicts. “There is a lot of smuggling going on.”

Add in plenty of leftovers from the Soviet Army and a riddle takes shape for the anti-proliferation folks. One of the world’s largest stores of illicit munitions (more than 20,000 metric tons, according to figures provided by the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe [O.S.C.E.]) sits within Transdniester’s borders—heavily militarized on the Moldovan side, and a lazy gate leading to Ukraine, which has been having trouble keeping track of its own Soviet hand-me-downs.

That’s about all anyone outside Langley and Lubyanka can pin down to shape the argument. Transdniester exists in a dark zone of suspicion and mistrust, where three symbols dictate the stripe of life: (1) The five-pointed tin star of the Sheriff corporation, Transdniester’s monopoly company, which runs the gas stations, the depots, the soccer team, and, enough people will tell you, a money-laundered shadow economy of smuggled and counterfeit goods. (2) The towering briquette eyebrows of Transdniester president Igor Smirnov, which bear down from the photo that hangs in every vestibule. (3) The centerpiece of the state seal—a certain hammer and sickle—which lets you know what Gorbachev can do with his Peace Prize. A visit to Transdniester—a rare thing, indeed—is a trip to some hopeless Soviet winter, circa 1965.

Transdniester has existed for 14 years. And yet no country in the world recognizes its claim to independence. Something will have to give, since the E.U. is scheduled to welcome neighboring Romania to the gathering of good manners in 2007. There have been several referendums over the years, but none has disrupted Transdniester’s five-finger regime. Which doesn’t delight anyone who’d like to make it difficult to buy rocket launchers off the back of a truck.

But the neighborhood is changing. This winter, a grand philosophical shift took place in Ukraine, which sits on Transdniester’s eastern flank and is bigger than any country in Western Europe. Georgia also went the way of the West a year before that. And the foul regime of Belarus’s Alexander Lukashenko hangs on by a couple of dirty fingernails. Russia’s sphere of influence is diminishing with such speed that the Kremlin has come to value as sacrosanct every inch of former Soviet soil. Following last September’s terrorist massacre at the schoolhouse in Beslan, Russian president Vladimir Putin delivered a televised address in which he held up Transdniester as a symbol of continued resistance to the new order, to a way of life being imposed on Russian people by foreign powers, by foreign values, and by the destabilizing force of terrorism. As the largest portions of the Soviet Union’s old western borders splinter with such apparent finality, little Transdniester becomes the kind of thing that might get the big guns out. Especially in Moldova, where the rogue state is on the mind from waking till sleeping. Communist president Vladimir Voronin, who despises Transdniester and its backers in Moscow, recently accused Russia of plotting to assassinate him before the parliamentary election in March.

It’ll all have to end somewhere. And while the power in Transdniester may be mean, it isn’t completely obtuse. The rulers in this land of the lost are slowly getting the sense they’ll have to concede what everyone else already knows: Uncle Joe doesn’t live around here anymore.

“WRITE THIS DOWN in capital letters: We have never sold any weapons.” It’s better to tell a little truth than no truth at all. So it was difficult to take President Igor Smirnov seriously, as much for this line as for the cottontail eyebrows that always undercut any point he tried to make.

“You said that you visited factories,” Smirnov said. “Did you see a lot of weapons there?” We had heard plenty of talk about grenade launchers coming out of the steelworks in Rybnitsa and machine guns rolling off the line at the Elektromash motor factory in Tiraspol. (“It’s not a question for us whether they do produce weapons and sell weapons,” said William Hill, head of the Moldova mission of the O.S.C.E. “They do.”) But we were on the official tour. At Rybnitsa, we watched as electrodes dipped into the carrot-colored furnace of bubbling steel, the crash and shock like the sound of great Soviet power, great Soviet terror. At Elektromash, $100-a-month laborers sweated it out beneath scarlet banners such as the one that shouted, INSTRUMENT WORKER! BE PROUD OF YOUR PROFESSION!

“So this is only a political argument … in order to subdue this territory by force,” Smirnov continued. “I don’t think this is going to work.” There was a World Trade Center statuette, five inches tall, sitting on the corner of his desk. He pointed at it and mouthed the code words of the only political argument that really mattered anymore. “I think that New Yorkers will understand me. When all people have gone through a fratricidal war because of nationalists, such people understand best the price of a peaceful life.” There was silence as Smirnov played out the Transdniester shell game: You say weapons; I say liberty and the pursuit of seeing eye to eye.

History is never so simple. In the late 80s, the Moldovans courted a union with Romania. But they were conning themselves if they thought they could exit the world’s greatest land empire on their own terms. With a green light from the Kremlin, Transdniester seceded from Moldova. Moldova then left the U.S.S.R., and all the shouting turned into fighting. The Russian Army carried the day for Transdniester in the 1992 war, allowing Moscow to extend a middle finger at Moldova, which has been bled white through the loss of its industry, about half of which is located on the other side of the Dniester River.

BUT LET’S TALK about girls. Although Transdniester shares Moldova’s reputation as a top European supplier-state of sex slaves, there are still women left behind in Tiraspol, Transdniester’s capital. You’ll quickly discover, however, that many of them live with their “grandmothers,” who are “really strict” about their appointments. You’ll meet one of these girls at a dive called Sherry, a tinseled room with sweet champagne and banditti in bad haircuts. She says she’s a cosmetologist, and she’s looking for lip gloss in her handbag, digging past the eyeliner and the German-made pistol.

She claims she used it once, the gun, shooting three guys in the face outside Sherry when they tried to stuff her in a car. It’s a small town, but she can’t remember hearing about them after that.

The end is never far away. In fact, the cosmetologist’s cat just died. Fake pet food, so they say, is killing the house cats inside a couple days. Transdniester isn’t authorized to use Moldova’s customs stamps, which creates a universe of counterfeit goods both coming and going, the trash that finds its way into the territory palmed off on the patsies who live here. Everything’s phony: Coke, Snickers, shampoo, perfume. The beer smells like soap, and the cigarettes taste like gravel from the road. People don’t get too attached, and trust is something they don’t expect or extend.

A blizzard has kicked up beyond the windows at Sherry. Visibility is at 50 yards, and the streets exist in the pale yellow of the remaining streetlamps, which shoot light through the snowflakes that twist above the parked cars. The statue of Lenin downtown looks like he’s squinting into another difficult winter.

In these conditions, Transdniester becomes even more isolated, landlocked and off the radar. Moods grow foul and bad ideas germinate. The train to Odessa has been canceled. All roads to Moldova are blocked. Everyone is cold and gray and suspicious. They weren’t friendly in the Old West either.

A woozy figure walks into the line of a car, which swerves wildly to avoid contact. Suicide may seem like a good idea, until you get a look at the cemetery full of bent-nail headstones. Then even cashing out looks depressing.

So go on living and, for music loud enough to shut it all up, stop by the Red Heat bar, a room of cafeteria charm with portraits of Lenin and Marx peering over the bottles. It’s an over-40 crowd, and all the elbow jerking and head snapping calls to mind the days when Soviets went to “dancing parties,” but had trouble keeping with the theme.

Yes, this is still the Soviet Union: The food is terrible and nobody knows how to dance. But Newark isn’t the only place that smells like Newark. And this particular Mud City looks like a hundred others all across the dried-fish expanse of the former empire. Daily discussions involve pensions and who has hot water this week. Answer: nobody.

What makes this place different from the tough scrape-by of cities like Omsk or Tomsk is the sad grasp at a time that’s too obviously gone and not coming back. Rollerblading-lovers will tell you that sometimes it’s better to give in and start running. But driving through this particular landscape—long stretches of Kansas apron interrupted by the canyon trashlands of the border towns—you get the feeling that anything can still happen, and when it does, no one will hear about it. All this under the conspicuous flapping of the old Moldovan Soviet Socialist Republic banner: green and red, with a hammer and sickle tucked in the top left corner.

Sure, symbols are just symbols. Except that people sign up to die carrying flags. So they go on playing country, and more from ancient history remains to show them how. Such as the portrait of Felix Dzerzhinsky, a founder of the K.G.B., in the office of the deputy minister of state security. “I have a good opinion of him,” said Major General Oleg Gudimo. “As a person.”

Things get confused in the culture of the proud loser, where it’s easy to forget what you’re fighting for, or if you’re simply swinging away. The words “For the motherland” are painted on a tank that stands across from the state-government building as a monument to both the Great Patriotic War and the 1992 conflict. It begs the question: Which motherland are we talking about—Transdniester, Russia, the U.S.S.R.? Or does it even matter? “We are not nostalgic for the Soviet Union,” said Vladimir Bodnar, chairman of Transdniester’s Supreme Soviet committee on security and defense. “We simply don’t know anything else.”

Death may still be dead, but amusement can’t be held completely at bay. We did win, after all. Witness that in every Transdniester government office the TV is tuned to the same channel: MTV. Sobering discussions regarding the stability of the Transdniester ruble take place over loops and fat beats, as though Beria were guesting on Jay-Z.

THE HEAT WAS getting to Yevgeny Shevchuk. He was starting to quote Charles Bukowski. “There are bad governments and there are worse governments—there are no other governments.” The banya had kicked up past 240 degrees Fahrenheit, and the man who worked the place had just poured water onto the hot rocks, instigating humid terror. Felt hats were required to keep the hair from burning.

Shevchuk was giving us the party line, though not in the way we expected. Most Transdniester apparatchiks—apparatchiks, yes: their parliament is called the Supreme Soviet—had a real case of the twitches. Mention Moldova: twitch. Mention weapons: double twitch. Mention America: super double twitch. But Shevchuk, vice chairman of the Supreme Soviet, was the kid of the group, 36, and he was immune to the dusty stiffness and dread suspicion of the incubated Soviet system.

“My grandfather was a religious man,” Shevchuk said. “And he told me once, ‘Jenya, believe me, the border with Romania will be on the Dniester River again.’”

Romania has little interest in absorbing an economy that one day may be as vigorous as Albania’s. But this statement meant that Shevchuk’s senses were returning to him, that he had mastered taking the heat. This is the official mythology—the concept of constant threat—that perpetuates the conflict. “What is keeping the secession going,” Perina said, “is that it’s primarily economically profitable.” Government reps in Tiraspol wave it all aside, content with scowls and conspiracy theories.

Certain policies do supply the Transdniester conjurers with ammunition, so to speak, such as a recent U.S./E.U. visa ban applied to the top 17 government officials. Travel is a big deal in this part of the world, since the only trips the state would grant for a long time involved very little food and a hardened-wire whip known as the knout. Now it’s the outside world that’s shutting out the Transdniestrians, which tells them that they’re still the bad guys.

It’s a different setup locally, where Shevchuk can travel with at least a little style. Since he is seventh in the line of power, the license plate on his government car reads 007. And while Smirnov and his associates could model for James Bond’s nemesis, SPECTRE, Shevchuk’s vehicle manages to receive high praise and special treatment. His sedan slides through the girl curves of the countryside, eliciting salutes from the troops in the last corner of the world where a Volga commands free passes through red lights. Welcome to the world of international sanctions: the higher you are, the more critical it is to solidify local avenues to significance. “The system is one person in charge,” said Alexander Semyenuk, a deputy in the Supreme Soviet. “Igor Smirnov.”

Think of Smirnov as the C.F.O. of Transdniester, and the relationship among him, the Sheriff corporation, and his son, Vladimir, director of the Customs Service, makes for an easy game of connect the dots and cash the checks. Sheriff “is very closely tied to Smirnov and his family,” said ex-ambassador Perina. “It’s a little economic fiefdom.”

Beyond Transdniester’s borders, there aren’t many backslaps to go around. So the local ruling class turns inward, kicking back with Cubans and old cognac, shunning outsiders who would play wrecker. “The current administration is completely corrupt,” Semyenuk said. “It’s not only about Smirnov. There are a bunch of other people who have nowhere to go.” Most notable among those with limited options is Major General Vladimir Antyufeyev, Transdniester’s state security minister, who has been on Interpol’s wanted list for his alleged role in a deadly 1991 Soviet attack on Latvia’s Interior Ministry.

“I always say that there are two parties in Transdniester,” said Vasilii Shova, Moldova’s minister of re-integration. “One party wants to see a resolution to this situation; another one wants to keep the conflict.”

As long as the current situation holds, so does a closed world of questionable logic. Which helps explain why Sheriff built a towering, modern stadium for its soccer team on Tiraspol’s city limits. It also explains the existence of the Spirit Museum Hotel, which includes a five-story structure shaped like a giant bottle. The building houses owner Grigory Korzun’s vast collection of liquor.

“The Guinness World Record people have been out to see me,” Korzun claimed. “I have the record.”

The record for the most bottles of booze?

“No, no. The record for the biggest building in the shape of a bottle.”

THEY CALLED IT the wolf strangler. A Caucasian shepherd, waist-high and 150 pounds, it was leaping at its leash and blocking the road. “Why are you here?” asked a guy in a Sheriff-security jacket. He had a shotgun, and he was missing just about every other tooth.

We had stopped by an unmarked Sheriff depot not far from Ukraine. From there, we had driven the road to the border. Our intention, though we kept it to ourselves, was to observe Transdniester’s infamous smuggling operation, if we were fortunate to find any evidence of it. After a mile, the ice-covered road fed into a border post of one candy-striped gate and two frostbitten guards. It couldn’t be hard to hand out a space heater and watch a convoy duck under the candy striping.

The second flathead had a face full of scratches and pits, and he ordered us into the depot. “We don’t want our clients identified,” he said. A guard in fatigues was having trouble keeping the wolf strangler at his side, and the dog started biting at the wind. None of this put us at ease. There was the additional knowledge of a local interrogation technique called the Coliseum, which involved 20 soldiers and 20 rifle butts.

It was too perfect—a company called Sheriff—considering what a tin-star sheriff did in the days of buck knives: run the law, the girls, the roulette table, and whatever else made him feel like he was in charge. “We associate the name Sheriff with order and security,” said Nikolay Lizunov, the director of Sheriff’s TV network, TCB. “And movies when Bruce Willis saves the world.”

This particular world could use a lot of saving. But it was noticeably short on vegan movie stars and Jesuit missions. In the Soviet Union, any saving that went on was strictly up to you. Either you were smart or you didn’t eat. There were no other choices.

Viktor Gushan ate. He was a policeman in the early 90s, and he didn’t want to be a policeman anymore. “The country we served no longer existed,” said Gushan, who now serves as president of Sheriff. This was several days earlier, in his office, located a comfortable distance from the depot. There was a different class of thug at Sheriff headquarters—better clothes, more in the Dapper Don mold. Gushan looked part sheriff, part high roller, dressed like Johnny Cash with a cigar barrel in his mouth. His office was Rio Bravo going on Taxidermy Today, with bordello curtains and the walls draped in dead birds.

The old Soviet saying seemed to apply: It costs one ruble to join the Mafia; it costs two rubles to leave. From Gushan’s chair, there was no point getting out. The side door to Smirnov and the back road to Ukraine were the only routes to survival in a state that officially didn’t exist. “Bring any businessman from France or the United States here and he’ll hang himself in six months,” Gushan said. “The Transdniester stamp is not recognized internationally. Nothing is allowed. We have had to operate”—he paused to get the right wording—”between things.”

But between things you can find some amount of room. And when the president’s son runs the customs office, it is easy to suppose that you can find a little more room.

“Sheriff is a criminal structure under the umbrella of a state,” said Oazu Nantoi, the director of the Institute for Public Policy, a Moldovan think tank. “I know how Igor Smirnov talks about how Transdniester is a real state. That’s blah, blah, blah for stupid people.”

Gushan affected a grin, while the soft clicking of a grandfather clock sifted through the room. “I’m just a man like anyone else,” he said. “But if a businessman tells you he’s not interested in politics, he’s not being honest. It’s like a fish living in water saying, ‘I don’t care whether I have water or not.’”

IT WAS FIRST light when we approached Kolbasna. A soldier in bed head and camouflage emerged from a barracks shack and raised the gate. No questions, and we continued up the road.

For decades, Kolbasna, in northern Transdniester, served as a supply depot for Soviet forces in the Black Sea region. When those brigades withdrew, in the early 90s, they deposited weapons and munitions at Kolbasna and the stockpile swelled. These munitions, says a highly placed expert, are now rather useless to the Russian military, which largely retooled its weapons line in the 80s. But to armies firing with old Soviet equipment, most notably in Africa and the Middle East, access to these depots would be worth paying for.

A few warehouses hunched on the left side of the road. On the right, a rail line ran over a hill in the direction of Ukraine. The Kolbasna depots stretch across several square miles underground. If the whole lot were to blow, according to O.S.C.E. estimates, it would discharge rockets and shrapnel in a 10-mile radius.

Like a lot of what you’ll find in Transdniester, the depots aren’t even supposed to be here. The Russians were supposed to have removed these munitions years ago, according to the terms of several agreements. But there have been all kinds of foot-dragging, most notably by the Transdniester regime. “These munitions are our leverage, which we can use against Russia and Moldova and the E.U.—anyone who threatens our statehood,” said the Supreme Soviet’s Bodnar. “We have no other leverage.”

Two kids stumbled out of the second guardhouse. One of them, a cop no more than 18, took our documents and ducked back inside. The other guard was dressed in the uniform of the Transdniester Army: an olive-colored greatcoat, with a leather strap cinched around the waist. He looked like he was waiting around for something to do. The cop returned our papers and told us to turn around, which we did, back in the direction of Moldova proper.

When Igor Smirnov handed us his business card, he said, “This is in case you have any trouble at the border.” We didn’t get that far. The goons grabbed us, and we started out on the drive to Tiraspol, trailing the red Lada. On our cell phone, as we drove on, we called Oleg Gudimo, the security man with the thing for Dzerzhinsky, and he told us it was all a mistake. “There will be an order for your release in five minutes,” he said. Half an hour later, we could see the rusted hilltop of the Elektromash factory rising from Tiraspol’s pile of ashes.

They were waiting for us at Interior Ministry headquarters—a small man with perpetual doubt affixed to his face, an officious woman who intoned penal code, and a powerfully built officer who liked shouting and standing too close.

They caught us on nothing: “If you are registered to leave tomorrow, then why are you leaving today?” They subdued us with ancient wisdom: “We have a saying in Russian: Trust, but check.” They scrutinized our motives like a kid sister: “If you did not want to write something negative about Kolbasna, then why did you go there?”

In this place, a road to nowhere is still a road you have to take, and so time mounted. But when they drew up the confessions, it was time to end it: “We are not going to sign any of your papers. We called the U.S. Embassy in Moldova on the way here. And right now the wheels of diplomacy are turning against you.”

They were scandalized. In Soviet times, when you refused to cooperate, all they could do was shoot you.

“We are standing up and walking out the door. Will you stop us?”

They looked at one another and then back at us, until the big guy let his mouth fall open: “Nyet.” We grabbed our papers and stepped out into the street, where it was gray like the day before.

Arslan Ustael awaits the dynamite in the snow, with night temperatures reaching 40 below. Standing before the rail tunnel, Ustael says that in this weather your spit freezes before it hits the ground. He is a young man still, 30, and free with Turkish good humor, even up here in the cold clouds waiting for the dynamite that will make the volcanic mountain agreeable to his demand to bore a tunnel through it. Free with good humor because he knows this is an undertaking that could make a young engineer’s career: building the Baku-Tbilisi-Kars (BTK) railway, an “Iron Silk Road” that will connect the oil-rich Caspian Sea region to Turkey—and beyond to Europe. The travels of antiquity are tiring to contemplate. The 750-mile stretch of land between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea is known as the Caucasus, named for the mountain range through which Ustael is digging his tunnel. Before the region got swallowed up by the Russian Empire, the Caucasus served as a transit point between Europe and Asia; the old Silk Road passed through it. Yet transport between West and East has never been easy. For centuries, to get from one sea to the other, you had to paddle north up the Don River from the Sea of Azov, portage over the steppe, then drift down the Volga to the Caspian. Only when the Russians
began building railroads over the Caucasus in the 19th century could you travel more directly
across the region.

The Iron Silk Road will launch a new chapter in the history of the Caucasus. After the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, the newly independent republics of the southern Caucasus—Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan—regained strategic importance. A realization of the enormity of the oil and natural gas reserves lying beneath and along the Caspian Sea ignited a scramble to lay pipelines across the southern Caucasus to bring those resources to the European market. Today the pipelines are operational, and the BTK is being built to grease a trade boom, transporting European goods east and petroleum products west across the southern Caucasus. Once completed, by 2012, the railway will begin at the Azerbaijani capital of Baku and travel through the Georgian city of Tbilisi, before carrying on to Kars, a Turkish post town on the southwestern lip of the Caucasus region.

The participation of Turkey signals a new alignment in a region often viewed as Russia’s backyard. Like the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan (BTC) pipeline—which opened in 2005 to bring oil from Baku to the Turkish port city of Ceyhan, on the Mediterranean—the BTK railway is the result of an alliance between Turkey, Georgia, and Azerbaijan; neighboring Armenia was deliberately left out of the party. And like the
pipeline, this east-west corridor will provide an alternative to going through Russia to the north or Iran to the south. It is a more than $600-million project of economic development, social engineering, or shrewd geopolitics, depending on your point of view, which in the Southern Caucasus shifts as quickly as the snow that obscures the mountain road.

For Ustael, chief of the tunnel operation on the Turkish-Georgian border, this railroad has become something else: a road to loneliness. in Trabzon, a temperate, Turkish Black Sea coastal town, his girlfriend’s face clouded when she imagined two years in the Caucasus Mountains, for that is how long it will take to build this tunnel. She just couldn’t do it. Ustael exhales, stirs the sugar through his tea. A man must make choices. Smoke hangs over the canteen. Workers chalky with tunnel dust stare distantly at the men in sun and shorts chasing a ball across the TV. Through the windows, another blizzard is mixing up the air. In World War I, 90,000 Ottoman soldiers waited in these mountains for the Russians to come. “Some froze to death without firing a shot,” Ustael says. He grabs a hard hat
and walks to the door. Tunnel work progresses in round-the-clock, three-hour shifts.

Work is likewise endless for the Turkish state, toiling to gain acceptance into the European Union (EU). Turks look indignantly at countries like Bulgaria and Romania that have already been accepted, places with much less developed economies and greater corruption. Turkey, the Cold War NATO ally, meanwhile, waits for an invitation that may never come. This “raises questions of fairness, at least,” says N. Ahmet Kuşhanoğlu, the Turkish deputy director of transport in charge of railways. “Turkey’s face is turned westward since two centuries.” Now Turkey is looking east in order to make itself indispensable to the West. Once the Marmaray rail tunnel opens in 2013 beneath the Bosporus in Istanbul, trains from Baku will reach all the way to London. “It is easy to see that this railway shall serve Europe also,” says Kuşhanoğlu.

Looking directly east, Turkey has lately sought to repair relations with its neighbor Armenia. In 1993 it had closed the border and shut down its rail service with Armenia as a sign of loyalty to Azerbaijan—a close Turkish ally with the same Muslim religion—after Christian Armenia helped ethnic Armenians in the Azerbaijan enclave of Nagor no-Karabakh wage a bloody war to secede. Last year in Zurich, under the watchful eyes of the EU and the U.S., Turkey signed an agreement with Armenia to mend diplomatic ties and reopen the border. But the Armenians then demanded that Turkey acknowledge that the 1915 massacres of its people constituted genocide, which Turkey is loath to do. For their part, the Turks began insisting on some resolution to the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict. Since neither is likely to happen anytime soon, the deal—and the opportunity for a rapprochement—collapsed last spring.

A bridge between Turkey and Armenia actually does exist, though most of it has crumbled into the Akhuryan River, which cuts deeply through a gorge that serves as the border between the two countries. The Silk Road city of Ani stands abandoned along this part of the border, its mosques and churches intact after a thousand years, its bazaars echoing in a winter wind. Beyond an electric fence and across the river, Armenian guard towers keep watch over the ruins.

Some 50 miles north of Ani, Ustael’s workers continue to dig 13 feet every day. Once completed, the tunnel will run for a mile and a half, 1,300 feet beneath the surface. It will be one of the longest in Turkey, Ustael says, and everyone will know his name. “Maybe then I can go work someplace warm.”

Ustael spends his downtime in Kars, 42 miles south of the border, the two-hour drive made eventful by the slippery fact of coming down the mountain. Along icy roads, the car twists through slopeside villages, past minarets and the mud roofs of stone huts overgrown with grass. A vast westward migration of people in search of jobs has robbed these villages of all but the least mobile, along with foxes that forage at the roadside, headlights igniting their eyes.

In Kars, the site of great 19th-century battles between Ottoman Turks and Russians, the hilltop citadel remains. The women stay indoors. The men walk arm in arm down the streets, savoring a drink of raki in the saloons that exist in this region of lax Islam. Raki tastes like the anise-flavored pastis of France, but there is little European refinement in Kars. That could change when the BTK links this city to Baku, its wealthy antipode on the Caspian, injecting new revenue into the local economy. The governor of Kars, Ahmet Kara, talks of how the railroad will transform Kars into a city “important in the world’s eyes.” Behind Kara hangs a photo of Mustafa Kemal, or Atatürk, the first president of Turkey, who turned the Ottoman Empire into a modern, secular state, encouraging Western ways and outlawing the fez.

With a knit cap on his head and bundled in a thick anorak, Ustael watches a drill needle the far wall of the tunnel, making small stones out of solid rock. A front loader strains up the tunnel’s incline, its bucket carrying a ton of freshly dislodged stone. It emerges from the tunnel and rolls into the blizzard, driving past Ustael toward a waiting truck. He says he wants to contribute to modern Turkey, to help bridge East and West. When the dynamite arrives, he laughs when he sees that it was made in China; it has already crossed this border once before.

There will be no explosions today. The mountain rock is soft enough for the drill to do its work without dynamite. Ustael looks down the tunnel toward Georgia. “We haven’t found gold yet,” he jokes. The stones tumble from the front loader into the truck, the crash almost drowning out his voice. “The Silk Road will live again.”

THEY’RE NOT HIRING in Akhalkalaki. There’s no gold here either. Not much glitters in the hardscrabble hills near this town in the Georgian south. This is where the old railroad from Georgia’s capital city of Tbilisi terminates. Beginning here, 60 miles of new rail will be laid, running south through Ustael’s mountain tunnel to Kars. Another 75 miles of existing rail will be rehabilitated. Work begins with the thaw.

Akhalkalaki is in Georgia, but most of its residents are ethnically Armenian—and desperately poor. The factories in Akhalkalaki were dismantled after the Soviet collapse, their components sold off in the new capitalism. Since the agricultural collectives shut down, once fertile lands have overgrown with weeds. Bandits clipped the aluminum wires and copper connectors that helped propel rail cars, selling the metal in Iran and Turkey. The economy took a big hit in 2007, when the Russians closed a military base here.

There is no work, so the men go to Moscow, where they step into the orange jumpsuits of the street cleaner, sending money back home. Many who have stayed feel neglected by the central Georgian government. Protests have been frequent. Very few people in Akhalkalaki and the surrounding Javakheti region speak Georgian, and in the schools there is no one to teach the language. During the 1990s the prospect loomed that Javakheti could be Georgia’s next breakaway region, like Abkhazia and South Ossetia in the north, which declared independence in the early 1990s but remain largely unrecognized.

Now Georgia is counting on the BTK railway to boost economic activity and help integrate this turbulent Armenian enclave into the rest of the country. When plans to open the railway were first announced, Georgia’s Armenians opposed its construction, citing the unfairness of its bypassing Armenia. But today in Akhalkalaki there is a small hope that the new railroad will alleviate this long postcommunist endurance.

Grigoriy Lazarev stands guard at Akhalkalaki’s outdoor bazaar. He takes potatoes on consignment from a local farmer, barters them for mandarins, then sells the fruit at the bazaar for 40 tetri a kilo, or about ten cents a pound. He would like to work on the railroad. “I am a mechanic, a welder, a master engineer,” he says. “Selling mandarins is not good for my psyche.” He stands before a pile of fruit in the trunk of his green Moskvitch, looking left and right at the many others who also sell mandarins here. In Soviet days this street had order, Lazarev says. “But everybody became sellers.” He is 58 years old, has only enough teeth to chew soft food like citrus fruit. He has two young children, and a few tetri jangle in his coat pocket.

When Lazarev drove two hours to the town of Kartsakhi to apply for work on the railroad, the contractors turned him away. He visited the camp forming on the outskirts of Akhalkalaki, where Turkish and Azerbaijani skilled workers will soon congregate. You cannot operate a Komatsu excavator, they said. You do not speak Georgian.

The ministers in Tbilisi say Akhalkalaki will be the site of a critical station on the Iron Silk Road, where trains will switch between European and Russian rail gauges. For people in Akhalkalaki, it is difficult to imagine how they will benefit. Like Lazarev, many hundreds of locals have petitioned for railroad work, yet such work remains elusive.

Conditions have improved since Mikheil Saakashvili assumed the Georgian presidency—people in Akhalkalaki will admit that. Under Eduard Shevardnadze, they had electricity only five hours a day—while they slept—long enough for bread to bake in time for morning. It was subsistence living: no TV, poor roads, little interaction with Tbilisi, and a rationing of the wood that fueled the house stoves that kept people from freezing in their beds. Now there are a few good roads and electricity all day, if not running water in every home. It is often cold in Akhalkalaki, even indoors, and the abiding stress makes the people wander these streets weakly, nothing like the powerful Narts, the fabled giants that inhabited the Caucasus before humans arrived and that inspired them to carve mountains into kingdoms and then into nations.

Just 19 years old as a nation, Georgia is struggling through its adolescence. Seven years ago the Rose Revolution engendered all manner of youthful aspiration. Membership in NATO. Inclusion in the European Union. Bringing the breakaway regions of Abkhazia and South Ossetia under firm federal control. Reworking relations with Russia. Saakashvili wanted it all, wanted it quickly. If not for Georgia’s northerly neighbor, he might have gotten it all.

The Russians have long felt a sense of entitlement toward Georgia, for they were the ones who folded Georgian nobility into their ranks during the 19th century, forming many principalities into a single governable entity, a Christian fortification in a region otherwise allied with the Ottomans or Persians. Russia also feels a deep emotional attachment to a land romanticized by Aleksandr Pushkin and Leo Tolstoy. But benevolence is a matter of perspective. Soon after Alexander I attempted to adopt Georgia in 1801, the widowed Georgian queen greeted the tsar’s envoy with a dagger in the side, killing him.

More recently tensions spiked as Russia, fed up with Georgia’s Western desires, closed the border between the two countries in 2006. Russia worries that if Georgia gains entry to the Western institutions it so esteems, this could inspire similar freethinking in the northern Caucasus—including the Russian regions of Dagestan, Ingushetiya, and Chechnya—which continues to shudder with explosions and assassinations that threaten Moscow’s territorial hold.

The long-running tensions between Russia and Georgia escalated into war in the summer of 2008. Russia moved to assert control over the breakaway regions. Its troops routed Georgia’s army, and Russia recognized South Ossetia and Abkhazia as new nations. It was a reminder that a small skirmish in these borderlands could spark a global showdown. Yet the EU and the U.S. were notably indisposed to intervene. Since the war, Georgia’s pro-Western policy has stalled. Though the border between the two countries reopened last March, tensions are still high.

Like Prometheus, whom the gods chained to the Caucasus as punishment for giving humanity the power of fire, Georgia cannot escape its coordinates. Yet its position on the map may be its strongest asset. For NATO, the southern Caucasus is now viewed as a needed route for supplying the war in Afghanistan, ever since terrorist attacks in November 2008 began threatening the supply route through Pakistan’s Khyber Pass. For Turkey, an important trade partner, Georgia is the gate to Central Asia. Armenia and Russia cannot trade with each other without going through Georgia. And Azerbaijani oil cannot reach the Mediterranean without passing through Georgia, earning the country $65 million in annual transit fees.

Georgia is a small player at the table, left to stack small chips. Indeed, the most significant impact of the Iron Silk Road on Georgia may prove to be the dismay it will create in the Black Sea ports of Batumi and Poti, the country’s most dynamic economic centers, once freight can be diverted to Turkey instead. Still, Georgia can hope that if there’s another conflict with Russia, European countries will cry foul if their trade through the southern Caucasus is disrupted.

In Akhalkalaki, Grigoriy Lazarev packs up his scale and its rusted one- and five-kilogram weights, and slowly walks away from the bazaar. He passes a funeral procession running along the main thoroughfare, a photo of the deceased man affixed to the windshield of a sedan. Arms linked, men walk up the mud of the street, women up the mud of the sidewalk.

Lazarev’s small house was built in 1850, in the time of hard-willed Nicholas I. The roof leans severely, threatening to cave. Lazarev cannot pay to fix it. He and his family live off his mother’s 90-lari (about $50) monthly pension. Still, when they have guests, Lazarev’s wife, Liza, busies herself setting the table with what food they possess. A daughter, Gohar, sits at an old upright piano and practices her lessons, filling the small room with music and missteps. Lazarev grieves over his bad luck with the railroad and more generally, but not so loudly that his family will hear.

He rummages through a wardrobe and returns to the table. In his hand is a felt-backed shoulder board, its green fabric faded nearly to gray. It is the emblem of a lieutenant, an engineer with the Russian border service. “My grandfather served under Nicholas II,” Lazarev says. “He built roads to Akhaltsikhe and Batumi.” Lazarev smiles, a rare incident, and then the room goes dark. The electricity has gone out in Akhalkalaki, and the Lazarevs fall silent, but for the sound of the old piano.

IT IS ELECTRICITY that initially impresses in Baku, its roadway lamps gilding the new asphalt from airport to city. Baku no longer supplies half the world’s petroleum needs, as it did at the opening of the 20th century. But it feels like it does. In the past three years all manner of luxe stores have opened along the boulevard Neftchiler Prospekti, their windows reflecting the Caspian waters. Plans are progressing on a $4.5-billion, carbon-neutral resort on Zira Island, in the bay beyond the city. A Four Seasons Hotel will open shortly to house the guests drawn to Baku by the wealth of the state oil monopoly, located across the street. In the five years since the BTC pipeline began pumping oil out of the Caspian and money into Baku, Azerbaijan’s economy has grown by more than 100 percent.

In the years after the former Turkish president, Süleyman Demirel, broached the topic of the Iron Silk Road in a Tbilisi speech in the late 1990s, the parties involved attempted to secure international funding for its construction. But the Armenian diaspora blocked all financing efforts, arguing convincingly that the routing of the railroad, like that of the oil pipeline before it, was a punitive gesture linked to Nagorno-Karabakh. Washington, the EU, and the World Bank stayed away. When the oil spigot turned on in 2005, briefly making Azerbaijan the world’s fastest growing economy, the hesitance of international financiers no longer mattered. Azerbaijan can now afford its own portion of the railroad, upgrading 313 miles of outdated lines to the Georgian border. It is also loaning Georgia a few hundred million dollars for its section on neighborly terms—25 years at one percent annually. Magnanimity is a pleasure of abundance.

No train passed through Musa Panahov’s hometown in the Azerbaijani west, so he went out looking for one. He graduated from the Moscow Transportation Institute during the time of Leonid Brezhnev, then joined the Soviet railroad fraternity. The Soviet Union administered the world’s largest, by volume, rail system; all strategic goods were transported by train. This centrally commanded network was a key part of the national security infrastructure, protected and privileged. Train employees had their own separate hospitals, their own schools, even their own militia. “We had everything except a foreign ministry,” says Panahov, now Azerbaijan’s deputy minister of transport.

Railroads are less important in Azerbaijan today. Oil and gas predominate, according to the plan of the late Heydar Aliyev, the country’s third president and primary citizen, who by force of will forged Azerbaijan into what it is today: the relatively secure, relatively independent economic dictator of the region. Aliyev possessed the foresight to invite foreign firms to cooperate in Caspian development, and he understood the importance of the Iron Silk Road. Panahov is the man laying another plank in Aliyev’s plan for Azerbaijanis’ continued independence.

Panahov, 51, unrolls a map of the southern Caucasus across a table in his office and slowly runs his fingers from east to west, from sea to sea. At this table he negotiated with transport ministers from Georgia and Turkey in discussions that lasted until early in the morning. Cherubic but with graying hair, he speaks in a soft voice as he delineates the numbers. Total length of the Iron Silk Road: 500 miles. Total annual cargo capacity: 25 million tons. He speaks of the Azerbaijanis who fled to Turkey to escape communism. “It gives me a sense of happiness to connect brothers again,” he says.

Azerbaijan became a Muslim parliamentary republic in 1918 and enjoyed that status for a couple of years. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, however, little about Azerbaijan is visibly Muslim or parliamentarian. It is difficult to locate a minaret or an honest vote in Baku, less so a Bentley. Prosperity and social equality need not be strangers, but when a country has oil, it is tempting to focus on the former at the expense of the latter. More tempting still when the world needs what it has to give. The BTC is the only pipeline that delivers non-Russian, non-OPEC, non-Arabic oil to Mediterranean tankers. With the global oil supply diminishing, Azerbaijani influence has only risen.

Social justice is not a topic of public debate in Azerbaijan. More important to those in power is the fact that this small nation has managed to survive—and now thrive—in a difficult neighborhood. As one official said, “The optimists live in Georgia, the people who are complaining all the time live in Armenia, but the realists live in Azerbaijan.”

Or rather in Baku. A short ride on the existing rail leading northwest from the capital reveals not political realists but reality itself, the hovels that house those who have not felt the benefits of Baku’s oil boom. A quarter of Azerbaijanis live below the poverty line.

These train cars retain the cracked gloss of Soviet adornment, frills and curtains that are rough to the touch, landscape paintings that hang in the spaces between the windows. A sorority of railway workers in starched uniforms tends to the train as it rolls through a world cleanly separated from Bakuvian luxury. One woman shovels coal into a furnace that heats the car’s interior.

Musa Panahov knows these trains, knows they do not rival their German, Japanese, or American counterparts. He is a railway man in an oil country. “But oil and gas will end someday,” he says, smiling. “The railroad will live always.”

Across the water hangs the algal city, Venice in full. With this crowd, it takes little effort to imagine the oligarchy that ruled here long ago, before the tourist offensive. There’s a lot to be said for being born at the right time and place, when forces of society and ancestry collude, conferring special dominion. The man born on this day 45 years ago can attest to the aphorism, for he has exploited upheaval and opportunity to join the great oligarchy of our modern time—Russia’s. But he is not so like the rest of that bent bunch, and that makes his story particularly worth the telling.

Roustam Tariko alights from the final water taxi wearing a knee-length burgundy coat of many buttons. Surrounded on all sides by very tall models with very low dйcolletages, Tariko descends to his guests with a smile that acknowledges everyone but gives away nothing. He appears politely amused on his birthday, and the crowd cleaves to allow him passage, several folks reflexively curtsying. There may even be heard the patter of gloved palms.

The guests make their way through the palace, arriving in a shrub garden. Red guards in Ottoman headdress ring the perimeter, and a slew of entertainers mix with the guests. There is a giggling chambermaid, running from a flirt. A comic in a fright mask gibbers in bombastic Italian. A powder-faced Casanova sniffs the rose cupped in his hand, whispering come-ons to the passing females. Muscled African bodyguards feather-fan a crowned, golden manlion. The crowd promenades into a vaulted chamber with a pirate’s buffet, where Caspian caviar piles high like ordnance.

All this for Tariko, that rarest among his nation’s rarefied breed: the totally self-made mogul. In the aftermath of the Soviet Union’s disintegration, new power coalesced, based on the compulsory skills of thievery and thuggery. But Tariko has built an empire through founding rather than pilfering. He is the king of Russian vodka, the king of Russian consumer credit, a standard-bearer of Russian luxury, his fortune ballooning in the last three years, now totaling between $3.5 and $7 billion, depending on who’s doing the tally.

VODKA AND PERSONAL CREDIT, Tariko believes, are vital lubricants. “Each,” he often says, “allows you to realize your goals faster.” His own aim is to provide Russia’s developing middle class with a cornerstone of middle-class life: the ability to finance your aspirations. As he has honed his persona, so Tariko hopes Russia too will mature, evolve. The very name of Tariko’s company, Russian Standard, pegs the level of his objective, nothing less than the re-branding of a country. And if Russia is the mark on which he trades, then Tariko may well be Russia’s best new homegrown brand.

He has created and now stands atop the consumer-lending market in Russia and runs one of the nation’s largest privately owned retail banks. He is the exclusive issuer of American Express cards in Russia. He owns the Miss Russia pageant. He recently paid $3 million for the domain name vodka.com and hopes to begin dislodging entrenched foreign brands on U.S. shores. He helped popularize Italy’s Sardinia as an international jet-set destination. He would like to buy a couple of Formula One cars, in order to promote brand and country. Tariko calls himself “an aggressive patriot,” believing that his company represents a new image for Russia in the world, very distant from the rough stuff that persists in plaguing Russian business and political life.

But is anything ever so clean and clear? Under cockeyed buccaneer hats, a few of Tariko’s costumed guests wipe the black fish-egg smear from the corners of their mouths, gliding past belly dancers in motion, trumpeters blowing a salute, and a ballerina with a candelabra affixed to her crown. They enter the disco portion of the evening. Miss Russia and a former Miss Italy pass each other on the dance floor with the sharp eyes of competitive disdain. But the look that dominates tonight through the many masks is that special kind of glazed yearning that comes in the presence of a lot of money.

In a re-creation of Moscow’s biggest nightclub, lasers pinging off the black walls, Tariko’s $2.7 million birthday party rolls on into the night.

ALL HANGOVERS PUT AWAY, Tariko sits down to lunch a few days later at Venice’s Hotel Cipriani. Tariko, a descendant of Genghis Khan’s golden horde, takes his first name from the hero of Shahnameh, the great Persian epic. He wears his black hair long and burnished. Now and again, he waggles his head and this dark curtain falls into place, framing his most prominent feature, his cheeks, which are as plump as the two halves of a catcher’s mitt. Preparing for the salad before him, he attempts to open a bottle of vinegar and snaps the cork clean off. “Am I too powerful?” he asks, with a laugh.

Could be. Russian Standard Vodka purportedly commands 60 percent of the domestic premium-vodka market; Russian Standard Bank has a 55 percent market share in credit cards and 44 percent in personal loans. In fact, before Tariko came along, there was no Russian premium vodka, nor was there any real consumer credit in a country of roughly 150 million people.

Nor was there demand for either. Those who made money in the new Russia made almost all of the money there was to be made. They didn’t need credit, certainly, and their taste in drink ran to names like Petrus or Armagnac, which they enjoyed dropping into conversation as a cover for class. Through the 90s and into this decade, making money in Russia has been strictly an insider’s game—as long as you had the right friends, it was little more than intimidating, collecting, and spending. The administrators of the oil and gas and metals empires established their own banks, many of which laundered and concealed, or otherwise capitalized on the shambles of the state. State employees deposited government money into these banks and then conveniently forgot to ask for interest, providing an easy margin for a house in France, a mistress or two, and a new S Class every year.

But when Vladimir Putin took over and began wresting ironclad control from the oligarchy, the money began to spread a little more widely, and a scant middle class began to take shape. This allowed Tariko’s talent—the ability to anticipate demand—to gather sunlight.

Tariko himself has never been middle class, having shifted almost directly from insolvency to prosperity. He grew up in the town of Menzelinsk in the predominantly Muslim republic of Tatarstan, east of Moscow, spending his weekends on a collective farm where his uncle worked as farm boss. He never knew his father. He came to Moscow in 1979 as a 17-year-old with holes in his shoes. He studied economics and swept the streets for 70 rubles a month.

“I got a job as a waiter,” he says, flourishing a napkin across his lap. “One of our regular customers would put all this money into a carafe, and set it on fire. I was watching this burning and thinking about my mother, my family, my friends.”

Tariko pushes back from the table. He strides across the dining room, past one of his butlers, Diego Travaglio, the son of an aristocratic Milanese family, and shakes hands with his Italy-based architect, Willem Brouwer, who is of Dutch descent and once taught architecture at Cornell. The two examine blueprints of Tariko’s home in Sardinia, which Tariko bought from the wife of Italy’s prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi.

Tariko left his restaurant job as Mikhail Gorbachev’s reforms were beginning to take effect, hoping to provide concierge services to visiting foreigners. He wound up at the offices of an Italian company that provided travel services to Italian businessmen. Tariko charmed the people who ran the 3,000-room Rossiya Hotel and, with a healthy commission, he was soon earning up to $10,000 a month. (In 1988 Moscow, a car cost $200; a two-bedroom apartment in the center of town, $3,000.)

Russian society had begun to change so rapidly that you could see it in motion, the bottom flipping to the top. Tariko was sitting at a stoplight one day, in a new Volvo, when an aged Russian make pulled up next to him. His old restaurant boss was at the wheel, much surprised to see Tariko, in his new car, speed away from the intersection.

“I witnessed four times how Roustam changed jobs to completely different areas where he knew nothing,” says Igor Kosarev, a childhood friend who helped build Russian Standard and now serves as its vice president. “And every time, he earned 100 times more money than he was making before.”

Soon Tariko transitioned out of the tourism business, eventually landing a contract to import and distribute Martini. In 1991, the vermouth giant’s various offerings were available only to the elite, in hard-currency stores. Tariko and Kosarev began distributing the brand to supermarkets, making it one of the first imported liquors sold for rubles to a mass market. At the time, the state was selling four shipping containers of Martini annually. By 1995, Tariko, selling a thousand containers a year, had become the largest Martini importer in the world.

“It was not alcohol that we sold,” Kosarev says. “We sold a Western style of life. The country was gray, and we sold beautiful pictures.”

Tariko picked up distribution deals with Johnnie Walker, Veuve Clicquot, and Baileys, coming to control 75 percent of Russia’s Western-alcohol market. When he became a millionaire, Tariko merely shrugged, he says, “because I realized that this machine would give me more.”

In the arena of armed speculators that was 1990s Russia, Tariko and Kosarev managed to avoid most real conflict, passing themselves off as representatives of overseas companies. Still, they had to look out for themselves. While Tariko worked his foreign contacts, Kosarev says he massaged government officials. And when thugs threatened the head of Tariko’s St. Petersburg operation, all the staffer had to do was tell the crooks to phone a contact in the local precinct. The men never came around again. “What I learned from this,” Kosarev says, “is that big criminals know big policemen.”

Tariko returns to his lunch, and Diego hands him a printout from Il Gazzettino, a Venice newspaper. In recounting the weekend’s party, an article states that “Mr. Vodka” regularly travels on his private plane with a retinue of lawyers, secretaries, a majordomo, and “various factotums,” including an official taster. Considering Russia’s fondness for toxins, this might not be such a bad idea. Tariko lifts a forkful of salmon tartare and chews over the concept. “I am trying to figure out how to structure his bonus,” he says with a laugh. “If he lives, he has not done his job.”  

TARIKO’S AIRPLANE STANDS against the morning gray at Marco Polo Airport. His $50 million Boeing Business Jet, a modified 737, is painted in Russian Standard colors, black and gray, with the company symbol splashed on the tail, a bear entwined with an eagle.

Inside the plane, it’s all caramel: tan carpeting, tan leather swivel chairs, walnut trim. The two flight attendants, one from Surrey, one from Portugal, are quick with the pastries. The Norwegian pilots prepare for Tariko’s entrance, making the final checkups, shining their shoes, lugging the boss’s many bags through the interior. “Ever heard of packing light?” grouses the navigator. Tariko likes to point out that his crew flies more miles than pilots from British Airways. In one three-month period, the aircraft logged more than 100,000 miles, as he monitored liquor-distribution deals among the 60 countries in his company’s orbit.

Tariko set his sights on the vodka business in 1995. As he toured the stores that carried his foreign spirits, he realized that there were hundreds of low-end Russian brands priced for the masses. All of the high-end vodka came from someplace else. “I called it the Russian paradox,” he says. “How does Russia not have a good vodka?” He hired McKinsey, the consulting firm. He chose the name Russian Standard, which was the official designation for certified vodka under the czar. And he realized the potential beyond moving a few cases of booze. “It was an idea for vodka,” he says, “but I understood that I had something bigger: an icon of the Russian nation.”

In its first year, Russian Standard sold 26,000 cases, and in the process created a new domestic market, flooded with imitators. Now there are four Russian Standards, designated as Original, Platinum, Imperia, and Gold, selling two million cases a year worldwide. In 2005, Tariko launched Imperia in America, with a million-dollar party at New York’s Liberty Island. He is currently gunning for discerning palates accustomed to Grey Goose, Belvedere, Absolut, Ketel One, and Stolichnaya; and to that end, the company has spent $25 million this year in the U.S. on marketing alone.

Competitors are rightfully wary and sometimes downright snide. It is said that for some global-brand-liquor execs and international bankers, the practice of consorting with shady distributors and shifty intermediaries is the price of plying one’s trade. For Russian moguls, this is an institutionalized reality, as it is for anyone who operates within the country’s system of clan control and laissez-faire state corruption, a network in which cronies control vital resources, and well-protected thugs get away with eliminating opponents.

BUT TODAY, THERE IS not the slightest hint of shady amid the luxe surroundings. Tariko bounds up the stairs in a jumpsuit of black crushed velvet and takes a seat on one of the airplane’s deep couches. Soon, rain pellets are streaking across the windows, then vaporizing, as the plane powers through the clouds and toward the sun. The airplane icon on the cabin’s plasma screen drifts over the Dolomites in the direction of Munich.

Russian Standard’s managers, some of whom have joined Tariko for the flight, tend to be longtime Tariko allies or all-star Westerner strategists. Tariko’s I.T. chief, Alexei Skorupsky, the man who sold him his very first computer, in 1992, lounges at the back of the plane, playing Tetris. (He has since left the company.) Russian Standard’s head of P.R., Preston Mendenhall, a Coloradan who worked for NBC for 13 years, rifles through a folder of media requests. Tatiana Polyakova, a prickly Estonian prone to cummerbunds, pearls, and peroxide, has known Tariko since the 80s. She says she’s “responsible for what goes on his body, what’s good for his face, what’s good for his soul,” and she kneels on the carpet now, attempting to lock eyes with the master. Diego, meanwhile, is busy with chores in the back bedroom.

“You know, a Boeing executive was trying to sell me this plane,” Tariko says. “I invited him to Sardinia, and I spent two days on calculations. Then at dinner I realized, there is no cost-effective reason for me to buy this plane. It is only for my comfort. I apologized for wasting [two days of] his time. I bought the plane.” Diego appears briefly, carrying a bundle of what looks like laundry.

When talking about his success, Tariko rarely mentions his wealth, preferring to focus conversation on the interwoven, rising prospects of his company and his country. He can’t resist, however, reminiscing over the 2006 Forbes listing, his first appearance on the roll as a billionaire. “You have clearance in the world as a billionaire,” he says. “But it’s not about me being a rich guy and entertaining myself. It’s about bringing affordable luxury to people.”

Few Russian oligarchs have just such a luxury, the ability to think so broadly. The majority of these men have had to spend much of their time facing inward toward Russia, toeing the line, solidifying their relationships with Kremlin officials who have demonstrated a willingness to selectively prosecute companies into nonexistence.

“From day one, I wanted to be a part of the Western community,” he says. “Not only because of business, but also an issue of lifestyle. I would like to be a world citizen, but from Russia. For me, Russia is too small. I would be pretty bored with what’s going on.”

In the global economy, Tariko is the ideal of the up-from-nowhere global mogul, the Westernized Easterner, one of those who run their corporations on a dream and a Gulfstream (or, in his case, a 737). He’s like many other single-minded renegades, from Abu Dhabi or Tel Aviv, New Delhi or Beijing. He is Roustam, fresh out of Tatarstan, the ultimate void, his sights set on nothing less than the whole wide world.

The plane is descending now, above somber Munich, and Diego is finally at rest, landing in a swivel chair. As the engines downshift below the clouds, a walk to the back bedroom reveals Diego’s labors: a half-dozen shirts crisply pressed and hanging on a rod; several dozen ties spread out on the bed like so many tongues.

“Russian products should be in the kitchens of foreigners,” Tariko later insists, reclining in a Mercedes, riding along the precise German roadway. “But I don’t want to be the Procter and Gamble of Russia–I would rather be the American Express of Russia. The Diageo of Russia. The Louis Vuitton of Russia.” He has noted that Russia’s only true global brand is Kalashnikov.

He is in Munich today for a meeting with an ad agency that is producing a TV commercial for his vodka, launched in Germany in 2006. “The people we are selling to are sophisticated,” Tariko says. “I’m not interested in primitive people. All these German guys are dreaming of going to Russia and clubbing. Russia is very hot among them. It’s dangerous. And everybody wants it.”

The car swings into a suburban business park. Several Germans with mercantile grins are waiting to greet Tariko at the entrance of an office building. “In university, I specialized in the economy and structure of railroads,” Tariko says. “I should have gone to the middle of Russia to build railroads. Can you imagine how Gorbachev[’s reforms] helped me?”

IN 1998, RUSSIA PLUNGED into economic fallout. Precipitated by the Asian financial crisis and plummeting oil prices, inflation shot to 84 percent. Major banks fell. Boris Yeltsin hired and fired prime ministers. Life savings disappeared. The International Monetary Fund and other international lenders approved a $22.6 billion bailout, and to all appearances, Russian officials stole as much as $5 billion of it. In the middle of the crisis, Eberhard von Lohneysen, a senior partner in McKinsey’s Eastern European office, approached Tariko with a single admonition: “Now is the time to start a bank.” The start-up costs during the crisis were significantly lower than they would have been under normal circumstances. But deposits were hard to come by, and Tariko had no intention of competing with the oligarchs’ personal banks. “The most obvious opportunity in retail banking was consumer lending,” says von Lohneysen, who recently served as Russian Standard’s C.E.O.

At the time, the only way to get a loan in Russia was by standing in a long line at the state bank, filling out lengthy paperwork, and waiting for weeks. Tariko and von Lohneysen came up with the idea of instant credit, placing kiosk-style “mini-branches” in stores, offering high-interest loans to people who were short a few rubles when buying a TV or a washing machine. Tariko bought ads on trolleybuses that cruised around Moscow: “Don’t wait another day: credit in 15 minutes.” He later introduced credit cards, acclimating a cash culture to the idea of revolving credit.

By 2004, the bank was valued at $600 million, as it became clear that Russia had completely recovered from the 1998 crunch. A Putin supply-side tax-reform plan had boosted retail spending, and institutions such as Citibank and Raiffeisen raced to gain traction in the consumer-credit market. But Tariko was already in place—and suddenly dominant. “Roustam simply decided to give it a whirl,” says Charles Ryan, an American who is chairman of Deutsche Bank in Russia and a leader within Moscow’s foreign-business community. “He manages to become the one guy who actually understands what the market wants. And he achieves scale very quickly. He becomes the market leader—by a fucking mile.”

In 2005, The Banker magazine ranked Russian Standard the fourth most profitable bank in the world in return on assets. Today it is still one of the most profitable banks in Russia. Even so, it is not immune to financial crises half a world away. As shock waves ripped through the U.S. economy in September, the Financial Times warned that Russian Standard, like many sister institutions, was feeling the pinch and might need to raise tens of millions of dollars in loans to refinance its debt. Responding to such speculation, Dmitry Levin, C.E.O. of the bank, notes that “borrowing has become costlier and more difficult for every bank in the world, but Russian Standard Bank will continue to grow along with the Russian economy.” Political-risk expert Ian Bremmer, president of Eurasia Group, agrees that the country’s “fundamentals are quite strong and will get the Russian banking system through the global slowdown.”

TARIKO, LESS BUREAUCRATICALLY entangled than oligarchs in oil or gas or other natural resources, has been given a wider berth, operating with comparatively moderate official interference. Yet even though he maintains that he has very little contact with the Kremlin, this has changed as his influence has grown. In September, Tariko attended a meeting in the Kremlin with several dozen Russian business leaders and president Dmitry Medvedev, who reassured them about Russia’s market liquidity in the context of the global financial crisis.

Not all of Tariko’s government encounters have been so chummy. As the first real player in Russian consumer credit, Russian Standard made a practice of charging hefty commissions and fees (the interest rate was about 25 percent but with add-ons the rate could total 60 percent). This allowed the bank to recoup its initial investment in infrastructure and to mitigate the greatest risk of establishing the market: the unpredictability of consumer payback. But as time passed and the bank built an extensive credit database, coming to understand its customers better, it gradually relaxed these aggressive credit terms. Still, by July 2007, these fees remained in place. In response to borrower complaints, and under pressure from the Federal Antimonopoly Service and the Russian Consumer Commission, the Russian prosecutor general’s office summoned Tariko for a meeting, during which he was urged to accelerate the process by which the bank was reducing its fees. Within two months, Tariko had eliminated all fees and commissions, the regulatory pressure disappeared, and the government then focused on the rest of the Russian credit carriers in a marketwide sweep.

Consumer protection is a new phenomenon in boom-time Russia. Purchasing power is skyrocketing. Most Russians actually own their homes outright, through post-Soviet privatization, and benefit from a 13 percent flat income-tax rate. The oilprice surge, a strengthening ruble, and an escalating equity market even had some experts predicting that last year’s $1.3 trillion economy would reach $2 trillion before 2010. (This year’s economic downturn in Russia and elsewhere may scale back those estimates.)

But it is hardly a rosy picture for the average Russian, who still ekes out a meagerexistence. Wealth and power are concentrated in very few hands. And Tariko, for his part, thrives off this wealthy, empowered target audience. “It isn’t the tail wagging the dog,” Ryan says. “As time goes on and Roustam becomes one of the richest men in the world, it’s going to be the bank [that does that for him]. He’s going to have the resources to do it.”

TARIKO ANSWERS THE DOOR to his country house, outside Moscow. He wears faded Brioni jeans, alligator-skin loafers, and a hot-pink cashmere sweater with lime trim. His black hair continues its velvety tumble. He moves through the sunlight that pours in from picture windows. The furniture comes off as set decoration; the walls are white and mostly barren. Two years ago Tariko was widely reported to be the mystery bidder for Picasso’s Dora Maar au Chat, purchased at Sotheby’s for $95.2 million. Turned out it wasn’t him. “I’d rather invest in my freedom,” he told The New Yorker at the time, “than in my walls.”

Tariko walks onto the veranda, takes a seat, and curls his fingers around a glass of white wine. His house is located among the dachas off the Rublevka highway, where Russia’s ultra-rich reside, and where many large castles crowd one another. Tariko points a finger at the Tudor home directly opposite.

“You know, one day I was sitting here and I looked at this house and said, ‘Why is it so close?’ I was uncomfortable. So I called up the owner and I said, ‘Maybe you want to sell me your house.’ So now this house is mine.”

A door opens on the second floor of the neighboring home. A dark-haired, thirtysomething beauty steps into the sunshine in a silk robe and exchanges fond greetings. Tatiana Osipova is the mother of Tariko’s four-year-old twin daughters, Eva and Anna. She is not married to Tariko, but this is the default arrangement on Rublevka. Another woman, Aliona Gavrilova, gave birth this year to Tariko’s third child, a boy, named Roustam Junior. Tariko has set up his mother in the third and last house on the property. (Roustam recently moved to a fourth house a couple of miles away.)

Out on the grass, Tariko’s dog, a black retriever mix, is chewing a squeaky toy. Tariko found the dog sniffing around his door a decade ago, and quickly took him in, naming him Dow Jones. He calls him Joe for short, but this dog leads an existence that defies diminutives. A couple of years ago, when Tariko was sunning at his home in Sardinia, he missed old Joe. With a high-priced whistle, he sent his plane to fetch him. “It was a bigger plane than Berlusconi had when he was prime minister,” Tariko says. “So when the plane landed in Sardinia, everybody was wondering, Who is this guy?” The airport staff hurried to assemble and extend an official welcome. The plane’s door swung open, and Dow Jones, the only passenger, galloped down the stairs and raced across the airfield. “They could not catch him,” Tariko laughs. “They had to stop the flights.”

Tariko hands his wineglass to his housekeeper, and heads out to the driveway. Rarely does a Ferrari Spider come off like the family station wagon, but as Tariko’s confidants Kosarev and Mendenhall slip into that car and drive off, a more magnificent option remains. Tariko slides into his Bugatti Veyron 16.4. More spaceship than automobile, with 1,001 horsepower and a top speed of 407 kilometers per hour, it is one of the fastest cars ever built for the road. With the pedal down, it will burn through a full tank of gas in about 12 minutes. Tariko paid $1.4 million for it, and says he paid an extra $200,000 to jump the waiting list and become the first Russian to buy such a plaything.

Tariko eases the car through his front gate, 16 cylinders rumbling. A team of stern-faced security men guard the perimeter, then pile into a couple of chase cars, trailing Tariko onto a quiet country road. Tariko hires his protectors from the Interior Ministry’s special-operations division. He’s tried some former Kremlin bodyguards. “But,” he says, sizing up the one other car on the road, which lies at some distance, “they’re interested in their careers. Not so much fighting.”

At that, he punches the gas. This is the kind of power that gets you in the neck, then in the gut, then in every other part of you, all in an instant. Vision has gone blurry, and Tariko instantly overtakes the vehicle ahead. With the vague shape of a second car approaching in the opposite direction, Tariko throws the Bugatti into a higher gear, steering left, then quickly right. The torque of the Bugatti allows him to take a vicious angle, bending this rocket to his purpose. As he makes his pass, the image through the window is like a movie with many frames plucked out, the world clicking past in shifts. As it happens, the Russian word for rich is bagati. Shooting down this country lane, seat-belt-free, feels like it would be an O.K. way to go.

Tariko pulls up to Prichal, a restaurant along the Moscow River. The security men, with their earpieces, kindly open the Bugatti hatches. Tariko pours into Prichal, making his way to a prime table where several guests are already waiting. Even here, at one of Moscow’s most affluent spots, a thrill of recognition ripples through the room.

Among his companions is Kamal Boushi, a British national and veteran of American Express and MasterCard, who is the executive director of the bank. He has come here for an afternoon meeting with Tariko, although that will have to wait until the boss lands upon the proper mood. Tariko is at rest today.

He is never fully switched off. As one of his guests runs at the mouth, Tariko, listening intently, displays his taste for parsing any speech or proposal to its essentials. When the man has quit talking, Tariko says, “O.K., in one sentence, tell me what you want to say.” But he does not want to float a feeling of unwelcome. “If you sit at my table,” he says solemnly, “it means I trust you.”

Trust for Tariko is just the first circle, one of many prerequisites for winning and then holding his attention. Friendship has no practical necessity; acquaintances come and go, but dreams, for Tariko, possess philosophical resonance. “Trust is not the most important thing; aspiration is,” he says. “The Brooklyn Bridge. The Taj Mahal. They were built not by need or rational planning, but by aspiration.”

Even in Tariko’s realm, aspiration goes only so far. “You see this girl over here?” he says quietly, pointing out an attractive blonde who has been eyeing him from across the room. “For two years she has known that I like her. Yet she says no.” Tariko then gestures to a bald man at the woman’s table. “You see the guy sitting across from her? He is very proud of this.”

OSIPOVA ARRIVES AT PRICHAL with Eva and Anna, who proceed to climb all over their father. (Tariko’s custom-made, 185-foot yacht, launched this summer in the Mediterranean, is called the AnnaEva.) Boushi looks on patiently, although his chances of leaving Prichal at a reasonable hour have just vanished.

A babysitter leads Tariko’s daughters down to the river, where they toss breadcrumbs at the fish. Tariko now turns to Boushi. But when the twins return, Tariko breaks off the conversation. “I’m a scary wolf,” he yells, tickling his daughters into laughter that deflates Boushi back into his seat.

To work for Tariko is to attend. He is not fond of offices, preferring to do business on his plane, in his cars, in his homes—his work and his play a single continuum. His managers often fly to wherever he may be in the world, returning to Moscow after cornering the boss for a brief discussion. At the home he rents on Star Island, off Miami, Tariko conducts extended meetings in a giant hot tub that his staff calls “the boardroom.”

The demands of inhabiting Roustam World can wear on those accustomed to a more orthodox existence. “It’s not enough to be professional and friendly,” says one former Russian Standard director. “He wants you at his side at all times. You must share his private values. Not only doing it, but enjoying it.”

Russian Standard, some insiders say, endures heavy turnover compared to the Western companies Tariko admires, which may partially hang on the boss’s distaste for delegating. He oversees the smallest details of his company, such as the design minutiae of his vodka cases, or the color of the dresses worn by cocktail waitresses at Russian Standard parties. He makes the final decisions on virtually all aspects. Board meetings, insiders say, can resemble genuflection sessions. “He is the king, and everyone else is enjoying the shine they get from the king,” says the former director. “That goes against people who are professionally driven.”

The most driven of all is Tariko himself, and he places great personal value on an individual’s ability to add value to his empire. Few others rate. He has few “friends beyond the corporate world,” says an ex-manager of the firm. “And the corporate world is not about friendship. It’s about business.”

Criticism is easy, achievement is hard, and courting the king is tricky business. Several of Tariko’s employees call him Rusty when he is out of earshot. Hanging a nickname on the boss remains the closest they can come to the inner character of the man, which remains inscrutable, if not downright blank. “There is no there there,” says one employee. Adds an ex-high-level company official, “What do you stand for, other than making money, consumers, making people consume? I’ve worked in Western companies, and they’re not like that. You work with people. They’re not dehumanized. Roustam is–I’ve been to many Russian Standard events, and I’ve noticed that they’re very soulless. Maybe the soullessness is not unintended.”

The fact of the matter is that Tariko projects great charm, intoxicating charm, which can be exasperating for those who glimpse in this public largesse the prospect of friendship.

“When he first takes you in, he wants to have you around him all the time,” says the former director. “But how many new things can you say? This period lasts one to three months. And then he starts to get bored, and he begins to turn away. It’s like a projector. This big light is turning away from you, and you are left in the dark, wilting like a flower. This has shattered some people.”

IT IS APRIL 2007. Shopworn factories—Gillette, Coca-Cola, Wrigley—line the road connecting Pulkovo Airport with the golden palaces of central St. Petersburg. These American stalwarts, though quite successful here, make for a tumbledown scene compared to the next factory in line. The new Russian Standard distillery is all gleaming glass, the bear-and-eagle logo catching the sunlight as it revolves on the roof. Tariko has come to St. Petersburg today to show his new pal how he makes his vodka. Martha Stewart and Tariko share a U.S. press agency and, more notably, a romance with the spending habits of the middle class.

Stewart is taking an abbreviated tour of Russia. Her then boyfriend, one-time Microsoft developer Charles Simonyi, has global designs not unlike Tariko’s, Stewart’s, and everyone else’s in their tight stratospheric orbit. Simonyi, in fact, is about to become the newest space tourist, firing off to the International Space Station from mission control in Kazakhstan. (He paid $25 million for the privilege of spending two weeks more than 200 miles above the planet.) Stewart is taking advantage of her visit to shoot several segments for her TV show, about Russian culture, food, and drink. Tariko stands patiently in the entryway to his distillery, waiting for Stewart’s car to arrive. “I have great respect for what she has accomplished,” he says. “America is no joke.”

Tariko and Stewart met the previous January over early-evening drinks at the Four Seasons restaurant, in Manhattan. They quickly found common ground, discussing vodka, Russia, outer space. In the middle of their talk, Sir Martin Sorrell, C.E.O. of marketing giant WPP, stopped by the table to say hello to Stewart. It just so happened that Tariko was meeting with WPP execs later in the day. Everyone enjoyed a pleasant laugh, that feeling of getting along at the top of the world, being in the right altitude with the right people. After the meeting, Stewart left a message on her press manager’s voice mail: “Loooove the entrepreneur.”

Tariko, for a while, was hoping for that Manhattan feeling. In 2006, he looked into buying the former ballroom atop the Pierre Hotel, a 16-room triplex penthouse that lists for a New York–record $70 million. After opening negotiations, he commissioned builders to evaluate renovation plans. Ultimately, he bristled against the hotel’s restrictions on renovating the property, and he dropped out. For now, he’s ditched the notion of a place in New York.

“He’s an appealing character,” Stewart says. “And he’s becoming more well-known faster than you would think. He’s a billionaire flying around in a 737.”

Stewart breezes in through the revolving door of the Russian Standard distillery. Tariko introduces her to several of his generals, and when she gets to Kosarev, she says, in her cheerful way, “Hi, Igor. Another Igor.”

Soon, her cameras are rolling. “I can’t believe I’m here in St. Petersburg with my new friend, Roustam Tariko,” she says. Stewart and Tariko then make their way into the distillery, walking between stainless-steel pipes and vats and whitecoated lab technicians who scrutinize beakers of clear spirit.

MR. VODKA IS AFTER purity—Russian purity. When Imperia launched in the U.S., Stolichnaya took issue with Russian Standard’s claim that it was the one and only premium Russian vodka for sale in America. After an exchange of attorneys’ letters, Russian Standard brought suit in the United States District Court for the Southern District of New York against SPI, owner of the Stolichnaya trademark outside Russia, claiming that Stolichnaya was, in fact, not officially Russian.

The international Stolichnaya, as it happens, is distilled in Russia, then exported to Latvia, where it is bottled and distributed worldwide. Russian Standard claims that Stolichnaya undergoes filtering in Latvia and—coupled with the fact that it is bottled and labeled there—questions Stolichnaya’s right to consider itself Russian-made.

Ian Jamieson, president of the Stolichnaya wing of Pernod Ricard, which distributes and markets Stolichnaya globally, refutes the charges. “Stolichnaya, as it is sold outside of Russia, is distilled in Russia. And then it is moved from Russia to Latvia, where it is put into bottles. There is nothing added, nothing taken away, no additions, no subtractions from the product that leaves Russia.

“Stolichnaya is the original, authentic, genuine Russian vodka brand made with genuine, authentic Russian vodka from Russia. Period. Absolutely no doubt about it.

“I can understand that Roustam Tariko, in the same way as Richard Branson and Virgin when he started out—trying to take potshots at everybody—is going to try and get himself some space by linking his brand to Stolichnaya,” Jamieson continues. “To be perfectly honest, we just feel kind of cheesed off, I suppose. He spends millions of dollars throwing great parties for models and celebrities to promote the brand. Fine. Let him carry on doing that. But why try and define his brand by denigrating others?” The case is still pending, and attorneys for Russian Standard estimate that it could go to trial in November 2009.

Stewart, Tariko, and the camera crew have made their way into the filtration room, where the water and the spirits come together to form Russian Standard. Tariko explains the processes as the cameras roll. All the while, Stewart interjects, “Amazing … Incredible … Beautiful.” Standing over a barrel of quartz, which is used to filter Imperia, Tariko explains how the mineral emits static electricity that soothes his vodka. “Wonderful,” says Stewart.

Time comes to taste, and Stewart lifts a tulip-stemmed glass to her lips. “It has a pleasant little tingle,” she says. “Is that O.K.?” Tariko nods an endorsement, and Stewart finishes the shot.

“It’s up to my standards for vodka,” she says.

“Thanks, Martha,” says Tariko.

Eventually, Stewart’s crew has all the video it needs. Tariko himself is watching the clock, for he has to run from this influential woman to another, Valentina Matvienko, governor of St. Petersburg and a close Putin ally.

While the group makes its circuit of the distillery, Tariko’s subordinates have arranged a midday repast for Stewart. She and her delegation return to the entryway only to confront an expansive ice-sculpture bar, 10 feet high, carved in the shape of a fivedomed Russian Orthodox cathedral. Bartenders serve up caviar and blini. A waiter circulates with a serving tray of vodka shots.

Tariko stands off to the side with a manicured smile, pleased with his surprise, his guest, his own escalating stature. And he quietly says to himself, “Pretty cool.”

But when you’re the guys doing the changing, manners still count. Let them down easy. Speak in code, as if a kid were in the room. Refer to the pivotal event as the “Y meeting,” and make sure no one is listening in. Have a quick look around the café, where the dark-goggled figures are staring blanks into the light.

It’s full sun in Cannes, February, with the sea at dignified ripple and the crêpe dealers yawning flecks of spit into the chocolate. Meantime, the boutique streets are floating in color-coded nametags. Gray-haired conventioneers roam in suits the shade of gloom, taking stock of the future all around them. It comes fast, and how odd it can look. A few of the old industrialists wear the hands-free cords of their cell phones plugged into one ear and looped over the other, bringing a bar across the face like a football helmet’s. Sometimes it’s better to exit the game.

You can be old for only so long. And when you’re sucking wind off the squeaky-kneed $300 billion telephone industry, then old may as well be dead. A great change is already on its way.

The figures plotting the shift, in this Cannes café, are slope-shouldered and Scandinavian, one six feet four, the other six-five. Niklas Zennström and Janus Friis have traveled to France as part of their continuing effort to hijack the way the world communicates. In 2000, these Internet radicals created Kazaa, the file-sharing company that helped sabotage the record industry. With their new program, Skype, all they want to do is commandeer all the phones in the world. Equipped with boyish energy and one lazy eye each, the partners divide their days among London, Luxembourg, and subzero Estonia, where Skype rolls out—with very little overhead and without that Silicon Valley chatter. Zennström and Friis believe they have cracked the code that will rewire the planet, wirelessly.

The time for their Y meeting has arrived, and the two delegates march past the red Ferrari, parked flagrantly outside the door, and into the beach-street hotel. The bar here hangs sweaty with the sex reek of money rubbing together, the high clatter of capital bouncing off the four walls. Strangers approach. “I’ll be watching for you,” says one teeth-showing suntan. A man in tasseled loafers proclaims “this whole thing” to be “massive.” The principals slip the clutches, keeping it all ice cold, until at last there is Y, taking the form of three men rather like the others.

A fresh coat of gleam covers the gums as the introductions go round, the bows going semi-deep. But when it comes to the last man, a great panic shakes through the Y group. This person is an outsider, a member of the press. Like a rich girl in the wrong neighborhood, the lead agent from Yahoo clutches the rope around his neck. He shoves his trade-show nametag under cover of his suit coat. Officially, then, this meeting hasn’t taken place, and, officially, no one in this room of touch-tone power needs to worry over that big sleep coming on.

It’s the first night of this once-a-year paddock session for the international mobile-communications cartel, and already it’s clear who wears the pretty dress. Skype is the word, and those who don’t sweat it or want a piece of it appear to constitute a dwindling minority. Simply, Skype is a virtually bug-free computer program that allows you to make telephone calls over the Internet anywhere in the world. Skype is not the only company of its type, nor was it the first. But people who know about these things believe that nearly all phone calls will soon run over the Internet, even cellular calls, and that little, 140-employee Skype will force the world’s telephone giants to accept the new religion or be soundly routed—and probably both. Skype calls transmit as clearly as regular calls, and, you see, they are free.

Voice over Internet Protocol, or VoIP, separates your voice into small pieces, transmits it like an e-mail, then reconstitutes it for the person on the receiving end. All the big companies have already jumped into VoIP, avoiding the F.C.C. tolls and fees that help make regular phone service as expensive as it is. Some say it may be too late to stop Skype from becoming the broadband Ma Bell.

NIGHT IS GETTING on when three Korean girls in negligée cocktail dresses slip through the crowd, carrying electric violins on their way to the aft stage. The yacht yaws to port as the group saws into a number that no one can understand. This isn’t the only song in town. The boat sits on yacht row, made up here for the 3GSM World Congress. Stately seagoing tubs rented to BlackBerry, LG, Philips, Cisco Systems, Siemens, Toshiba, and other firms of varying size and ambition bob in one another’s faint wakes. Flaky hors d’oeuvres issue all down the line.

If you were to scan the group on this yacht (rented by the P.D.A./mobile-phone producer I-Mate, which, like Motorola, has signed a deal to pre-package its models with Skype) and then guess who is responsible for all the noise in Cannes, you would be forgiven for choosing the violinists. Over in the corner, a linguistic tiff continues.

“Danish is bastardized Swedish,” says Zennström, who is from Sweden.

“Yes, well, Swedish is a derivative of Danish,” says Friis, from Denmark.

The two code talkers sit on a creamy leather couch, looking very much like just about anybody, rather than the grenade-tossing principals of a revolution. Yet that is how they have been regarded since 2000—as revolutionaries by some, rubbish-bin raccoons by others—the year all technophiles caught their scent.

That was a different uprising. We all remember Napster, the free music-swapping Internet program that ultimately received a hiding from the record industry. Once Napster fell, Kazaa raised the flag, quickly going on to become the most downloaded software on the brief time line of the Internet: 390 million total downloads, with three billion files traded per month.

Having what amounts to roughly every citizen of America on board, plus another 95 million, would seem to cue the party. But Zennström, 39 (married, no kids), and Friis, 29 (single), couldn’t enjoy the moment. In October 2001, the member companies of the Motion Picture Association of America and the Recording Industry Association of America filed suit against Kazaa, claiming the company was party to the straight theft of copyrighted material. Zennström and Friis played it coy, claiming that they merely wanted to allow consenting adults to share their collections with one another, and that they were already pursuing licensing agreements. To be safe, they haven’t touched down in America since 2002, preferring to limit any argument for jurisdiction. Even so, in the fall of 2003, a guy on a motorbike chased Zennström and his wife through London’s Branham Gardens clutching a subpoena in his hand.

PROGRESSIVELY MORE CAMERA-SHY and out of sight, Zennström and Friis decided to hide away in the former Soviet bloc and work on a new bomb with a team of programmers. They eventually left Kazaa in the hands of an Australian company, selling the site for $1 million. The Australian firm is actually incorporated in Vanuatu, a Pacific-island state situated in the same renegade orbit as Fletcher Christian’s Pitcairn.

With Kazaa their lodestone and millstone, the Scandinavians carry the mantle of what is known as disruptive technology, a polarizing term that can turn hero or villain depending on how you twist it in the light, or how much money you have. Friis and Zennström w ere defendants personally named in the case that led to June’s landmark Supreme Court decision in which the purveyors of file-sharing technology were considered potentially liable for violating the copyright of entertainment companies. (As individuals, the pair are challenging whether a U.S. court has jurisdiction to bring them into a lawsuit related to a business that they sold more than two years ago.) Eventually, the judgment may put to rest questions surrounding the legal viability of sharing music and movies over the Internet. Techies want the freedom to invent new programs without having to bear the burden of protecting copyrights; the record and film companies don’t want to be forced to alter the way they earn income; and Zennström and Friis would prefer they weren’t mentioned in this context at all.

SINCE THE LITIGATION has reached America’s highest court, removing the uncertainty of what the record labels and movie studios may try next, Zennström and Friis have become more relaxed in public. But they still remain rather difficult to contact, preferring to stay under the conventional radar that tracks media-age entrepreneurs.

“Sometimes people think that a disrupter is somebody who is an anarchist,” Zennström says. “Someone who is destroying values just for the sake of destroying, because things should be free, because the anarchists are probably Communists.”

“Well, Sweden is a socialist state,” says Friis. Today he wears something approaching his usual: a paisley cowboy shirt of pink and purple, along with a belt buckle in the shape of a cougar’s head. Zennström, meanwhile, adheres to embassy reception dress and protocol. Together they total something less than Nick and Nora Charles, but you will find that for a couple of pure geeks they are not impossible to be around.

“It’s not a socialist state,” Zennström says. “It’s social democrat. Anyway, the point is that many times disruptive technology is what brings evolution forward. The personal computer was a very disruptive technology. So was the railroad. And the airplane. Mr. Ford was a disrupter. eBay and Amazon are disruptive companies.” Zennström can run for miles on this one, though today in Cannes he is juiced on only proper pulp. There’s no ounce of Elmer Gantry in him.

ZENNSTRÖM GREW UP paper-route obedient, both Mom and Dad teachers. Things may have changed during that exchange program that sent him to the University of Michigan, where he studied business and engineering, and watched a lot of football, between all the beers.

Friis fits the disrupter profile more closely, having left his Copenhagen high school for good at 16. Soon after he made it back from running around Bombay, he answered a want ad for a job at a Swedish long-distance company, which Zennström had placed. Over the next several years, Zennström carried Friis along to different projects in Amsterdam and Luxembourg City. Together they turned their backs on wages in 1999 and started kicking around the concept that became Kazaa, which they named after a restaurant.

THE NAME SKYPE has no antecedent. Originally, the two settled on the name Skyper, but they learned that it belonged to a German paging service. Friis suggested dropping the last letter, arguing that it could then become a verb. As the company has attained greater footing, the name has allowed Zennström to reach for omnipresence. “We want it to become synonymous with Internet telephony,” he says. “‘I’ll Skype you later.’”

After you have spent enough time with Zennström in a variety of settings and mental vapors, it becomes clear that he probably hasn’t raised his voice since he yelled, “Hey, I’m open,” in a high-school basketball game. And, even then, it was for common cause. This doe-eyed pose is not an act. All the same, Zennström consistently talks as though Skype is already snapping towels at the Three W Country Club with AOL, MSN, Google, eBay, Amazon, and Yahoo. There is also his doomsday talk over Verizon, Comcast, and the like, about how the fixed-line assets of these giants are “turning into a liability,” how the massive corporations will be “so stuck” when Internet calling goes standard, which should b e, oh, any day now.

Zennström and Friis want to make Skype “the global telephone company,” and at last look, faith, unlike greed, was still permissible. With 150,000 downloads per day, 140 million total downloads, and 44 million registered users in all the countries in the world—after only two years in business—Skype stands as one of the fastest-growing Internet companies ever, volume-wise, on a quicker pace even than Kazaa.

In the 129 years since Bell first transmitted voice, the biggest innovation in telephones has been the switch from analog to digital in the 1950s. This next step should prove to be more jarring. If phone-calling becomes another free Internet service, like e-mail, then, Zennström predicts, today’s phone giants will become broadband sellers and nothing more, leaving Skype to connect the calls. All well and fine, but where’s the money?

If a call travels from one Skype user to another, it is free. If you call a non-Skype phone number, or if a non–Skype member calls you, you pay a fee starting at two to three cents per minute. The company charges for premium services such as voice mail. Already, these add-ons have generated more than $18 million in sales since being introduced in July 2004, and the company claims that the $20 million it received in two rounds of funding will be all the financing it ever needs. Skype does not advertise, going 100 percent guerrilla, and it has no billing department to speak of, as premium services are all prepaid. With such a model, the company maintains that financial success will come if only 5 percent of users pay for the extras.

It’s no lock for Skype to rule the category, especially since competitors have flooded the market over the past year or so: traditional phone companies like Verizon and AT&T, cable/D.S.L. firms such as Time Warner Cable and Cablevision, and Internet-based newcomers such as Vonage. All of these companies have one main selling point over Skype—their Internet calling services allow you to use a normal telephone, while Skype still requires that you log on to your computer and communicate through a headset.

Skype believes that this point will boil off in the great tech advance, as its software has already begun to leap from the computer and onto the home and mobile phone, thanks largely to wireless technology. Also, most Web phone services cost between $25 and $35 per month, and they can be wildly complicated. Skype is free and wildly simple: download the software, plug in a headset, and dial. You’re up and calling in about 10 minutes.

Many argue that Skype won’t be able to compete with the vast resources of the phone companies, or that it will fail to fight off Microsoft, an assured future player. The Swede and the Dane point to the fact that they a re targeting the entire world, rather than limiting their market to the U.S. and U.K., like their main competitors. When a game has only just begun, speculation comes by the bucket, and the vinegar drinkers aren’t hard to find, no matter whom they’re rooting for. “Maybe [the naysayers] are right, maybe we’re wrong,” Zennström allows. “Well, actually, I know they’re wrong.”

Zennström and Friis may have history in mind, but they really want to build a company that makes money. Their main bogey over Kazaa hasn’t been strangers waving subpoenas in the dark of night, but the fact that after creating a gold-mine application they couldn’t find a way to make an honest dollar from it. In awful brokerage, they got famous instead.

HERE IN CANNES, whispers precede them. They’re off the yacht and past the main exhibition hall, where the movies get played at that other convention, but where today death comes by brochure and gratuitous backslap. Zennström and Friis avoid the human pile, traveling without encumbrance and leaving their hands free to greet their many admirers. Recognition comes every few blocks.

“It’s great on the way up,” Friis says, while noting unhappily that there aren’t many hotel-room keys arcing their way. “We get more attention from fat C.E.O.’s.”

Also from theorists and futurists, whose blood rushes to the extremity while they posit Skype as the fruition of some white-toga dream, where no one needs money and the sky is always without cloud, the computer having solved man’s every woe. “The thing I like about Skype is that it works—the first time, it works,” says Michail Bletsas, a Greek who is director of computing at the MIT Media Lab, a boggy brain tank for 20 years. “I can’t explain to my mother back home that you have to configure your V.P.N.”

The group sits at a table with Perrier and close conversation, the engine of commerce loudly chugging all around. Bletsas prefers to expound on Skype’s importance as some kind of human tool, a new wrench, maybe, rather than just another means to fill the billfold. He is positioned at the vanguard of developing the so-called $100 computer, a project that would allow the world’s poorest to get online, and, theoretically, even make free phone calls. “It’s a personal thing for me with Skype,” he says. “It’s the realization of our vision.”

SOME VISION IS fuzzier than others. In Tallinn, Estonia, Skype’s technical HQ, a bunch of geeks are getting hammered, lunging at one another in a second-story food house.

These are Skype’s programmers and high-strung I.T.-heads, erupting in great bursts of antisocial behavior, loaded up on defensiveness and bottom-shelf whiskey. Many of them, drunken or not, are thwarted in their social advances by an unshakable sum of behavioral ineptitude. Presumably, they are enjoying one another’s company.

A white wind lashes Tallinn into a late-December squeeze that only drinks can make you forget. There’s not much sun up this high on the map, this deep in the datebook. But, for Zennström and Friis, there’s plenty of reason to stick around.

The big Soviet switchboard plugged some of its best computer scientists into the city decades ago, and Tallinn, with its U.S.S.R.-to-E.U. shuffle of centrally planned housing projects and platinum-card retailers, retains a tech-friendly posture—along with a hunger among its programmers that, Friis and Zennström say, is hard to find elsewhere, post-bubble. You can pay for parking with a cell-phone text message here. In the history-and-culture section of Estonian Air’s in-flight magazine, you will find Skype mentioned alongside NATO and World War II. Along these streets you filter among more than 200 Wi-Fi hot spots.

SO MUCH SHOUTING drowns out the clicking of your heels. At one table, several of Skype’s young men in washed-out T-shirts race to discover who can write the fastest two-sentence text message on a cell phone. The handsets clatter down to the table one by one, and a single geek raises the arms, exultant in his moment of the laurel wreath, champion of thumb-typing. A few programmers huddle at another table, getting a deep-blue tan from the laptop that lies can-opened before them. Young Slavic models patrol the floor looking fairly lonely, but all these guys can see is Skype and, still again, Skype.

Everything goes bottom up here in Skype’s Estonian parish. References to Boba Fett, the Star Wars bounty hunter, stack like fire fuel. Social proficiency becomes a harmful trait, as it could hamper your yearning to dig deep into the cold code and remove the bugs from Skype’s ever evolving web, which gets re-spun every month or so. Skype’s geeks, though, do possess a redeeming geek glee, believing themselves fortunate players on the team that’s going to carry the day.

These are the geeks who built Skype, since Zennström and Friis have never been the type to stare into a computer’s deepest reaches, although they share that nuance of a slightly crossed eye. These programmers do all the squinting, and at all hours of the day, under all weather conditions. But lest you think it’s all dry times, the drinks hit with digital quickness in this crowd, which is happily devoid of any Yankee sense of healthy limits. Work for them appears at most intervals to be some welcome gift.

They have constructed Skype, as Kazaa before it, on peer-to-peer technology, or P2P, which allows the computers that are logged on to Skype to communicate directly with one another, rather than having their requests routed through a central server. This provides their company’s chief advantage over the competition: the corporation exists one step from blue smoke and suggestion.

Traditional phone companies take a momentary cash hit when they add a new customer, which includes establishing a billing account and sending a technician to the house. Not only does it cost Skype less than a cent to add someone to the roll, but once that user logs on, the extra computer only makes the existing P2P network more powerful. On top of that, it is in the best interests of each new user to persuade friends to join up, thus perpetuating the cycle. The whole thing scales to about infinity.

ALL OF THIS helps explain the zeal of Skype’s geeks, who understand better than any handsfree-wearing conventioneer what all of this could mean. Even though their eagerness can get the better of them, there are some well-adjusted individuals in the ranks. As chief of the network’s information systems, Edgar Maloverian, a Russian raised in Tallinn, endures the endocrine crush of having to stand on call at all hours, and for the slightest dashboard quirk. He is 31 years old, and he recently worked at a salary of $90,000 for a software company called FutureTrade, in San Diego. But when you have reached the beach, you have reached the end. “Too boring,” Maloverian says before downing 50 grams of clear drink and checking his phone for an update on the system, stubbing another smoke.

The unconventional becomes unremarkable within these boundaries. Skype is populated by a high percentage of college dropouts, as well as many who still have the chance, since they are still enrolled. Average age: 20-something. Besides programming proficiency, general abnormality provides the hook on incoming C.V.’s. Zennström and Friis hired one Swedish programmer, Zennström says, strictly because he worked an exchange program to Norway into another that sent him to Cornell. The con is very much admired, in accordance with the companywide plan to disrupt the world.

THE GEEKS HAVE moved on to Tallinn’s walled Old City, where you will find the cobblestone streets of Europe largely unmolested. It’s all cocaine-white inside the high-style Stereo Lounge. The banquettes. The cloud-dwelling girls. The Apple monitor up at the bar, which is connected wirelessly to the Internet, as, it seems, everything else is in Tallinn.

Wi-Fi represents the great enabler, which will take Skype off the laptop and place it onto the cell phone, where the world’s billion and a half mobile-phone subscribers will be more apt to use it. To listen to the futurists, all cell phones will carry broadband capability, and homes and town centers will be equipped with Wi-Fi points throughout. In this way, you will be able to use an application like Skype via your cell phone no matter where you are, as though navigating one giant set of monkey bars. Many municipal governments are now considering subsidizing the construction of citywide Wi-Fi grids, ultimately leaving cities, not individuals, to pay for connection fees. Philadelphia, for one, has already begun building its own wireless network. And Wi-Fi, they tell us, will soon give way to something called WiMAX, which can transmit a signal as far away as 30 miles. “It’s like Wi-Fi on steroids,” says Friis.

It’s not steroids, but something is goosing Friis’s system as his black fashion sneakers scuff up one of Stereo’s vanilla tabletops. While Zennström fends off two drunks who paw at him for a job, his female assistant snores loudly at the table. Maloverian leaps from his seat and his full tumbler, hustling into the hallway to take a call and sort out the latest network hiccup.

This certainly doesn’t look like a grouping that will lay the stick to the world’s phone giants. But the big phone and Internet companies are sure to keep the locators fastened on Zennström and Friis, just as the record companies and their subpoena-toting bikers before them. This is why firms like Yahoo, Google, and AOL continue taking their meetings with Skype, and why they prefer to keep it quiet. All alliances will soon be made, the VoIP landscape carved up like Poland.

“These companies take a long time to move, but when they move, they move with force,” says Friis, who has climbed down from the table and palmed a fresh drink, shouting over the music, which is a pure white stream. “If Yahoo had come out with their own program a year ago, they would have squashed us. But now with our user base, we are regarded as not only an equal but as someone to reckon with. A year ago we had 15,000 downloads a day. Now we have 150,000 per day. We’ve seen this with Kazaa. It’s a snowball and nothing can stop it.” With Skype propelling itself on its own momentum, its authors are trying to capitalize on the heat that has everyone calling for dates. They won’t own up to what it is yet, but they say that their next piece of disruptive technology is close to completion. “Here’s a hint,” Friis says. “It’s P2P.”

THE GEEKS HAVE moved on once more, this time to a darkened scum hole called Club Hollywood. It’s past late, and one of the young programmers has engaged in an unwise quarrel with a numb Viking at the coat check. Human behavior remains elusive.

On Hollywood’s upper level, Zennström relaxes as his charges cannot, finding sprawl on a chair with three legs. His eyes focus, then refocus, as he attempts to stay until the last of his company has gone through the door. He looks cashed after all the hours, but at this long table sit many adherents who take their cues from him, listening in for whatever may come next.

“Don’t you love The Godfather?” he says. “The best management movie ever.” Zennström sits up in his chair, rising to this midnight condition. “That scene when the Don is in the hospital and Sonny is freaking out. Michael sits there and is totally calm and says he’ll take out the cop. ‘It’s not personal, Sonny, it’s strictly business.’” In Hollywood it’s hard to see, but you can tell that the Swede isn’t talking just to talk.

It was time to confront the fear. Thanks to a dare from vanityfair.com, there were 11 bottles of vodka in the freezer. When I nervously took a peek at them, I noticed that the freezer’s pall of frost had obscured the Cyrillic on their labels in a thick, crystalline haze. I was going to need some help.

The doorbell rang, and I welcomed a few friends into my apartment in a Brezhnev-era high-rise in central Moscow. They had arrived to lend a gullet in taste-testing the new breed of Russia’s premium vodkas. The editorial rationale? In the last several years Russia has seen a remarkable elevation in the status of its national drink, as a slew of premium brands has created an entirely new market for pricey vodka. And Moscow and St. Petersburg, Eastern Europe’s 21st-century capitals of wealth and decadence, are the places where these spirits are consumed with greatest enthusiasm.

The editorial challenge? How to consume 11 bottles of high-end firewater. Firewater is what vodka has always been, devoid of the oaken lineage of its darker cousins—and the high-nosed finery that can too easily get in the way of a good drunk. One does not inhale vodka’s bouquet, but one may use vodka to sterilize a wound on the knee, as familiar a sight to the serious vodka drinker as the shot glass and the handful of ibuprofen. That’s precisely where my friends Vika, Olga, and Arkady came in, to share the heavy load.

THE BIG PICTURE

Vodka is as simple as it is clear. Making it requires minimal technology. Aging does not improve it. Any difference in quality comes from the purity of the water and the alcohol, and from the manner and amount of filtration. Vodka is mostly produced from neutral grain spirits, and the less color, odor, and taste it has, the purer it is. There is little room for pretense.

Vodka, in fact, is the perfect drink for Russians, a species that takes great pride in the weeklong bender, the loss of recollection that can absolve one of dreadful deeds, the smell of bread—a traditional chaser to the shots that can become impossible to calculate. This is the land that abstinence forgot. And no, Russians don’t go in for flavored vodkas—popular in the West, but here considered a precious conception.

However, as with everything in Russia’s cosmopolitan circles these days, vodka has joined the glamour parade. If something shines, and if that something costs a heck of a lot, Russians will be more apt to buy it—at least those with money or pretension to it. These folks drink mostly Hennessy, Cristal, and other symbols of international flair. It has taken this new flight of fashionable vodkas to bring them back around to the national poison. (Per capita, Russians drink four gallons of vodka a year.) Unfortunately for the rest of the vodka-loving world, these premium Russian vodkas are hard to find outside of Russia. Other vodkas have a firm foothold in European and overseas markets, and Russians are now trying to figure out how to break into the game.

The vodka industry here is still getting its wits about it, after a decade of murder and betrayal. If you were involved in the vodka business in Russia in the 90s, locals say, you were professionally involved in the business of violent persuasion. Most, if not all, of the distilleries in Soviet times produced vodka from the same centrally mandated recipe. When the free market arrived, it was a free-for-all for the distilleries, as well as for the national distribution networks, which were just as valuable. Recipes and ingredients began to vary; new brands sprang up as the new capitalists tried to grab a share of a steady, reliable audience.

As the 90s closed out and some measure of stability descended on the country, a man named Roustam Tariko established the first high-end brand of Russian vodka. Tariko had made a fortune importing luxury goods to his native land. He was perfectly attuned to the local desire for quality and just how much people would pay to attain it. Tariko’s Russian Standard vodka became immediately popular when it appeared, in 1998, and it remains so, holding 65 percent of the premium market here. (A year after its introduction, Tariko started a bank of the same name.) Its top-end product, Imperia, debuted at a million-dollar party that Tariko threw at the Statue of Liberty last year to celebrate the arrival of this atypical immigrant, and is currently the only premium Russian vodka legally for sale in the U.S..

The two most well-known Russian vodkas available in the U.S.—Smirnoff and Stolichnaya—have dubious recent histories. Smirnoff, the best-selling spirit in the world, is produced by a British company, and is Russian in name alone. And Stolichnaya isn’t considered as swanky a premium brand in its home country as it is in other lands—never mind the fact that a murky trademark battle between a Russian exporter and a Dutch distiller has blurred its bona fides.

Back on home turf, many vodka-makers have followed Tariko’s example, providing fine product in fine bottles, priced well beyond the reach of the kopeck collectors who comprise the meat of Russia’s vodka-drinking public. And this is where it gets tricky, because once vodka goes glam, there goes the charm of falling on your chin, bleeding onto your shirtfront, and trying to figure out how you wound up in a shawarma kiosk with three Azeri guys and two dogs with no hair. The saving grace here is that these vodkas are the real Russian article, considered top-of-the-line here and here alone, even as their equivalents—Polish, French, Scandinavian, British, and Dutch—have won firm footing in New York, L.A., and other places where people think they know it all.

THE TEST

Once I grabbed my notebook and my guests were seated in the loge, things began politely enough. Everyone’s clothes were still on. The neighbors had not yet called to complain about the music, nor had they been bullied into a panicked retreat. The vodka poured out in a thick, fine-looking, chilled syrup.

PUTINKA LIMITED EDITION

The first bottle cracked was the oddest of all, for it was called Putinka, after the Russian president. Putinka’s owners claim that Vladimir V. Putin himself holds no interest in the drink, that the name is the product of a public solicitation. This has not stopped anti-Kremlin protesters from carrying bottles of this vodka during marches, raising it high among the banners. But Putinka’s P.R. man was eager to dispel the rumored connection. “It’s not like you’re drinking Putin,” he politely explained. “You don’t want to drink Putin.” Ah, but to pretend. The Leader of All the Russias—as the czar used to be known—went down hard, not smooth, as could be expected. The aftertaste was metallic, much like you would notice after having a gun barrel stuck in your maw. One of our group, Arkady, remarked that Ukraine and Georgia were already familiar with this taste. GRADE: C

ETALON

Next up was Etalon, which means “echelon,” or “standard.” This vodka, introduced in 2004, is produced in Moscow’s famous state-controlled Cristall distillery (not to be confused with France’s Cristal champagne). The bottle is shaped like a pyramid, which, the company says, “accumulates special energy, which positively affects the spirit inside.” A stereogram sticker of a Kremlin tower, attached to the back of the clear glass vessel, loomed through the vodka bottle. Etalon’s makers claim that this two-dimensional image provides a useful treatment for nearsightedness, as a way to “relax tired eyes and strengthen eye muscles.” After several bouts with Putinka and Etalon, I could imagine a point in the evening where pyramids and holograms would provide the only help. Etalon vodka offered a rich, full flavor that didn’t stick around too long. Very smooth, so smooth as to demand several more pours down the same un-bumpy path. GRADE: A-

VEDA BLACK ICE

Veda takes its name from an ancient Russian verb, vedat, meaning “to know.” By this time, it was beginning to get difficult to know anything. Veda, after Russian Standard, is the most popular premium vodka here, and Black Ice is its new top-end bottle, launched this year. This vodka is ice-filtered through a screen made of platinum, which is a word that grabs Russians’ attention. After a few drinks of this stuff, another friend, Olga, sank into the couch, able only to read the writing on the bottle, where a snake curled around a Latin motto: “Know thyself, know life.” As I poured out several more shots, I noticed someone had cranked up the music as loud as it would go. How long had it been that way? Black Ice went down dangerously well, a quick, cool splash on the tonsils, before disappearing in a short fiery burst. GRADE: A

G8

This was a great marketing coup. G8 vodka appeared in time for this past July’s G8 summit in St. Petersburg. Capitalizing on the fact that this consortium of the world’s top seven economies—plus Russia—has no official name, the makers of this vodka were free to adopt the term G8 as their own. A perfectly sneaky deed, with a bottle to match. It looks like the kind of thing you would fill with bathtub vodka, the fabled samogon. Official-looking stamps cover the label, along with the words “By Order of the Foreign Ministry for the G8.” All bogus. This was the one bottle in our test that had no plastic filter jammed into the spout. These spouts (there’s something infuriatingly childproof about them) are awful, making for slow, messy pours and lots of vain bottle-shaking. Vika would find out, however, that if one were accidentally to knock over a bottle of G8, much of the G8 would end up on the carpet. This would be a shame, since G8 vodka, a highly drinkable idea, provided a pleasant, tasteful kick that shook us from Veda’s comfortable vapors. GRADE: B

RUSSIAN STANDARD IMPERIA

The company says that Imperia’s water is extracted from the glacial Lake Ladoga, outside St. Petersburg. The spirits undergo eight distillations—double the Russian standard for “luxury”—then two charcoal filtrations, to remove impurities, and two quartz filtrations, to “energize” the vodka. That goes a long way toward mythologizing this product, which provides the gold standard for Russian vodka, with sales exceeding one million cases a year. By the time we got around to tasting it, the neighbors had come to complain about all of the shouting, and then had run off down the hall in some kind of terror. There was a blouse balled up in the corner. Arkady parceled out shots with abandon. It may have been in my head, but Imperia actually appeared to relieve my thirst. This was the danger zone, when vodka started going down like water. GRADE: A+

FLAGMAN NIGHT LANDING

Was that moonlight or sunlight pouring through the window? Why was there a shallow pool of vodka covering the entire glass tabletop? These questions and many others would go unanswered. It was time for Flagman, which has the distinction of being the “Official Purveyor to the Moscow Kremlin.” In his day, Stalin compelled his subordinates to work beside him late into the evening, lending them what’s known as a “Kremlin complexion.” Many more nights like this one, and we would also have pale skin, sunken eyes, and that particular stare of inner hunger. But duty called, Olga kept dancing, and Flagman, which means flagship, poured out in icy floes. A heck of a drink, good enough to penetrate this fog and leave a familiar impression of robust invincibility. GRADE: B+

There were five more bottles, countless more shots of Belaya Zolota, Parliament, Beluga, Rusky Brilliant, and Yuri Dolgoruki. But the quality of my note-keeping quickly fell off into oblivion. In the days to come, as I recovered myself and discovered my notebook in a heap of chewed gum and mysterious ash, I was able to read my final note of that evening. It went like this: “Ah … Vika,” trailing off into a vile scrawl.

And so I was left with that abbreviated evaluation of today’s new breed of premium Russian vodkas. They must be good.

A Russian real estate developer, Polonsky is building Moscow’s first genuine modern skyscraper, the Federation Tower. When it reaches its full height, perhaps as early as next year, and at a cost of some $740 million, the tower will be the tallest building in Europe. It forms the centerpiece of Moscow City, a sprawling financial district that will inject a new modern character into this ancient, frenetic city.

From across the meeting table, Polonsky focused on the deputy director of his company’s concrete division, a middle-aged man with white hair and reading glasses that hung off the tip of his nose. The entire inner structure of the Federation Tower is composed of concrete, so the shortfall presented no small jam. “You have three days to solve this problem,” Polonsky told him, “or you can submit your resignation.”

Polonsky is 6-foot-6 and has a head of curly sandy hair that assumes various odd shapes depending on the humidity. His smooth rounded face makes him seem approachable. But in this notoriously tough town, no one achieves Polonsky’s success by being everybody’s best friend, least of all someone who is, like him, just 33.

Following the meeting with the contractors, Polonsky and Artur Aleksandrov, the project’s perpetually hassled chief of construction, grabbed their hard hats and headed out for an inspection walk of the looming tower, already 50 stories high. The Federation Tower is not the only building making visible progress around Moscow City. Several office complexes rise into the air in various states of completion in what many Russians are calling the Moscow Manhattan. It is a sweeping space — 250 riverside acres that will consist of 18 buildings and 43 million square feet of new real estate from 13 developers. At a projected cost of $10 billion to $12 billion, Moscow City is promoted by its developers as the largest investment and construction project in Europe.

The Federation Tower is the showpiece. It will actually be two towers, the taller one with 93 floors and a height of 1,161 feet, and the other with 63 floors. A 1,470-foot spire will rise between the monoliths, with glass elevators running up its core, offering a panoramic view and entry into the buildings. The towers will have 4.5 million square feet of high-end office space, luxury apartments, shops, restaurants and a 44-story Grand Hyatt hotel. The overall impression of the architect’s rendering of these slightly bowed, glass-sheathed towers and central mast is that of a mammoth sailboat rising above the Moskva River. A blue banner hugging one side of the smaller tower reads, “This is only the beginning.”

As Russia regains its economic and political clout, Polonsky and other young developers are building architectural icons on an enormous scale, visible symbols of the nation’s new wealth. The Russian state is now flush with cash. High prices for the country’s largely renationalized natural resources — oil, gas and metals, especially — and President Vladimir V. Putin’s efforts to tighten the screws on government agencies have given investors, foreign and domestic alike, reason to believe that the risk of doing business here has greatly diminished. Last year, Moscow real estate values soared, the Russian stock market grew by 90 percent and Standard & Poor’s upgraded its rating on Russia (its evaluation of the viability of doing business in the country). Foreign investment in Moscow grew 67 percent in 2005 from the previous year, to $25 billion. And while there are many critics of the Kremlin’s aggressive control of big business, Putin has created a measure of economic stability. And that is what investors want.

City leaders first began discussing the Moscow City concept in the 1980’s. The idea was to create a commercial district along the lines of La Défense in Paris or Lower Manhattan in New York. Mayor Yuri M. Luzhkov and his deputies fixed on a site on the Moskva River embankment, two and a half miles from the Kremlin. There were 22 factories and warehouses at that location, along with several dilapidated apartment buildings, a typical Moscow hodgepodge. The city demolished the structures and began soliciting investment. Then came the country’s economic crisis in the summer of 1998, which stalled development but didn’t keep the mayor’s office from campaigning for the new business district. “We spent 10 years marketing Moscow City,” says Iosif Ordzhonikidze, the deputy mayor for foreign affairs and economic relations. “We were doing it when the stores had nothing in them.”

Now Moscow is booming. It’s the biggest city in Europe, with more than 10 million people, and as the cultural and financial capital of the Continent’s eastern half, it is striving to live up to its status. Cranes twist across the skyline, great dust clouds billow from countless digs: roughly 80 million square feet of real estate will be built this year. But Moscow’s transformation goes beyond the mere number of structures. It is the nature of these new developments that matters most, as modernization and image enhancement have become just as important to the civic leaders as the supply of basic services.

The Kremlin’s towers and palaces and the gargantuan structures of Stalin’s era have long symbolized Moscow, distinct emblems of czarist and Communist authority. The skyscrapers now going up, however, would fit into the urban plan of any Western capital. And in this way, the Moscow planners and developers are trying to prove to the rest of the world — and to Russians themselves — that this country can compete with anyone.

ONE WORKDAY EVENING, Polonsky summoned a dozen of the top managers of Mirax, his company, to one of his residences, a 16th-floor penthouse in the Golden Keys high-rise. A medieval warrior, it seemed, had handled the furnishings. A couple of crossbows, nicked and well used, dangled from the ceiling beams. In one corner stood a dummy dressed in samurai armor. In the bedroom was a king-size mattress attached to motorized chains and capable of traveling 10 feet into the air. A boa constrictor, as swollen as a fire hose, was coiled in a terrarium, his split tongue testing the air.

Polonsky had invited his managers over to play Mafia, a parlor game of bluff and strategy. Once everyone was seated around a long wooden table, Polonsky and two others were secretly designated as a criminal enterprise that then went about eliminating the other players. Polonsky regards this exercise, involving blindfolds, accusations and deception, as a kind of instructive corporate bonding. Learning to think like a member of an organized crime syndicate, apparently, can have its advantages.

Polonsky frequently plays Mafia into the early morning hours. But on this evening, he concluded the session well before midnight, with an admonition that suggested he had some insight into the insidiousness of both work and play. “You must remember, it’s just a game,” he told his employees. “You shouldn’t remember, ‘Oh, I played with this guy and he kicked me out.’ It’s just a game.”

Having sent his managers home, Polonsky made his way out to the balcony where he lighted a cigarillo and looked out over Moscow’s great spread. Polonsky himself is a transplant. He was raised in St. Petersburg, where his mother worked in a post office and his father was a professional student, collecting one degree after another. Polonsky entered the armed forces after high school, joining an airborne division and serving in the Caucasus, an experience that he says “forged” him. “In the army there is no such thing as no,” he offers as an explanation of what he gained from the experience. Regarding other aspects of his military career, he chose to say very little.

Polonsky returned to St. Petersburg in 1994 after leaving the army, and, with a friend, Artur Kirilenko, started a business finishing apartments in public and private buildings. When hard times struck and building owners ran into money trouble, they began paying Polonsky and Kirilenko in apartments instead of cash. The turning point for the partners came when they took possession of an entire building, not just individual apartments. The structure was unfinished, and when Polonsky and Kirilenko added a few floors and sold the building, they had unwittingly become builders. It was one small step to becoming developers.

The two friends were like many people who profited in the early post-Soviet days: businessmen who appeared out of nowhere, able to adapt in a time of upheaval, capitalizing on circumstance. The 1998 financial crisis that swept the country was devastating to most but proved a boon to Polonsky and Kirilenko. Their company paid for construction costs in rubles, then turned around and sold apartments and offices to those who had dollars. With the ruble in free fall, they profited in the lag time between construction and sale. Dollars in hand, Polonsky and Kirilenko had placed themselves on the right side of the inflation catastrophe, and they quickly became wealthy.

Polonsky set about enjoying himself, indulging his taste for vigorous activity: hunting, parasailing, bungee-jumping, snowboarding, skiing, mountain biking, snowmobiling, off-road racing, piloting aircraft, even driving tanks and firing A-K 47’s into the sky. This was all a prelude to his ultimate adventure. Polonsky spent several months in Star City, the headquarters of Russia’s space program, where he trained to become a space tourist, just the third ever. He arranged to pay $8 million, but, Polonsky says, when engineers designed his spacesuit, they determined that he was too tall — that his legs, jammed against a control panel, were sure to break on landing. The space agency returned all but $500,000 of his money, which he says was well spent, the disappointment of rejection outweighed by the thrill of belonging to the program. “If you go to Star City, it’s impossible not to want to do it,” he says. He notes, with some pride, that the cosmonauts who trained with him phoned him from the International Space Station with New Year’s salutations.

During all of this time, Polonsky’s company was growing into one of the largest developers in St. Petersburg, eventually building Petrovsky Fort, a 540,000-square-foot complex that became the standard for business centers in the former capital. Polonsky opened an office in Moscow in 2000, after graduating from St. Petersburg State University of Architecture and Civil Engineering. Two years later Mayor Luzkhov appointed him as an adviser. He was not yet 30.

Such a quick rise to prominence in a place where cozy government relations have been a prerequisite to getting anything done has led people to assume that Polonsky is just another beneficiary of the crony system. But he would have you believe his success stems purely from his ability and willingness to be held accountable, from being, in other words, a professional, where professionals can be hard to find. “I arrived in Moscow six years ago and I knew nobody,” he says. “In my first three months here I had 200 meetings, and I was surprised how unprofessional people were. Builders thought they were economists and vice versa.”

No matter what he says, however, Polonsky can’t shake speculation of high-level associations and sweetheart deals. “There are all sorts of legends,” he says. “I’m the illegitimate son of Valentina Matvienko,” the governor of St. Petersburg. “Or I studied in the same university as Putin.”

Putin, who is also from St. Petersburg, has surrounded himself with advisers who, like Polonsky, are from his hometown. Over Polonsky’s desk hangs a lovingly rendered painting of Putin, the president’s arm lazing over the back of his chair, a teasing grin on his face. Dangling idly in Putin’s right hand is a pen, with which he may or may not ink his approval. When Putin traveled to China in March, Polonsky went along with him.

But Putin also favors the talented and accomplished, and Polonsky has a gift for attracting investment, making it stick and seeing a project to completion. In 2000, Mirax started on the one-million-square-foot Corona apartment complex in western Moscow; the company is now building 42 million square feet in the city. Mirax has become an emblem not just of Moscow’s rapid development, but also of how the style of building there is changing. “Polonsky and the Federation Tower are like a brand for us,” says Nikolai Koshman, president of the Association of the Builders of Russia.

In 2003, Polonsky won the bidding to build a tower on a particular parcel of Moscow City. He welcomed the publicity that went along with it, as well as the attention generated by his bid to travel in space. He is a frequent topic of discussion in the local press, sometimes drawing notice with ill-advised public statements. During one press conference, Polonsky claimed that the Federation Tower was designed to be impervious to terrorist attack by airplane. “Regardless of how many planes hit it,” he said, “it won’t fall down.” Several of the project’s engineers looked on in shock, aware of no such design. Nor did it hurt Polonsky’s public profile that he was at one time palling around with Anastasia Volochkova, a ballerina with the Bolshoi Ballet. Polonsky has since married Natalya Stepanova, the president of a construction consulting company. But he has not given up his relationship with the limelight. “He can attract attention to himself,” Koshman says. “Other developers are more modest.”

IN MOSCOW, A PROFESSIONAL can find it rough going, surrounded on all sides by insularity, ineptitude, corruption and the persistent after effects of a command economy. “It’s very difficult to find suppliers who will sell goods to you,” says Zhao Xiangqian, an executive manager with the China State Construction and Engineering Company, which Mirax hired to build the concrete structure of the Federation Tower. “And they always want to change something at the last minute.” (Polonsky did eventually get his concrete, but construction was delayed for several days.)

For Polonsky, these details are the least of his worries. The main difficulty in building the Federation Tower is that such a building has never been attempted in Moscow. The complexity and height of this structure bring into sharp relief the inadequacies of the current system. For one thing, there is no comprehensive building code in Russia that dictates how the tower should be built. Moreover, Mirax has never attempted a structure on this scale. “We have mass experience building 35-floor buildings,” says Aleksandrov, the chief of construction. “But 90 floors is a totally different task.” As a precautionary measure, Aleksandrov says, Mirax chose to erect the smaller tower first, to “test our technology.” Europe’s tallest building, it turns out, is also Europe’s tallest training exercise.

The Federation Tower started out on a shaky financial footing as well. When Polonsky broke ground, he had no outside financing for the skyscrapers. In Manhattan, for example, it is customary to secure 80 percent or more of the financing on a building before construction begins. “In Moscow, you won’t find a single investor who will give you money without seeing the building,” Aleksandrov says. “Not everyone has the ability to build in Moscow. Moscow can be very capricious.” Polonsky began the project with his and Mirax’s own money — how much he will not disclose. As progress on the Federation Tower has become visible, investment has poured in. The major share of financing has come from Vneshtorgbank, the country’s second-largest bank, which has extended a $250 million line of credit. The Kremlin owns 99.9 percent of Vneshtorgbank, meaning that the Russian government serves as the Federation Tower’s primary financial sponsor.

Since there is very limited skyscraper-construction expertise in Russia, Polonsky hired the Chinese contractors as well as Turner International, a firm based in New York. Turner and the Chinese firm have worked together on several high-profile tall buildings, and on the Federation Tower they are essentially acting as their own regulators, making decisions as they go along.

This is how things work in Russia, where laws are often variably applied and where the only real rule for getting things done — at least on this scale — is to have government support. “Much of what you see here is because of Polonsky’s relationship with the Kremlin and the city government,” says Thomas J. McCool, Turner’s European manager, who works out of an office on the Federation Tower site. “It’s very Russian.”

The new Russia is, in some ways, not so different from the old. The Soviets tore down thousands of buildings in Moscow, replacing them with monuments to their own way of thinking. A similar situation revisits the city now, as government authorities do as they please, obliterating any number of historical structures in the pursuit of unfettered development. “We have too much money in Moscow,” says Marina Khrustaleva, an architectural historian who is the chairwoman of the Moscow Architecture Preservation Society. She says that the city is losing as many as 300 historical buildings a year. “Some people say it is too late,” she says, that “Moscow is already lost.” While Khrustaleva does not object to Moscow’s overall modernization, she does view Polonsky’s towers as one more example of the unchecked loss of the city’s traditional character. “It’s so simple,” she says of the structure. “It has no idea. This is speculative architecture.”

The architects of the Federation Tower, Sergei Tchoban and Peter Schweger, are known for building solid, respectable buildings in Germany, where they are based. “They’re not superstars, but they have a good reputation,” says David Sarkisyan, the director of Moscow’s Shchusev State Museum of Architecture. “They’re not trying to jump out of their trousers, as we like to say, but they do stylish things.” The tower is their opportunity for a grand showcase.

Polonsky, too, is chasing big aspirations with this building. He is hesitant to discuss his vision of Moscow’s future, if indeed he has one. Talk is still cheap in Russia, if not in fact hazardous, and Polonsky won’t engage in philosophical testimonials. Still, he is clearly after something more, as he could earn a more certain profit by continuing to build the 35-story apartment blocks that have made him wealthy. “I have never had such a powerful, creative client,” says Tchoban, who was born and educated in St. Petersburg. “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of clients don’t like to create anything new.”

Trying to do something new, and especially to be the first one to reach a new marketplace can rattle the nerves. You might arrive too soon, before the market is ready to receive you. Right now, Polonsky has only a few confirmed commercial tenants, including Grand Hyatt and Vneshtorgbank, for the Federation Tower. The narrow distribution of Russia’s wealth, as well as the sheer volume of commercial and residential space now under construction, raises doubts about how much demand there will be for high-price real estate. And that is Polonsky’s biggest gamble. He doesn’t know yet if he has hit the moment exactly, or whether he has judged incorrectly, and whether the tower will be an empty monument, or a flourishing emblem of a thriving country.

POLONSKY, RELAXED ON HIS balcony over-looking the city, said that he had difficulty imagining how it had all come to pass, how he had gone from outfitting interiors to building Russia’s first world-class skyscraper. “Your eyes are afraid of a job, but your hands do it,” he said. “The propulsive power is the lack of knowledge. If I had known how difficult it would be, I never would have opened my own office.”

He stubbed out his cigarillo and walked inside, having tired of discussing business. Polonsky preferred to talk about the thrill of Star City, and he played a DVD montage of his cosmonaut training sessions to illustrate the point. An anti-gravity plane takes him for a whirl. A centrifuge whips around, pushing him through eight G’s. He climbs into a spacesuit and tinkers on a capsule that was submerged in a large swimming pool.

Then there is a shot from the launching pad. A handful of military brass and aerospace engineers gather around, as three cosmonauts prepare for the journey to the International Space Station. The cosmonauts climb the stairs into their capsule, a dense early-morning mist hanging thick and lighted by dreamy yellow lamps. The video then cuts to a shot of the rocket punching into space. The rocket grows smaller and smaller as it reaches into pure black. Polonsky watched, unable to turn away.

Unless that set happens to be in Russia.

On a recent morning in Moscow, the crew for You and I, an English-language movie directed by British filmmaker Roland Joffé, huddled listlessly around a candy-red Ferrari in the shadow of the Hotel Ukraine. The Ferrari scene was critical to the story, a coming-of-age drama about two young women caught up in Moscow’s high life, but the crew’s idleness was now stretching into hours. The shoot required a police escort that had been approved well in advance. But the Moscow city police on hand seemed bent upon giving the moviemakers yet another real-world lesson on the inexplicable, infuriating and often interminable delays endemic to Russia. The making of You and I, the third film produced in Moscow for a Western audience, has been awash with such cultural exchanges, Russian obliqueness grating against the time-is-money priorities of Hollywood. For the foreigner, Moscow can be a maddening place to do business, with a professional culture seemingly predicated on aggravation and obfuscation. “We have Western ambitions, but the process used to achieve those ambitions is Russian,” says Joffé, the Oscar-nominated director of The Killing Fields and The Mission. “It’s like being given Lada parts and being expected to make a Maserati.”

Still, the film business here, like many industries in today’s Russia, is booming, with the domestic box office growing from $25 million in 2000 to, by some estimates, nearly $600 million last year. Whether making movies for the Russian market or shooting on location for an international audience, Hollywood studios and talent are getting involved, keen to exploit local knowledge while helping to revive a system that once produced some of the world’s finest films by directors such as Sergei Eisenstein and Andrei Tarkovsky. Soviet cinema collapsed when state funding disappeared at the close of the communist period. A great bulk of filmmakers migrated to advertising and television, which adjusted more organically to capitalism. The result was a tattered film industry: in the mid-’90s, Russia produced little more than a dozen feature films per year. Mosfilm, the oldest movie studio in Russia and the former center of Soviet cinema, is gradually rediscovering its identity. It has partnered with a grouping of independent studios and producers, welcoming onto its lot such outfits as the Moscow-based Russian American Movie Company (RAMCO), which is making You and I. “For the last 15 years, Russian movie production has been at a very low level,” says Sergei Konov, RAMCO’s general director, holding forth in his Mosfilm office. “Right now it’s trying to renovate, but it’s very complicated.”

Konov and his partner, Leonid Minkovski, established RAMCO in 2004. With Los Angeles movie-world relations and political and financial connections in Moscow, they have attracted Western directors and actors to the Russian capital for the first time. RAMCO shot Silent Partner, a political thriller starring Tara Reid, in Moscow in 2005. The company also produced the recently released Captivity, with Elisha Cuthbert, which was filmed almost entirely on a Mosfilm soundstage.

Low production costs are a key incentive for shooting in Moscow. It’s a famously expensive city, but cheap Russian labor can make a positive impact on the bottom line. “The unions in Hollywood are worse than the Russian mob,” says Minkovski, who reckons it’s 25% cheaper to make a film like You and I in Moscow than in the U.S.

That said, RAMCO is still working out the kinks and, so far, Russia’s promise as a movie mecca has outstripped what it has delivered. Budgeted for around $10 million, Captivity nearly doubled in cost by the time all reshoots and editing were complete. And super-low costs can’t make up for miserable ticket sales: Captivity has earned only $8.5 million in box-office revenue, Silent Partner went straight to DVD, and You and I has yet to find a distributor, though RAMCO hopes to release the film worldwide by next fall. As Konov and Minkovski wrap up for the day, several executives from Warner Bros. (which is owned by TIME’s parent company, Time Warner) arrive at the RAMCO offices for an exploratory meeting. Nearly all of the major Hollywood studios have been sniffing around Moscow recently, trying to figure out how and when to get involved in an industry with a potentially massive upside. Twentieth Century Fox, which purchased the international rights to the ethereal Russian vampire movies Night Watch and Day Watch, opened offices in Moscow last year. Paramount and Disney are kicking the tires. And Sony, through its Columbia Tristar division, joined with several American investors last year to form Monumental Pictures, which is producing Russian-language movies for the domestic market. Monumental’s general director, Paul Heth, an American, built the first Western-style cinemas in Russia. He and his business partner, Shari Redstone, the daughter of Viacom chairman Sumner Redstone, have watched Russian movies begin to reclaim their own territory. Hollywood films still rule Russian theaters, but a Russian movie has claimed the top spot at the national box office in each of the last three years.

Quality in domestic cinema is gradually reasserting itself. “There was a time when scriptwriting in Russia went away because there were no features,” says Heth. Monumental has produced two movies and has four more in preproduction. Drawing on Sony’s resources in script development and production has helped raise the level of storytelling and overall professionalism. “Russian talent is every bit as good as anywhere else,” says Heth. “They just don’t have the experience yet.”

What Russia does have is money. Many in the oligarch class have achieved the kind of stability and self-assurance required to relinquish their much-guarded privacy and enter this very public sphere as investors and producers. Entering the offices of Igor Desyatnikov in central Moscow, visitors are obliged to pass through a metal detector, then withstand the menacing stares of several bodyguards. Desyatnikov himself sits behind a large walnut-topped desk, a colonel’s sheepskin hat resting on a far corner. Desyatnikov made his fortune in the sale of a private bank in 2004, and he heads an investor group that is putting up roughly $15 million for You and I. He also acts in the movie, playing a rogue named Ivan. Desyatnikov has appeared in several Russian-language movies. He also fronts a rock band, owns a few dairy-products factories, and hosts an outdoor nightclub that features drag racing. “This is my first international experience,” he says, running a hand over his shaven head. “I guess I’ll never come back to Russian movies. For me, as an investor, it’s not interesting. Any guy in the world dreams of being involved in American movies.” This is the great exchange: Hollywood cachet for the right to till these new fields of Russian wealth. But the ground can be treacherous. Hollywood producer and consultant Robert Cain spent several years working in Moscow, and though he has hopes for the future, he has little positive to say about the current state of Russian moviemaking. “Russians seems to be good at bringing knowledgeable people to Russia and then ignoring every bit of wisdom they offer up,” he says. “And corruption is just an enormous obstacle. A contract in Russia is essentially worthless. If someone decides to misbehave, you have little chance to bring a lawsuit.”

Beyond the threat of corruption and bribery, there are countless examples of cultural disconnection. Steven Nemeth, an American producer on You and I, is a veteran Hollywood filmmaker who served as a producer on Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Dogtown and Z-Boys. On this, his first job in Russia, Nemeth had great hopes of engineering an environmentally friendly production. “I got laughed out of the building,” he says. “They don’t even have places to take recycling.” The foreign director of photography on another film became frustrated with the Russian crew and resorted to ethnic insults; soon after, an object fell from the set and hit him on the head, convincing him that someone on the crew was plotting to kill him. Joffé, for his part, showed up to work one day to find that a building in which he planned to shoot had been razed. “You just have to dig in and take the system on on your own terms.” Joffé says. “It’s quixotic. But if it’s not, then you’re not making a movie.”

At dusk one evening, after shooting has finished for the day, the crew and producers gather for drinks against the red-brick colossus of an abandoned beer factory. A white-haired musician in a Hawaiian shirt plays classic rock. “There is going to be a lot of competition here in the future,” Nemeth says. “New money typically wants glory. And there’s plenty of new money here. With all due respect to this great city and this great culture, the reason to make movies here — it’s the money.” Just then, one of the Russian grips goes over the edge of drunkenness, proceeding to attack a nearby parked car. Several of his colleagues attempt to restrain him, but the man is so large that it takes a dozen of them to tackle him to the ground. The grip continues his fight, and after 10 minutes, he is roaming free in his underwear, searching for battle. Nemeth looks on as all of this transpires. “Has it been tough?” he asks. “Yeah. Would I do it again? Definitely.”

The big man is on the ground again, but he has the upper hand, flipping one of his colleagues to the blacktop and battering his face with repeated blows. Nemeth darts for the pileup, yelling in indignation, trying to break it up. No one else seems to care, and a Rolls-Royce, painted gold, cruises silently by the set.

I found myself at the base of this statue on my first trip to Kiev several years ago. I had flown in for a friend’s wedding, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the monument, the myth and history of it confounding the mind. I swallowed champagne with the rest of the reception crowd, as we waited for the bride, a Ukrainian model-turned-photographer, to appear with her American financier husband. Having climbed up through the interior of the statue, the couple poked out from the top of the shield high in the sky. The two then unfurled enormous American and Ukrainian flags, obscuring the hammer and sickle, before releasing clutches of doves to the air. Now this was a gesture of another kind altogether—a moment that encapsulated the new Kiev, where Western influences and Slavic traditions have united to transform this ancient city.

Kiev has undergone a furious change since that wedding day several years ago, and during my few dozen subsequent visits, I’ve stood witness to the transition. The fundamental event occurred in late 2004, when liberal-minded political forces staged a mass street protest against Kremlin-sponsored electoral fraud. The Orange Revolution awakened political hope where before there was only dread of power, and ushered Western-leaning Viktor Yushchenko to the presidency. Political consensus has been difficult to muster in the ensuing three years, but legislative reform and social change proceeds nevertheless.

The overall restructuring of life here has led many people to believe that Kiev—and all of Ukraine, with its 47 million people—is on the verge of breaking out of its dull, post-Soviet mold and becoming something altogether new and uplifting, part of the so-called “new Europe.” The adjustment in the general attitude has not escaped the notice of international investors. From national independence in 1992, until 2004, foreign direct investment into Ukraine totaled just $5.6 billion. But in the three years since the Orange Revolution, that number has ballooned to $20 billion. Hyatt, Radisson, and Intercontinental hotels have arrived in Kiev, along with flagship stores of most major fashion brands and carmakers. The newcomers now jockey for position with local oligarchs, whose cushy relations with the old apparatchiks had until recently afforded them a stranglehold on commerce.

This presents a strange game of sizing-up, as the rules of engagement alter by the week. The spawn of Ukrainian émigrés, who fled war and political cynicism have also been showing up, exploring their roots while transplanting values and skills learned in Western democracies—how to conduct business above-board, how to deal with the newly free press, how to excise intimidation from commercial relations. This mix of people and manners can produce a wild party, as Kiev is known for its ability to make anything happen for the right price, be it wealthy residents renting the entire botanical gardens for their own use or hiring out the national ballet for a weekend party at their dachas.

To anyone who favors real progress, Kiev’s Western lean can only be positive. But now that the Ukrainian state has dropped visa requirements for Americans and Western Europeans in an effort to drum up business and draw closer to the West, Kiev stands one EasyJet route away from becoming another cute tourist principality of ancient churches and digestible prices, bowled over by black beer and loud laughers. The days of beautiful strangeness are numbered. The drawbacks of progress never get any PR.

There is still time to catch Kiev with a proper mix of old and new, as the energy of recent arrivals mingles with an ancient logic that persists benign and toothless. Kiev presents a noticeably lighter shade of the Soviet aftershock. There are great similarities in the general routine and the heaviness to life in this part of the world. But in Kiev, things are done with a shrug, rather than with a scowl, as in Moscow. For centuries, Ukraine was known as Little Russia, and in the country’s capital today, the outlook of the underdog endures, and that makes the going considerably more relaxed.

IF IT’S ORANGE, it’s Kiev. In few places is a single color so loaded. Ever since Yushchenko’s political coalition chose it as its official color, orange has gone forth into the country as the hue of reform. Orange continues to dominate here, as it does during my visit on a recent, cold afternoon in mid-winter, the tangerine banners streaming down one of Kiev’s many hills, carried by marchers spilling onto European Square in the town center. It has often been election season here these last few years, as rival factions call for new votes, battling over seats in the parliament and the soul of the electorate.

I’ve returned to Kiev to gauge the speed and effect of progress. Always and everywhere are reminders of the past, whether it’s the concrete-slab Brezhnev-era architecture or the odd hammer-and-sickle fresco that catches the unaccustomed eye. Today the snow blankets the many middle-aged political supporters who have lived through decades of upheaval and privation. That’s just how it’s been in Kiev, stability as elusive as a prolonged stretch of good weather. I am taking it all in when a black Mercedes jeep stops in front of me. A door clicks open and a voice commands from inside: “Get in.”

I have known Robert Koenig for several years, and a better ally in Kiev would be hard to find, his vast local connections surpassed only by his generosity. Koenig, from Bethesda, Maryland, was a part of the first wave of Western developers arriving in Kiev a dozen years ago. He worked in-country for Pepsi for a few years, before realizing the vast opportunity inherent in a new market economy led by people with no capitalist experience. Koenig now owns a Ukrainian real-estate development company, the Black Sea Investment Group, which has brought many Western brands to the country—Mont Blanc, Dunhill, Tumi, Van Cleef & Arpels, and Piaget, among others. He also owns restaurants, nightclubs, casinos, family entertainment centers, and a fast-food empire.

“I just took Western ideas and adapted the American model to the Ukrainian taste,” Koenig says, his driver steering the jeep down Khreschatik, Kiev’s stately main artery. “It’s been bumpy. You had to understand that this was a brand new country. So you couldn’t expect the same things that you get in the West. For example, when I first started coming to Ukraine from America, I’d bring an entire suitcase full of food. But I don’t need to bring anything from the West anymore. They’re trying to adopt whatever’s in Western Europe and America, and bring it here as quickly as possible.”

Koenig’s car passes through Maidan Nezalezhnosti, Independence Square, the heart of the city, a great open space carved from granite government buildings and mercantile centers, with oversized globes and golden idols huddled around a 5,000-jet fountain called the Friendship of Nations. This setting comprises the heart of the city. It was here, in 1989, that hundreds of university students staged a hunger strike that spurred the end of the Communist Party in Ukraine. It was also on Maidan that the Orange Revolution played out in 2004, thousands of protesters hunkering down for weeks in harsh winter conditions, as speakers rallied them from a makeshift dais.

Koenig watches Maidan roll past his tinted windows. “Prior to the Orange Revolution, Ukraine was a bandit society,” he says. “The authorities would push you around. If you supported the other side, suddenly the tax inspector would come see you, the fire inspector would come see you, the sanitary inspector would come see you. Now there’s not as much stress. You’re allowed to take sides without any repercussion. You can walk the streets free.”

We continue on through the city. There are roughly three million residents here, with the Dneiper splitting the cosmopolitan Right Bank from the suburban Left Bank. Koenig has to attend a business meeting, so he hops out at Arena City, his four-story entertainment complex—restaurant, casino, sports bar, and nightclub. But he loans me his car and driver, and I continue on through the hard-stone inner city, its winding, tree-stuffed neighborhood streets a mix of new apartment towers and un-renovated housing blocks. Up the bending cobblestone embankments, the car turns on to Vladimirska, a main avenue named for Kiev’s central historical figure. The son of a Norse washerwoman, Vladimir I took Kiev by treachery and fratricide in 980. The kingdom was then known as Kievan Rus, the Rus appellation courtesy of a Scandinavian tribe that conquered the area and established Kiev as the first capital of the Slavs.

Vladimir had 800 concubines and engaged in human sacrifice, or so it is said. If anything, Vladimir serves as a lesson that everything eventually gets old. Because having grown tired of all the wild behaviors, he dispatched advisors on a tour of local religions. When they returned from Constantinople with upbeat reports on Christianity, Vladimir was impressed but unmoved. It wasn’t until he met an unattainable Christian princess that he made his decision, being baptized in Crimea in 988. He then baptized his entire kingdom, connecting Kievan Rus with the Western world, and qualifying for eventual sainthood in the process.

The kingdom of Kievan Rus lorded over the territory until 1240, when the Mongols sacked Kiev. The Eastern Orthodox Church and all political power drifted north to Moscow and Russia’s Golden Ring, and Kiev would never again hold such sway with the world.

There is plenty still standing to remind one of Kiev’s medieval roots, such as Andreyevsky Uzviz, where Koenig’s car eventually sets me down. This is a downward spiral of a street (uzviz meaning descent), which from ancient times has formed a direct route between Kiev’s aristocratic Upper Town and Podil, the workers’ quarter. Today the street is packed with vendors selling the rare worthwhile souvenir, such as an artisan jewelry box or highly detailed tsarist-era ruble notes, among the many haggled trifles—a wooden mace, a busted Red Army watch—the stuff of vacationer regret.

To see how locals shop, there is Bessarabsky Rinok, in the city center. Here, women in head scarves sell fruit, vegetables, caviar, fish, meat, sausage, cheese, honey, and flowers in a rotunda dating to 1912—the furious, and often loud, commercial activity monitored by a Lenin statue standing in the center of the room. The shopping experience here looks and feels timeless, and yet what’s being sold these days is a remarkable contrast to the sparse offerings during the Soviet era.

Also in Kiev’s center, on Khreshchatik, the Passage complex and nearby Marki bazaar carry high-end Russian and Ukrainian fashion designers such as Alena Akhmadulina, NB Poustovit, and Olga Soldatova.

It’s not hard to find a taxi in Kiev, as almost any Ukrainian in a cheap Lada or Volga will stop and take you where you want to go, after haggling over the price. Without a working knowledge of Russian or Ukrainian—both of which are spoken here—it’s impossible to avoid paying double. But it’s cheap all the same. I flag down a car and cruise from Andreyevsky Uzviz and along the Dnieper, which carries on for 400 miles past Kiev and empties into the Black Sea. In olden times, the Dnieper was known as Slavutich, meaning “Slavic river.” These days, Slavutich is etched in cursive across the blue labels of Kiev’s mainstay local beer, and here are several tall glasses of the stuff landing on the table just now.

The restaurant is called Khutorok, and my friends have assured me that this is Kiev’s most authentic Ukrainian dining experience, situated in a wooden houseboat parked on the Dnieper. The waitresses wear traditional Ukrainian peasant dress, with its colorful stitching and ill fit, making you want to squat low and pitch in harvesting what the good Earth has yielded. The crockery comes, containing the savory substantiality of the Ukrainian kitchen. Sitting around the table are the close friends I’ve made in Kiev over the years— construction bosses, publishing magnates, financiers, Internet kingpins, and wildcatter Americans who arrived in the early days of the free market, and now rake in the spoils of their entrenched companies. Everyone is yelling and grabbing and reaching across the table for meat.

There is, of course, borsch, with thick dollops of sour cream swimming in the beet broth. Plates layered with shashlik—grilled pig, chicken, and veal—fist-sized chunks eaten under the drip of several sauces. Then vareniki, the Ukrainian dumpling, filled with potato, salmon, cherries, or meats and vegetables, also eaten with sour cream. And blinis with not-so-small black pyramids of sturgeon caviar—which is currently under an export ban, giving the meal a wisp of the illicit. (I have often fielded questions about the “black market” in Kiev. My answer: You can buy anything here—a Hollywood movie before its theatrical release, a military escort, pirated computer software—all a single phone call away. Spend enough time in Kiev, and it’s hard to return to “normal life,” waiting in line with everyone else.)

Meanwhile, someone corrals a round of horilka, the Ukrainian national drink, which is vodka blended with honey and hot red pepper. Horilka burns going down, and leaves a scalding aftertaste along the windpipe. This is a serious drink for a serious town. Kiev can be a dangerous place for Westerners, not for troubles inflicted by locals, but for the damage you will be tempted to inflict on yourself. One must chase horilka with salo, the fat of a pig. Salo is white and salty and cold to the tongue, and when you throw it on the fire of fuming horilka, it has a big-blanket, dousing effect.

Khutorok aside, there are plenty of new restaurants popping up in Kiev these days, such as Belvedere, on Dneprovsky Spusk, which has a Continental menu and is frequented by the mayor of Kiev, Leonid Chernovetsky. Ikra, on Saksa­ganskogo, has excellent seafood, along with an oyster bar and a fine slogan: if it’s fresher, it swims. For top-shelf Georgian, Kazbek is the place to go, and for French pastries and desserts, there is the Wolkonsky Patisserie & Café, in the Premier Palace Hotel. For a quiet few hours, decompress at Babuin, a bookstore, café, and bar on Bogdana Khmelnytskogo.

For a stiff drink, however, your best bet is the Balcony Bar at the new Hyatt Regency, on Tarasova, which looks upon the gold-leafed St. Sophia Cathedral and St. Michael’s monastery, both completed in the 1050’s. There is also Ryumka, which means “shot glass” in Russian, and the first floor at Arena City, on Basseynaya (across from Bessarabsky Rinok), which brews its own beer. For dancing along with your drinking, Barski has a terrace that affords great views of central Kiev. There is also Tsar Project, on European Square, a loud, cavernous club, and Privilege, on Parkovka, which resembles a Grecian theater.

Among the many new clubs, bars, and restaurants in Kiev, none is hotter than Decadence House. The club/café is black inside, an Art Deco chamber of discreet permissions. The door opens, and beautiful women keep coming in, wrapped in expensive fabrics. They are tall, and wear heels that lift them higher. The many candles and reduced, sugarplum-inspired chandeliers spill shadows across their fine features. Vyacheslav “Slava” Konstantinovsky, who owns Decadence with his twin brother, Alexander, tells me the story of a fight that broke out in the club a few weeks earlier. One of the combatants exited Decadence lightened by the weight of one ear.

With their shaved heads and compact build, the Konstantinovsky brothers look like Yul Brenner, but they’re a lot more than Hollywood tough. They came up through the Soviet sports apparatus, as Greco-Roman wrestlers, and they’re now connected to some very real power as board members of Kiev-Donbass, a highly influential Ukrainian real-estate developer. They opened Decadence four years ago, and the place now attracts a clientele willing to pay high prices for an exclusive, glamour-puss evening. Tonight there are many substantial capitalists here in oil and metals, a foreign ambassador or two, along with several parliamentary deputies.

During the Orange Revolution, the Konstantinovsky brothers offered up Decadence as a gathering point for Orange functionaries. The TVs here, which now run Fashion TV on a loop, were then switched to the hard news of history as it was happening: the mass street protests, the gathering army, the sweeping uncertainty of a political process in crisis. Slava waves it away. “We’re not so interested in politics now,” he says, hinting at the stability that allows Decadence to pull in predictable profits. That confident wave is the upshot of the Orange Revolution. Three years ago there was a great fear that it would all come to a violent end, but now there’s the calming belief that Ukraine, with its new political will and its foreign investors spurring on new shops, clubs, and restaurants—is on the path to positive social and economic reform.

Outside Decadence, a gypsy cab pulls up, and I hop in. An elderly woman sits at the wheel, her voice hoarse with cheap come-ons. She is easily 65, and tells of prostitutes that may be had directly. “Very clean,” she says. “Very beautiful, all of them.” If you are unaccustomed to the underside of life, in Kiev you will ultimately be confronted with it, all matter of vice and excess barely hidden beneath the surface.

The taxi driver lets me out at Koenig’s Arena City, where a long line piles at the coat check, fur sheaths and twinkling earrings, great clouds of perfume and the unfunny faces of some serious money, escorting the beauties to the higher floors. Past the brewery downstairs, the sports bar on the second floor, and through the packed casino on the third floor, the glass doors cantilever open with a wash of house music slopping down the translucent staircase.

The club’s oval dance floor is charged with the cravings of village girls and guys who save up their glib chatter for the weekends. The loudest laughter can be heard at the VIP table, decked out with tall bottles. Koenig is here, and pours out another drink for another ally, Darko Skulsky, who owns Ukraine’s top movie and TV company, Radioaktive Film. Radioaktive produced last year’s U.S. slasher movie, Hatchet, and has made hundreds of TV ads and music videos for markets throughout Europe. It’s much cheaper to mount productions here than it is in, say, Berlin or even in Prague.

Skulsky’s family fled Ukraine during WWII, ending up in Philadelphia. Skulsky grew up Darren, but after graduating college, he changed his name to Darko and wound up right back in Ukraine, where he established Radioaktive with two other Ukrainian-Americans. Tracing the bloodline has made for stark times. A few years ago near Kiev, Skulsky visited relatives he had never met. “They started talking among themselves about how much money they were going to be able to get out of me,” he says. “Finally, I had to tell them that I speak Ukrainian.” A pretty woman sneaks behind Skulsky to deposit her purse at the booth, and he pastes a smile on his face. “I gave them a couple hundred bucks. Man, if my family hadn’t gotten out, I’d be driving around here in a Lada with a spoiler on the back.”

Taste doesn’t run cheap here. Viktor Pinchuk, a steel billionaire and Ukraine’s second-richest citizen, recently opened the Pinchuk Art Centre, on Krasnoarmeyskaya, a contemporary collection that includes pieces by Damien Hirst, Jeff Koons, and Andreas Gursky, all three of whom attended the opening of an exhibition of their works at Pinchuk’s gallery last fall. For Ukrainian art, there’s the Kollektsia Museum, on Pankivskaya, and the RA Gallery, on Bogdana Khmelnytskogo.

Kiev does not skimp on opera or ballet, either. Standards such as Swan Lake and La Bohème are performed with regularity at the Taras Shevchenko Ukrainian National Opera House, a grand structure on Vladimirskaya, considered one of the most prestigious in the former Soviet Union.

The day after my night at Arena, I find myself lacing the ice skates of a friend named Aliona. She has taken me to an indoor skating rink, the Pioneer Ice Club. The place is designed like a 1970s commissary. The staff here wears outfits that look as if they were left over from some failed Scandinavian attempt to host the Winter Games. After several circuits of the ice, we put our shoes back on and Aliona takes me on a short walk to one of Kiev’s landmarks: Pechersk Lavra monastery. The city is filled with such structures, not the least of which are towering monasteries and cathedrals, including St. Michael’s, St. Sophia, and St. Andrews.

It is deep-winter overcast, but the gold-leafed domes of the Pechersk Lavra monastery have absorbed enough light through the clouds to lighten the afternoon with a subdued reflection. Sledders take the long run down the hill leading from the church compound down toward the Dnieper. As we continue to the monastery, we pass a beggar with a peg-leg stump and then a memorial to the unknown soldier of WWII, the flicker of its flame sounding like a flag flapping in the wind.

Then we enter the gates of the thousand-year-old monastery. Lavra began as a cave in 1051, with monks living in a series of underground compartments. Over the ensuing centuries, Lavra spread across many acres as several churches were erected along this windy hilltop, the complex surrounded by high fortress walls. The Golden Horde destroyed Lavra in the 13th century. After being rebuilt, the compound met a similar fate in 1480, and again in 1941, when Soviet forces retreating from the Nazis laid mines that leveled many of the churches. Yet Lavra stands today, always rebuilt, emblem of Kievan Rus and Orthodox tradition, and Aliona’s feet are cold, she cries to me.

I send her home in one of the overpriced cabs that loiter cynically outside such places, and I head down to the Dnieper, where I have been told that the ice fishing is good. I shuffle onto the frozen surface, only to find a single fisherman remaining on the white expanse. He stares down into his little gap of the Dnieper, but soon packs up and walks off, his fishing gear nodding in his hands until he disappears in the distant white. This is the Kiev that doesn’t change.

The rest is up for grabs. As I look back toward the city from my vantage point on the ice, the most prominent image is the titanium statue of Soviet womanhood. My friend who celebrated his marriage there five years ago chose to stick around the neighborhood, rather than take the easy road back home. Now he manages a sizable investment fund, foreign money drawn to Kiev since the Orange Revolution. This is Kiev’s inevitable future: growth, and in every direction.

Cause to celebrate, I toast the city itself. I had picked up a bottle of gorilka on the way to the river, and the pepper vodka burns my insides rather than warms. No matter. Before me are the rolling hills of Kiev, Lavra and its unending Orthodox gold, the titanium statue, and a curious band of orange sunlight ripping through what has been a long and constant cover of cloud.

But travel beyond the slot halls of downtown, past wild dogs patrolling wild weeds, past Tajik road crews in orange jump suits, and a hub of activity rises from the woodland. In this place, where capitalist opportunity has overcome post-Soviet dreariness, time moves at the pace of obtainable dollars.

This is Akademgorodok—Academy Town—where Russian high tech booms. Action in IT , pharmaceuticals, metallurgy, and fossil fuels is making Novosibirsk, tucked away in a remote tract of Russia, a hive of outsourcing. Private high tech in Akademgorodok has expanded from a $10 million business a decade ago to a $150 million industry last year, with the number of firms growing at a rate of 15% annually. Akademgorodok won’t pass for Silicon Valley. But there is enough upside and softly priced expertise for Intel, IBM, and Schlumberger to make camp here in what is called the Silicon Forest. Russia’s federal government has also taken note, backing the construction of a new $650 million technology business district. And in an odd signal of Akademgorodok’s broadening reach, a local IT firm is producing a web portal for Oprah Winfrey.

Russian science and technology present an unusual mix of critical thinking, developmental breakthrough, and professional hunger born of the proximity of actual hunger. “Inside Intel we have an expression,” says Steve Chase, president of Intel Russia. “If you have something tough, give it to the Americans. If you have something difficult, give it to the Indians. If you have something impossible, give it to the Russians.”

THE STORY BEGINS in 1958, when leading figures in the Soviet scientific apparatus secured Nikita Khrushchev’s backing to establish a town devoted entirely to pure science. The idea was to collect many of the country’s top scientists in a single location deep in the Siberian woods, far from prying eyes and metropolitan distractions. By 1963, building crews had completed Akademgorodok, a scholastic and research entity 20 miles outside Novosibirsk. Within a few years, a university had opened, and its graduates were being plugged into the dozens of institutes dedicated to advanced research—a Soviet approximation of Cambridge, Mass.

In much of the world, moving to Siberia wouldn’t be regarded as an especially brainy plan of attack. But that is just what many of the Soviet Union’s greatest scientific minds decided to do, and to a large extent willingly, lured by the promise of new housing and professional advancement. For 30 years, Novosibirsk was one of the smartest cities in the imperium, a collective of academics who put their minds to everything from nuclear physics to theoretical genetics, from the space program to the weapons aimed at the great American evil.

And then the bottom dropped out.

When the Soviet state collapsed in 1991, the scientific community crumbled along with it. The salaries and status allotted to accomplished scientists vanished, as did a system geared toward nourishing young talent. Novosibirsk’s Akademgorodok was left with thousands of scientists, a bruised mission, little money, and the overwhelming anxiety that attends the decease of a patriarch.

A walk through the Novosibirsk Institute of Automation and Electrometry is all it takes to see the neglect. Electrical wires hang from the ceiling like stray hairs across a tired forehead. Paint flakes from the walls; lights in the passageways flicker from dim to dark. For an institution that once sparred with the math department of MIT , the place could use a pick-me-up.

But when Mikhail Lavrentyev, a Siberian mathematician of lofty provenance, opens the door to a research lab, he reveals what is saving Akademgorodok from sliding into irreversible institutional decrepitude: one very spherical man and another with severely crossed eyes hunched over computer terminals. These two doctoral students are writing code for Intel.

Lavrentyev’s grandfather, also Mikhail, was the prime mover in creating Akademgorodok. It was while working in the closed nuclear research town of Sarov that the elder Lavrentyev came upon the idea of creating an entirely new science town. It has been his grandson’s fortune to oversee Akademgorodok’s repurposing. “Akademgorodok was a new idea, multidisciplinary, to give young scientists a real chance to develop ideas,” Lavrentyev says. “But salaries in the ’90s went south, and it became a problem for the academy. There became a clear choice when you finished your degree. Go to science, or go to business and immediately you have a reasonable salary.”

So began the great hustle, as the pure scientists of Akademgorodok had to find a way to survive, commodifying and commercializing the high-tech expertise that once served the state. Many young scientists gravitated toward IT. Every year, Russia graduates as many scientific and technology specialists as India—200,000—although Russia is 80% smaller by population. Russia’s software exports now exceed $1.8 billion annually, and the country is the third-largest software outsourcing destination in the world, after China and India. “In these other countries, there was no technological culture like we had in Soviet times,” says Dmitry Milovantsev, Russia’s deputy minister of information technology and communication, hinting at the country’s potential.

A company called Novosoft launched Novosibirsk’s IT wave in 1992, growing to 500 employees and eventually partnering with IBM. Novosoft splintered in the Internet bubble, the effects of which registered even in Siberia, although the firm maintains a significant presence. Other companies have made considerable strides since then, most notably SW Soft, an IT infrastructure company specializing in server software. Today, SW Soft has more than 10,000 international customers and has received funding from Insight Venture Partners and Intel Capital.

Large multinationals are also taking advantage of the changing climate. Intel opened an Akademgorodok office in 2004 and now employs 200 programmers who optimize microprocessors. IBM arrived first to the market in 2000, while Schlumberger has taken the lead in local investment, having purchased a plot of land on which it is building an R&D lab.

The low cost of rent, services, and salaries—roughly one-fifth of Western prices—appeals, but so does the manner in which the system molds its wards. “None of our programmers in Novosibirsk are programmers by education,” says Intel’s Chase. “They are physicists, chemists, biologists, mathematicians. They are first of all scientists. Secondly, they learn how to program, as an afterthought. This combination is extremely powerful.”

IT offices are springing up on Akademgorodok’s leafy lanes as well as in its industrial back alleys. The work has been easy to come by, and with good reason, for words such as “loans,” “grants,” and “investments” haven’t a place in the local lexicon. “We’re kind of spoiled in America,” says James Smith, manager of emerging Internet technologies for IBM. “In Novosibirsk, they work from a different mindset. They need to generate capital if they’re going to move forward and buy a house or build a business.”

IBM now works with, among others, a Novosoft spinoff called Axmor, employing web mashup technologies—combining a spreadsheet, say, with a Google map—to create applications for clients in digital media and retail banking. Smith dispatches his marching orders from IBM’s suburban campus in Raleigh. Axmor, meanwhile, finds itself in a renovated apartment complex on the edge of Akademgorodok, a pack of mongrels lurking about the entrance. Inside the office, two slender, sun-deprived code punchers are playing table-hockey.

Pavel Toponogov, Axmor’s director, has turned a $30,000 investment into $1 million in revenue in just a few years. The bulk of work comes from outside Russia, much of it generated through Internet advertising. That is the way Harpo Productions, Oprah Winfrey’s media company, hired Axmor to build a web portal. “We didn’t really know who Oprah was,” says Andrey Kanonirov, Axmor’s IBM project manager, “but we know who she is now.”

IN RUSSIA, OUTSIDE of Moscow and St. Petersburg, hunting for computer service and parts is a game marked by retail incompetence and technical incompatibility, a product of last decade’s models and the last regime’s disregard for the wishes of the customer class. Not so in Novosibirsk. Walk into Technocity in Akademgorodok and not only will you encounter the kind of service that betrays the sales force’s acquaintance with capitalist fundamentals, but you had also better hope that your own hardware is up to speed. With five-dollar haircuts and Bluetooth rigs jammed into their ears, the attendants will let you know that their merchandise moves so quickly that all they have is the newest of the new, about which they are highly conversant. As this sinks in, walk out the door and deposit a few rubles in the hand of a terrified pensioner whom society has cast aside.

There’s a lot of that in this town, the up-to-date encased in the same old sausage skin, the ultramodern colliding with the outmoded. Developers at Broker Consulting Services design a Panasonic home-theater system in a building that once served as casing for a giant computer, in the days when mainframes were of such size. Laser Crystal Solutions, which grows crystals under a lucrative contract with a California photonics firm, operates out of a darkened longhouse. One of the top exporters in Akademgorodok, the Novosibirsk Institute of Nuclear Physics, houses an electronpositron collider that its 65-year-old director used during his school days. In a drafty hangar that was until recently inhabited by drunks and rodents, Screen Photo Electronic Instruments produces night vision devices for a San Francisco company. “It’s so cold here,” says Vladimir Aksyonov, the general director, wrapped in a white lab coat, “there’s nothing to do but work.”

Even with less than ideal facilities, Akademgorodok presents a singular picture of Russia. A sense of purpose is difficult to ignore. “What you feel out there is pride,” says Intel’s Chase. “That’s what their history is all about.”

Before the railroad came to Novosibirsk in 1893, travelers endured a ten-month journey to reach the area by horse cart from Moscow. Now, Dmitry Verkhovod interrupts a meeting to sign for an overnight package from Ozon, Russia’s equivalent of Amazon.com. “Look at this,” he says, tossing the package from hand to hand. “Even out here in Siberia, I can receive DVDs, books, music.”

Verkhovod, deputy president of the Siberian branch of the Russian Academy of Sciences, is the man in charge of plans for Novosibirsk’s one-million-square-foot business center, designed to alter the way Akademgorodok tech is turned into profit. “The history of Novosibirsk is a series of jumps like this,” Verkhovod says, spreading architectural drawings across his desk.

First the rails came, the town sprouting up after engineers chose this barren spot for the Trans-Siberian Railroad to cross the Ob River. Then, during World War II , the state evacuated factories from European Russia to the safe harbor of Novosibirsk. Akademgorodok was the next major development. “This will be another jump,” Verkhovod says. “Right now we don’t have a way to commercialize our developments. The Novosibirsk Akademgorodok is a huge brand, and it has to be marketed.”

Novosibirsk’s tech center will be one of four in Russia, part of a plan President Vladimir Putin announced in Akademgorodok in 2005, on the heels of a trip to tech-savvy India. The complex will receive $100 million in state funding for infrastructure, with private firms kicking in the rest and receiving tax breaks in return.

High tech is the sort of thing the Kremlin would like to develop, understanding that natural resources can’t last forever and brain resources need tapping. “We simply mustn’t waste this chance,” Putin declared. But Russia is still learning on the fly. The Ministry for Information Technology and Communications was established only in 2004. Deputy minister Milovantsev stresses patience. “It’s not like building a house, where you put people in it and they’re happy,” he says. “Our goals are more distant.”

LENIN ONCE COMMENTED disapprovingly about the disposition of the Siberian peasant: wealthy, satisfied, uninterested in revolution. But there are revolutions of grapeshot, and those that employ more subtle means. In the tech revolution, Novosibirsk has shown itself to be more than game.

“My grandfather was a fighter,” Lavrentyev says, emerging from his institute, braced against a cutting wind, wearing only a sport coat. Attached to his lapel is a small pin, a cameo of his grandfather. “I think he would appreciate worldwide high-tech brands like Intel and Schlumberger here. At the same time, I think he would want business to pay for using our brains.”

Someone will always shell out for a scientific mind, be it the state, the private firm, or the publicly traded behemoth. In Akademgorodok, it has been a matter of shifting masters, and in various instances becoming one’s own master. Back on the road to solvency, Lavrentyev turns away and walks up a boulevard named for his grandfather, a bust of the old man visible against the trees.

Vardan Kushnir returned to his third-floor apartment in central Moscow on such a summer night last July, his head lightened by several rounds of top-shelf booze at a dark cliche of a club where female patrons often danced topless on the bar. It was time for a last drink or two in the company of several young women, one of them reportedly 15 years old. In the life of Russia’s most despised Internet figure, this was just another night.

Although he never came to love his adopted city, Kushnir had created a comfortable existence for himself here. His business, the American Language Center (ALC), which taught English to Russian nationals, was thriving on the back of a relentless spamming campaign. Twenty-five million emails a day generated enough new clients to subsidize Kushnir’s heroic bouts of clubbing and sex, indulging himself in a way that was remarkable even in a city known for its profound lack of shame.

Kushnir dreamed of becoming a famous software developer—“like Bill Gates”—but instead took a more inglorious path. His endless spam and boastful escapades made him a source of irritation throughout Moscow. He battled government officials and exasperated everyone else, especially his own employees. But his faith in Scientology gave him a peculiar calm. Even as his cash-and-carry lifestyle plunged him into chaos, he never raised his voice, never appeared to anger. All the loathing only amused Kushnir, as he managed to keep his enemies at distant remove.

Until that hot night. Kushnir shared an apartment on Sadovaya Karetnaya Street with his mother, Olga, and the alley cats he always seemed to be taking in. As she always did when her son brought girls home, Olga had agreed to sleep in a nearby studio. The next morning, she returned to the apartment to find his bloody corpse on the bathroom floor.

Police soon followed. Even a year later, they still won’t disclose the exact course of events. According to news reports, the 35-year-old entrepreneur returned home in the early morning with three young women, one of whom he had encountered at the Hungry Duck, a club on the unsubtle end of Moscow’s meet and greet. Cocktails were poured, and the girls slipped a tranquilizer into his drink. Soon enough, Kushnir was out cold. But the dose didn’t keep him down long. When he came to, the young women struck him on the head.

Kushnir was in trouble, and it was about to get worse. Several males—friends of the girls—arrived. One newspaper describes them scaling the drainpipe and entering through an apartment window. The group now numbered at least five, and some of them began to beat Kushnir savagely, smashing his skull and leaving him immobile on the floor, blood silently flooding the tiles.

When Kushnir’s mother discovered the body in the morning, it was already chill to the touch. “There was so much blood,” she says.

After the cops had come and gone and the corpse was on a slab at the morgue, one of Moscow’s yellow journals headlined the episode with triumphant cynicism: “the spammer had it coming.”

VARDAN KUSHNIR GREW up in Armenia. His father skipped out early on, and his mother raised him alone. As a teenager, he excelled in math and physics, winning an invitation to study at the Moscow Technological Institute of Light Industry. After graduation, he spent a year in Los Angeles and returned to Moscow speaking English with almost no accent. In 1994, he opened the ALC, tapping US expats to teach English to Russians.

Russia in the mid-’90s was plagued by open gang warfare and unchecked theft of state assets. Getting rich—billionaire rich—had less to do with working diligently or coming up with ideas than it did with brute force. The overt signs of privilege were the black Mercedes and impudent swagger of an oil baron. It was in this era of conspicuous wealth that Kushnir launched a new company he hoped would make him a ton of money.

Kushnir diverted his attention to Sophim, a US-based company he founded with a partner in Florida. They developed an application, Edifact Prime, based on a pre-Internet, business-to-business ordering standard. But after several years and many trips to Florida, Kushnir saw his seed money chewed up by costly tradeshows. By 2001, the venture was all but shelved, and Kushnir returned his focus to the ALC, which had been providing enough income to support him and his mother while he worked on Sophim.

This time, though, he had a new weapon in his arsenal: spam. He had used bulk email to sell shares of Sophim (until the state of Kansas told him he needed a brokerage license). Now he launched into his Russian spam operation with the frenetic energy typical of a post-Soviet entrepreneur. “He would change his thoughts and decisions every couple of hours,” a longtime ALC office manager says. “He had too many ideas. He wanted to do everything all at once, as fast as possible.”

After bouncing between servers in Russia and Germany, Kushnir hooked into the Chinese market, where $1,000 pays a month’s rent on a server that can send 7 million emails a day. While administering the ALC’s daily operations, he obsessed over beating spam filters, locating new servers, buying email lists, and anything else that would widen his web. It worked. By 2003, a year into the onslaught, company revenue had doubled. The ALC had more than 110 students, and it was clearing as much as $13,000 a month. With minuscule rent and overhead, Kushnir bagged the lion’s share. It was hardly a fortune by US standards, but in Moscow, where the average salary is about $2,600 a year, it vaulted him into the minor aristocracy.

IGOR VISHNEVSKY REMOVES a metallic Bluetooth nugget from his ear before sliding onto a leather couch in Le Gateau, a poor imitation of a French cafe. He casts an eye through the window and onto the movements of Tverskaya, Moscow’s glossy main avenue, a blur of billboards and hot lights. Almost a year after Kushnir’s death, Vishnevsky, a spam engineer Kushnir recruited from Belarus to run the ALC’s technical operations, has no regrets about how they found new customers. “If a person says he hates spam,” Vishnevsky says, blowing on his espresso, “then he means he hates advertising, which he sees everywhere.”

The ALC’s spam operation was crude, but effective: Vishnevsky would send spider software to crawl the Net, collecting email addresses and adding them to the rolls several hundred thousand at a time. He also worked with suppliers, paying a few hundred dollars for a million addresses. To fool spam filters, Kushnir would insert random spaces between words in the subject line, or turn the body into a GIF or JPEG. At its peak, the operation was generating an average of 15 interested would-be ALC students every day.

But the system was as buggy as it was crude, sometimes sending emails to the same people more than 50 times a day. Complaints streamed in. People swore, threatened, raged—anything to eradicate the nuisance. “They used the word fuck much more often than other words,” Vishnevsky says.

Kushnir shrugged off the grievances, often finding solace in one of the Scientology books scattered around the office, muttering that opinions mattered little in the face of financial growth. For him, spam was effective; everything else was wasted chatter. “We spammed everyone five days per week,” Vishnevsky says. “We gave them a break on holidays.”

As the months wore on, protest groups—one was called the Anti-American Language Center—sprang up on Russian-language Web sites. Kushnir had become widely despised, but his resolve only stiffened into a schoolboy’s smugness. “It was classic Soviet linear thinking,” says Mike McAtavey, a former ALC instructor. “I get 250 customers and a billion nuisance calls. If I triple my input, I’ll get 750 customers.” And, of course, three billion nuisance calls.

Spam was so cheap that Kushnir began using it simply to attract attention to the ALC, even in places where he couldn’t hope to generate business. He spammed far-off countries like Israel, Spain, France, and the US. “There was no concern for being liked,” says Rick Farouni, who worked at the ALC for two years.

Then Kushnir began attracting the wrong kind of attention. In 2003, his spam reached Andrey Korotkov, then Russia’s deputy minister of communications. Soon Korotkov was getting 10 ALC emails a day. When he tried to unsubscribe, the messages doubled and started arriving addressed to him by name. “I took it as a joke,” Korotkov says, “to show me that there was nothing I could do to stop them.”

In 2004, Korotkov raised the issue at an Internet symposium held in Moscow’s Central Telegraph building and attended by influential ISP reps, advertising executives, journalists, and government officials. Russia has no laws against spam, so Korotkov canvassed the panel, asking what could be done to stop Kushnir. The only solution anyone could offer smacked of the ALC’s own tactics – revenge by inundation. The following morning, the ALC was flooded with 1,000 prerecorded calls featuring Korotkov’s booming voice: “I want to warn you that if you continue your illegal activity, then the necessary measures will be taken, not just by me.” It was only a scare tactic, and Kushnir knew it. “We just laughed at him,” Vishnevsky says, noting that the episode prompted Kushnir to boast that no spam operation had ever generated such negative response.

Kushnir acknowledged the counterattack by toying with Korotkov, sending still more emails to the minister’s inbox, but with a new theme. “You very badly need Viagra,” they read. “And we have girls here waiting to serve you. We are going to give you a special test to check your sexual potential. You must buy one ton of Viagra.”

A defeated Korotkov merely deleted the messages. “What else could I do?” he says, likening himself to a caged animal. “You can make faces to a bear in the zoo, and he will never reach you. He will just spoil the air.”

Kushnir reveled in the trouble he was causing. “Vardan sent me a link about the conflict between him and the deputy communications minister,” says Mikhail Urubkov, a Russian programmer who worked on Edifact Prime. “He said, ‘See how famous I am.’ It was a game to him.” And not the only game he liked to play.

THE NIGHT MIGHT begin at Mio, a club not far from the ALC office, where impressing the insecure teens behind Fendi sunglasses was as easy as explaining to them the contents of the California rolls they just ordered. Against this backdrop, a successful Internet entrepreneur would be king.

At 35, Kushnir’s blond hair had receded in a wide scoop across his scalp, sticking up in wisps that he did little to contain, and his face wore the evidence of many late nights. But as a man of inscrutable international experience who never ran low on ruble notes, Kushnir didn’t have to work hard in places like Mio to attract young women. He would glide around, introducing himself as the director of the American Language Center, until he found a taker. “Most of the girls had heard about his spamming,” Vishnevsky says. “They found him fascinating.” If that wasn’t enough, he’d tell stories about how he owned a big house in America, where he was a man of great consequence.

But Kushnir soon grew bored and began looking beyond the usual club scene. Former employees say he slipped into a dark void of orgies, prostitution, and whatever happened to be past the edge. He relied on a network of whore joints that ring the city. Sometimes he’d head to a gambling boat moored on a canal along Moscow’s back side. There he would strip naked and lie prone as two women licked him from head to toe.

Kushnir would often arrive at work on Monday morning wearing a smirk, recounting another tale of strange accomplishment. One afternoon he exclaimed, “Finally, I found it,” and summoned an employee to his desk, where he pointed to an online ad for a mother-daughter sex team.

Employees were put off by Kushnir’s behavior, but they were far angrier about the fact that he withheld their salaries. Many of his workers were expat thrillseekers, Moscow short-timers who eventually figured out the situation and quit the ALC with a lesson in the ways of Russian labor. When an employee did confront him, Kushnir grew oddly pacific. “Why are you putting all this pressure on me?” he asked, adopting the even tone of a superior conscience. “Why are you getting so angry? You should read some L. Ron Hubbard.” He then offered a volume on Scientology from his bookshelf.

The nobility of such gestures was lost on most. “His only authority was L. Ron Hubbard,” Vishnevsky says. “He didn’t consider other people as friends. He considered himself above them.”

While those around Kushnir fumed at his sanctimony, he remained oblivious, descending into ever stranger behavior. “He was spending all he earned,” McAtavey says, explaining how Kushnir, between headlong binges on sex and spam, would comb the city for odd flourishes of fashion that would make him stand out in a crowd of wealthy suitors. “I came in one day and he was wearing an expensive silver silk ascot,” McAtavey says. “That’s what I remember—the silk ascot and not getting paid.”

“When Kushnir died, there were some people around here who were not disappointed,” adds another former employee. “He had enemies. There’s no question about it.”

THE TALLEST LENIN statue in Moscow stands in October Square. Lenin strides with his chin up, greatcoat trailing behind him, caught up in the rushing wind of what was supposed to have been progress. A short walk from the statue, the American Language Center occupies a third-floor office in a redbrick schoolhouse. It’s a rec room of Americana. A poster of the Brooklyn Bridge hangs beside an American flag and a topographical map of the US. The ALC still operates today, albeit with reduced fanfare. There are far fewer students, no spam campaigns, and the occasional phone call handled by whoever’s around. Kushnir’s mother runs the business now. She’s a lonely figure deep in middle age, sharing photos of her son and memories of his last evening.

The night of the murder, his assailants reportedly swiped a few items from the apartment, including a laptop, which led the Moscow prosecutor’s office to suggest the event may have been a botched robbery. His mother doesn’t believe it. “There were three or four of them,” she says. “If they wanted to rob him, they could have tied him up, locked him in the bathroom. They came to kill him.”

Part sanctimonious sexual adventurer, part ruthless spammer, Kushnir left a wake of displeasure as he waded through life. In a well-ordered world, he would have been a social outcast. But Moscow has its own kind of order, and it’s easy to imagine how Kushnir’s brash gestures could have pushed the wrong person too far. There may be little shame in this town, but there are certainly consequences. By crossing the line from entrepreneurial hustler to remorseless nuisance, Kushnir made himself vulnerable.

Not long before his death, even Kushnir began to ache over his own excesses. He told one employee that he wanted to restrain his desires, that he needed some self-control to become, in his words, “a strong man.”

In August 2005, Moscow authorities detained four people in connection with the Kushnir murder. No names have been released, no trial date set. Russian police officials and prosecutors have officially embargoed all information about the case. And so, a year later, everything is playing out behind closed doors. Or not playing out at all. As time goes on, the killing only recedes deeper into memory. After all, dozens of people meet a violent end every week in Moscow.

Kushnir was buried a half hour’s drive outside of town, amid tall grasses and unregimented tombstones. After a quiet ceremony, a bus carried mourners to the American Language Center. The people ate and drank and said not much of anything, understanding that Vardan Kushnir had become too much even for Russia to bear.

But real change in Azerbaijan is not in the forecast. It’s not that Aliyev doesn’t want democracy but rather that his country has never genuinely practiced it. Case in point: This month’s parliamentary elections were roundly condemned by international observers, as all previous elections here have been. A string of arrests leading up to the Nov. 6 vote only intensified the dark outlook. Authorities detained the leader of an opposition youth organization on charges of attempting to overthrow the government. They refused to allow a key opposition figure to return from abroad. And the Minister of Economic Development found himself in jail along with his brother, a top oil executive, on suspicion of preparing a palace coup. When the ballots were counted on election day, the opposition won just six of 125 seats.

“Azerbaijan is a country in transition,” Aliyev explains, talking down expectations a few weeks before the vote. “We are now only in the beginning of our economic growth.”

With a million barrels of oil running through the new pipeline each day, that growth is coming on fast. If the price of oil remains above $45 a barrel, Azerbaijan, a country with a GDP of $8.5 billion, can expect to double its national budget next year and collect $160 billion over the next 25 years. But because that Caspian oil is being delivered directly to Western markets for the first time, Aliyev’s friends in the West want to talk democracy. Just how much can they push? Do they want to push? For those paying attention, Azerbaijan presents a test of where—stripped of all the wind-bagging over “freedom”—American and British priorities really lie. Azerbaijan would not matter so much if it were, say, Nigeria, another oil-rich nation with lots of problems. But the important thing here is location. On one border is Russia, steaming over being cut out of Azerbaijan’s oil future, thanks to the new pipeline. To the northwest is Georgia, a new darling of U.S. foreign-policy makers and a conduit for the pipeline on its way to the Mediterranean. Armenia, which fought a six-year war with Azerbaijan and still occupies the disputed territory of Nagorny-Karabakh, is to the west. And finally, there is Azerbaijan’s southern neighbor, Iran, which has a population of roughly 20 million ethnic Azeris.

The Soviet Union may have been a longtime enemy, but as far as Washington is concerned, it accomplished something good in Azerbaijan: It secularized the place. Azerbaijan remains the most secularized Muslim country in the world, more so in most respects than Turkey. Adult men in Baku wear jackets and ties, are fluent in Russian, and want to earn a good salary. The best chance of doing that is by signing up with an oil major like BP or Chevron or with an oil-services giant such as Halliburton, McDermott, or Schlumberger—all of which are entrenched here.

With the pipeline in place that connects Baku, Tbilisi, and Ceyhan, the U.S. Congress has allocated $135 million for the Caspian Guard Initiative. The money is being spent on upgrades to Azerbaijan’s maritime forces, including training and constructing sophisticated radar systems. Big-time American defense contractor Washington Group International has already helped build two radar stations in Azerbaijan, one of which is in the town of Astara, just a few miles from the Iranian border.

There is also plenty of talk about deploying American troops in Azerbaijan, especially after the recent eviction of U.S. forces from Uzbekistan. Considering the fuss such a move would cause with the neighbors, this proposal hasn’t yet graduated to official status. But the topic of an American military presence in Azerbaijan has become so hot that the president of BP’s local operation, David Woodward, professes to have heard absolutely nothing, even about the Caspian Guard.

BP is the largest investor in the pipeline and has the most at stake. Woodward, a Briton who sports a closely trimmed white beard, watches over his company’s operation from BP’s gated Villa Petrolea compound in the southern part of Baku. In contrast to the streets outside, BP’s offices are carpeted and swept clean. Posters of children and flowers line the walls, touting the firm’s commitment to the environment.

“There is a prevailing idea that oil companies are satisfied with the status quo,” Woodward says, sitting in an air-cooled corner office. “But you can’t have a shortsighted view when you’re making the kinds of investments we’re making. We have a commitment to remain here for 20 years to see a return on our investment.”

Woodward isn’t just making sounds: He was critical of government tactics leading up to the election. In May, a few days before the opening of the pipeline, an event that attracted top foreign dignitaries including U.S. Energy Secretary Samuel Bodman, police waded into an opposition march. In a rare move for someone in his position, Woodward spoke out against the violence. That prompted President Aliyev’s chief of staff, Ramiz Mekhtiyev, to say that “foreign companies should get on with their business and not interfere in politics.” It must have slipped Mekhtiyev’s mind that foreign capital investment accounts for half of Azerbaijan’s GDP.

“When you talk about stability,” Woodward says, “it has to be long-term stability, so that the desires of the people are realized, and prosperity is not confined to a small elite. There are some people in government who are not enthusiastic about this and will resist change.”

ONE PROBLEM IS corruption. Transparency International, the watchdog group, ranks Azerbaijan the sixth-worst on its list of corrupt countries, between Myanmar and Angola. According to some estimates, 60% of the Azerbaijani economy is off the books. A local newsmagazine, Hesebat, recently published a list of the country’s richest people; eight of the top ten worked in government.

But to effect change, there needs to be a viable option. And one of the main problems of the political opposition—aside from official harassment and electoral irregularities—is that it doesn’t appear to have anything creative to say. The main figures are Isa Gambar, leader of the Equality Party, and Ali Kerimli, head of the Popular Front. Those two parties, along with several smaller groups, joined together for the elections to form the Freedom coalition. That was a productive step, but visits to Gambar and Kerimli at their respective party headquarters leave the impression that the leaders have good clothes and newish furniture but that their followers spend their days loitering at the entrance, on guard for the next Turkish coffee.

The battles here are still being fought on rather low ground. Leading up to the elections, the government TV stations spent considerable effort trying to paint Kerimli as a homosexual. Married with three children, Kerimli shrugged it off with class. He sits behind a large desk in a shiny new suit and speaks broadly of the need for democracy in Azerbaijan. “Stability is a relative concept,” he says. “In Azerbaijan today, it can be violated at any point by any means. I believe in a radical strategic reform of the entire state system and economy, and this will not be possible under the current regime.”

Kerimli wears an orange tie, the color of Ukraine’s revolution under Viktor Yushchenko and the preferred hue of reformers in the post-Soviet space. It’s a miracle that he has even this, as Aliyev’s police raided Baku stores over the summer and confiscated all orange articles of clothing. Practically the only orange garments left in Baku are worn by the workers who assemble the giant oil rigs on McDermott’s seaside lot.

While Yushchenko’s movement received strong backing from the West, as did Mikhail Saakashvili’s Rose Revolution in Georgia, it’s still up for grabs just how vigorously Washington wants to ride with the opposition. There is a feeling that, keeping in mind any risk of disrupting the oil business in Baku, it’s just not ready for that level of support.

“If democracy triumphs in Azerbaijan, it’s not a threat to U.S. interests,” Kerimli says, adjusting his orange tie. “The oil will flow, just as it flows now. And the U.S. can take credit for another success, another revolution, and in a Muslim country. It’s essential that Azerbaijan become a part of the Western family of nations and become an example for other Muslim nations.”

BUT AZERBAIJAN HAS a lot of cleaning up to do before Western governments can safely embrace it. And that may never happen. President Aliyev inherited the post from his father, Heydar Aliyev, a former Politburo member, who more than anyone else created the image and idea of an independent Azerbaijan. As President for a decade, he ended the war with Armenia, brought in the Western oil companies, and sat atop a Mafia-style pyramid structure where no one in government did anything without his affectionate nod.

He died in 2003, shortly after his son succeeded him as President. Now, however, the tables appear to have turned. It is the ministers and the moneyed class that control the 44-year-old President. “The President has no normal parliament,” says Aslan Ismailov, a prominent Baku attorney with ties to Aliyev. “He knows that at any moment the parliament could go against him. He wants a normal parliament. After that, he can get rid of people in the ministries.”

That helps explain Aliyev’s nerves. Were he to wish for fairer practices, as he hints he does, Aliyev could hardly make them come about. And so the U.S. is left wondering how to play its hand. “Our relationship could be very good,” says Reno Harnish III, U.S. ambassador to Azerbaijan. “We could have a very strong relationship.”

The diplomas and citations look down from Harnish’s walls in the leafy American embassy enclave in Baku, a world away from the crumbling apartment blocks just past its gate. “How much can you tie your wagon to Azerbaijan if over the long term it’s going to be unstable?” Harnish asks. “The leadership of Azerbaijan has to realize that it has to change the way it does things here. We’re never going to get down the road to a closer relationship unless they make specific changes. You can’t just throw seeds on barren ground.”

But you also have to reconcile your need for Caspian oil with your talk about global democracy. Or do you? Instead of becoming a Muslim exemplar of U.S. foreign policy, Azerbaijan just may come to represent the fundamental contradiction in U.S. foreign policy—an economic success and a political failure that you’re just going to have to live with.

Darko Milicic will be the second player selected in the NBA draft this year. He is still only 17 years old. He is Serbian. The vital statistic, of course, is where his head stops. And he still suffers from frequent and stabbing nocturnal pains along his drawn and extended infrastructure.

Out on the court, he joined his Serb premier league team, Hemofarm, which had traveled to this dreary town of Nis to compete in a mid-season tournament called the Koraca Kup. Daylight poured down from windows jammed into the lid of the small circular arena, daubing the parquet in drab morning reflections. Workmen were on their knees, affixing a logo to center court. “S’up, baby?”—there were three black players swatting each other’s big open palms. The cuff of pounding basketballs slapped toward the lofted paint-chipped ceiling.

The Hemofarm coach patrolled the sideline, his knuckles going white as he dented a box of Davidoff cigarettes with a series of involuntary squeezes. Darko was down at the far end of the court shooting lonely, arcing foul shots through white-knit netting.

The coach bee-lined for us, screaming in Serbian, cutting at the air with a chopping backhand. The translation came in a second: “Whyareyoutryingtofuckwithmyteam?”

His name was Zeljko Lukajic. They called him Electricity. A subtle shockwave rippled through the fluffy brown hair that piled forward on his crown. Electricity carried bags of worry and scurvy under his eyes. He exuded an air of lousy cafeterias. He was 45, going on dead.

Coach did make us laugh. But this was no reciprocal relationship. Hemofarm had suffered a few early-season losses. Serbia’s largest pharmaceutical company owned the team, and its shareholders were concerned with the bottom line. Maybe Electricity’s head was on the block. Maybe we were the last thing he wanted to see.

He said he wouldn’t grant access to Milicic during the tournament, that our presence was too distracting. Considering the fact that we had booked five nights in a town where they burned garbage on their front lawns, this was not comforting news. Someone told us Coach was “outrageously insulted” by our request to ride on the team bus, and he was equally moved by our explanation that this kind of thing was standard practice in the NBA. “The NBA?” Electricity huffed. “The NBA is entertainment. Basketball in Serbia is business.” He wheeled on a heel and stalked off, owner either of an incredible sense of timing or a troubled relationship with the way things are.

A few minutes later, Hemofarm’s captain, Dragoljub Vidacic, a grim, ring-eyed veteran of the Yugo leagues, leaned in and explained that everyone on the team would “get jealous” if we talked to Milicic. Was this charm school? Clearly, everyone was having trouble grasping reality. In a few months, Milicic would be throwing cash up in the club, and these guys were consigned to getting recognized at the fruit stand.

Grapes were once a delicacy. In some parts of the world they still are. We were coming down with peasant fatigue, and the trip had only just begun. This was all a little too much to bear, and we retired to the Press Caffe across from the locker rooms. Darko continued shooting his lonely foul shots at the far end of the court, as forbidden to us as the captain of the cheerleaders.

THE MAN AT the bar pulled us a local while we arranged our thoughts on Milicic. His name first hit the papers back home around the All-Star weekend, when his agents sought a ruling on a vaguely worded portion of the NBA handbook, concerning draft eligibility for Europeans. Milicic will turn 18 on June 20, six days before the draft, and it wasn’t clear whether he’d be allowed in. After a drawn-out public battle, the NBA caved, and Darko was granted his payday a year early. He can certainly use it.

Milicic grew up in Novi Sad, Serbia’s second-largest city. His dad was a burly patrol cop (“All he’s good for is beating people up,” Darko had confessed to our advance people); his mother was a six-foot-three cleaning lady. The family was poor—a drunk uncle took them in a few years back, only to kick them into the street quickly thereafter. At 13, all knees and elbows, Darko began his pro career with a team located across the Danube from the dirt court out back of his house. When NATO bombs knocked out Novi Sad’s three bridges, Milicic had to take a barge to practice. His parents didn’t think that was a good idea, and eventually Darko was shipped off to play for Hemofarm, in Vrsac, a tiny town an hour’s drive from Belgrade. NBA teams had been scouting him since he was 14.

Oh yeah, and Milicic liked 50 Cent, which meant that at least he had aptitude.

We were sipping the beer when a man in blue landed in the next seat over. An orange Hemofarm pin stuck to the lapel of his suit jacket. He said he had known Darko for a long time, and it wasn’t two minutes before his brow started worrying itself. “His head is already in America.” The man sighed. Apparently, Milicic had begun trading words with his coaches, bumping opposing players during games. “Now he cares about mobile phones, jewelry, clothes.”

Maybe they were keeping us away from Darko for a good reason after all. It was beginning to sound like Milicic was killing time. The man looked disappointed, and he swung his head round to the TV screen that flickered in the corner of the lounge. “I have known Darko for long time,” he said. “He is changing. He and his family. For half year. They are all about money now.” The man paused. “It’s very pity,” he continued. “Because he’s OK person. But it’s hard to be OK person when you have not OK guy around you.”

The not OK guy was not far from view, roaming the halls with the awful patience of a hurtful fish. He wore a black shirt beneath a suit of gray polish. His hair was done in white flecks, and on his face it was worn in a thin goatee that ran up the sides of his mouth like a reverse drip. He looked like the movie director James Cameron. He had that quality of scanning everything without appearing to move his eyes.

Dragan Delic was Milicic’s Serbian agent, in partnership with a man named Cornstein back in New York. He was the one who had wrangled Milicic a handful of years ago, when it came clear that the kid had basketball and cash in his future.

Later on, sitting over a small cup of deep dark liquid, Delic revealed his method in gaining Darko’s trust. He leaned back in his seat, the fabric of his suit coat peeling off his chest to reveal the place where the beating went on. “Personality,” he said, drawing out the word like it was the end of the show. The corners of his mouth twisted to stand down a sneer.

Milicic eventually made his way onto the team bus, but not before trading daggers with Electricity, who gulped his Davidoffs in the tight hallway between the lounge and the echoing showers of the locker rooms. We hung around and kept quiet, and once the players had filtered through the exit, Electricity began to amp down. With the practice session behind him and Hemofarm’s first Kup game a whole day away, his frame loosened, if only by a bantam degree. Electricity nodded his head in our direction: “Would you like to go to a press conference on a raft under a bridge?”

DARKO MILICIC SCORED the first points of the game on an elegant finger roll, and his teammates chugged up the court in the opposite direction, the parquet clapping together where it didn’t fit right.

The edge of the court was littered with the dead black matches that had set fire to hundreds of cigarettes in the arena. The players had to huff it through blue clouds of smoke, and they did so with more get-up than in any NBA game. They played only 25 times a season, and with a season-ending tiebreaker based on point-differential, these teams had no use for short-tugging or clearing out. There was no garbage time. Every possession held the immediacy of a first kiss. Throughout the game, Electricity could be seen chewing and roaring from the far side of Fellini.

The last time Hemofarm played Buducnost, in Montenegro, fans threw cell phones at Milicic. It appeared as though he recalled the treatment, dunking early in the game with a look of reprisal on his face. Milicic didn’t run like a seven-footer. His flesh and bone were proportioned as though by a knowing hand. He flicked his fingers in the air like a puff, blocked a Buducnost shot gently enough to control it, and fired the ball up-court for an easy lay-in. The fans began a rolling, rising chant.

Milicic’s game incorporated vast stores of petulance and impatience. He glared at refs. His shoulders sagged when things didn’t go his way. He elbowed the opposite center in the throat. He tossed the ball at an opponent following a whistle. At times, he stalked the court with a leering grin stuck on his face. This may not have been the kind of thing they considered classy around here, but Darko was about to move on. After 10 minutes, Milicic led the game with eight points, though curiously it wouldn’t be a terrible misapprehension to assume that his greatest value to his team was in setting high screens.

And here’s why.

Among the Serbian population, there is a water-borne understanding of basketball, even as it is played among the swaying towers of the NBA so many kilometers away. Sit for an astronaut cut (the only cut on offer) in one of Belgrade’s barber shops, and the man behind the swishing scissors will summon a question from his faltering handle of the English tongue: “So … what is story with LeBron James?” Move from the center, and the Serbian fascination with basketball only deepens in texture, as it does when traveling from Bloomington along the dust-bound corridors of Indiana.

And when the name Darko Milicic is uttered, it is invariably followed by a round of severe head shaking. Serbs don’t want to believe that Milicic will be drafted so highly. They want to think that the Americans haven’t quite got the value right, like the loudly dressed fellow pulling his wallet wide over the junk stash in the market. But there is something more than disbelief in all their words and worry, and it smells a lot like spite.

Can you blame Serbia? That’s doubtful. Wedged in the way of every European power of the last fifteen centuries, Serbia and the rest of what used to be Yugoslavia have hosted a parade of conquerors—the Ottomans, the Huns, the Romans, the Soviets, and every one else who could muster an army. The list is long, and it does tend to confuse. Today the Serbs come off as half Italian/half Russian—they say da for yes and ciao for goodbye.

Poverty breeds a certain kind of collectivity: got nothing, share everything. And over on the flip side, if you’re doing well it’s easy to stomach someone else’s good fortune. Mix those two setups, and it’s a stretch to getting big-hearted about things. After all, Serbia is the ghetto—more so than anything going down in North Philly or Fulton Mall. At least there you have city college and Athlete’s Foot.

Milicic is 17, which means it’ll be many more seasons in the Yugo leagues before anyone runs a play for him, defers to him, considers him—grants him status based on anything other than duty logged. As in, based on natural ability. Right now, he’s subsisting on whatever he can grab for himself, existing as a cog in the greater sense of “team”—even if tenets of that rigid philosophy are disproved on nights when Shaq and Kobe get 35 each, everyone else gets sprinkles, and the Lakers walk off with another gold ball. But let’s not forget—the NBA is entertainment; basketball in Serbia is a business.

Milicic visited the United States once. He was in Dallas last year for the Global Games, playing for the Serbian team. There was a large contingent of NBA scouts at Reunion Arena, and many had come to see what Milicic might some day have for them. After the first game, the Serb coach found out about all the eyes in the stands, and he benched Milicic for the remaining games of the tournament. “Dallas was fun,” Darko said later. “I went to the mall. I bought some shoes.”

“THEY TELL ME that any woman will give it to me.” Darko Milicic was grinning across the table. “In the NBA, you’re popular, you’re rich.”

Hemofarm had made the Kup finals. In victory, Electricity relaxed, though only enough to grant us 20 minutes with Milicic in the café of the team’s hotel.

Darko’s eyes widened over what was to come. “I’ve been told,” he said, his words assuming the heavy hushes of a man stuffing his bags for a very long trip, a voyage, “that every game is a separate story there, a separate spectacle.” He spoke of men in monkey suits, of sprites soaring off trampolines, of buzzards catapulting free merchandise into a crowd. It all sounded a little phony.

Behind Milicic, the front desk clerk dozed in a coat of deep brown checks. He looked like he had killed a couch. The café staff was finishing up, sorting the silverware and ransacking the bar. A red-cheeked kid with a dishrag of brown hair took our order.

Darko asked for water. He had a pubescent peppering of fine hairs on his lip, and his thick dark eyebrows arched symmetrically over his eyes like umbrellas. His smile came easy and soft, and it hung on his teeth for solid durations. But this was not the compliant smile of the peasant. Milicic had spent years hanging with a guy called dragon, learning that it is better to rule than be ruled. (“I am a fucking patriot,” he said when asked about the NATO bombs of 1999.)

Given his northward swell and all the new attention, it was easy to forget that beneath it all, Milicic was still a few years shy of 20. “He gets away with a lot of things here he never will there,” said Michael Campbell, a loose-limbed Hemofarm forward out of Brooklyn. “He throws tantrums to get thrown out of practice, and then—Wow!—gets thrown out.” In the paramilitary realm of Serbian basketball, attitude is cause for dismissal. Considering all the constraints placed on his impulsive teenage aura, Milicic was remarkably affable with the world.

If he portrayed petulance, it wasn’t of the mouthy strain. His protests found venting in shrugs and darting glares. He walked slowly, never rushed, and carried with him a wordless mantle. He made no explanations. Unlike so many of the players around him, Milicic sought conflict. He wanted to show that he was bigger and better and that the issue was forever settled and done. The Serbs may turn down at the mouth at such behavior, but Darko better not have it any other way, because the NBA may suffer fools, but it doesn’t suffer peasants. “The brother’s are gonna respect him,” a pro scout had said to us.

“I know very little about what is expected of me there,” Darko said, his words coming soft and measured. “I’d like a big city, and a club with big ambitions. I would like to conquer something with them, to participate in something for the first time in their history.” There was a crashing in the corner, our waiter contorted around two others on the floor, shuddering with laughter in a rainfall of silverware. The couch-killer leapt from his sleep, then quietly returned to it.

“When I watch NBA games, I think, ‘How will I look in the game there?’” Darko was getting thoughtful now. “I expect to do something there. I don’t want to be a donkey.”

Milicic ran a hand through his dishwater dye-job. He had colored his hair for the tournament, and a few of his teammates had done the same. Apparently, they weren’t aware that it took several go-rounds with the bleach to go platinum. But orange was enough for Serbia. And Milicic was self-consciously proud of the hair now, since he had received a certain amount of grief over the new look. “People talk about me like I’m an imbecile,” he said, rolling his eyes in a gesture of impending impunity. “Some so-called coaches …”

Darko checked his watch and already the 20 minutes were spent. He stood to go. He swung his head around the room, then back in our direction. So some people thought Milicic was a jerk. That had its problems. But in Darko’s onrushing world of tree-choppers and ten-percenters, modesty had its problems too. He inhaled deeply and patted his palms to his chest, making a muffled sound against his sweatshirt. “I live with full lungs,” he said. Then he walked soundlessly off on the balls of his feet, upstairs to a bed that was too short for him.

GUNS WERE EVERYWHERE, big ones with muzzles and banana clips, as the crowd filed into the arena for the last game of the Kup. The Serbian prime minister, Zoran Zivkovic, was watching from an open-air box above center court. The previous prime minister had been gunned down a month before. Serbia was in a “state of emergency.”

But the drinks kept coming. There were no seats in the Press Caffe, and no windows either, which led to a situation of cigarette smoke like floating soup, or drapes. Electricty roosted in the tunnel, locking eyes with everyone in his field of vision, looking for an indicator of what may soon come to pass. Dragan Delic brushed past him on the way to the court, and Electricity shuddered as though from an unseasonable gust.

There were several women scanting about dressed identically in tan crepe suits and sky-blue blouses and pumps. They were the tournament hostessa and we had met them at the press conference on the raft under the bridge. We held hands for a few minutes before realizing it was time to get out to the court, where the starting lineups were being introduced under spotlight and early Van Halen.

It was Easter Sunday in highly observant Serbia and near miraculous that all 4,500 seats were filled. Several NBA scouts were sitting under one of the baskets, shaking with laughter over some terrible story from the night before, wearing billowy brand-new sweatpants and windbreakers. The prime minister moved his head ever so slightly and peered out at the world from beneath heavy eyebrows.

Everyone was there. But Hemofarm never showed. Milicic started strong, but then faded with the game. A team called FMP won going away. The air was out of the building by halftime.

Making our way through the crowd to the Press Caffe, we ran blindly into an unsmiling man who stared down at us and mumbled something in Serbian that didn’t sound very good. This was not OK guy. Several large uniformed shapes approached us from the rear, and we distinctly recognized the ratchet of metal. The prime minister was having a farewell swallow in the Press Caffe, so we ducked away and moved along.

The Hemofarm locker room was silent save the squeaking of soles. Electricity accepted our commiseration and didn’t appear to detest us. He walked out the door shaking his head, and we felt a pang go with him. And when Milicic turned the corner and flooded the corridor with his body, he did so with the same measure of reserve he carried with him always. He was steady. And he invited us up to the hotel café after dinner.

Dinner. We looked forward to it as a salve. A way to rid ourselves of this monomania. As our green Skoda skipped down the road, it occurred to us that we had finally found the center. Maybe it was better to watch this circus from a distance, to absorb it all in large movements, especially since the language of these trenches escaped us. We were thinking all of this when a moaning blur fractured into the long side of our Skoda.

The blow sent head and ankle toward each other around the fulcrum of kidney. Vision went corrugated. Glass flew across the car’s interior like five-cent candy. We fell into each other’s laps in strange lost patterns as the car skidded sideways and out of control across the oncoming lane and toward a curb that it jumped by way of popping every tire.

Finally, we were stopped. Through the bombed windshield, we saw a handful of large Serbs pile out of the partner car, all holding different parts of their bodies and looking skyward as though the earth had just uttered a dismal command.

We were on the edge of Serbia. It was 2 a.m. Our organs were lurching toward their former positions. And we had a flight in Belgrade that we weren’t in the mood to miss. When the cops arrived, all they could muster were horselaughs and false indignation. “You are bad luck, American,” they said to themselves, as though this was the height of novelty.

Yielding to the rhythms of the place, we somehow and soon found ourselves in a car that was pointing itself to Belgrade. The car took a few grass paths to the highway. Our hands were having trouble holding steady as we picked the glass out of our hair. The driver smiled too much. He flicked on the stereo and Eminem came out. “Like?” he asked.

Yeah, we liked. We sifted down in the seat, and the driver pressed his shoe into the accelerator. It was warming up outside, and the highway was full of fog. Darko was probably back home in Vrsac by now, sleeping in his own bed, which fit him, as his new life surely will. He was made for this kind of thing. The brother’s are gonna respect him. But that didn’t help us much right then, and the mist swallowed us without so much as a dewy da or ciao.

Back then the two were partners in a populist uprising. But President Viktor Yushchenko’s honeymoon lasted about as long as a shackup at Niagara Falls, the bold aspirations of his revolution ground down by the actual administering of what remains a troubled country. Tymoshenko was forced out as Prime Minister last fall in a dispute over reprivatizations. A whipped political opponent, Viktor Yanukovich, is back in the picture. And a gas deal with Russia’s largest company has cast doubt on the viability of clean governance in Kiev. Stability hangs in the balance, with Russia standing by to make sure Ukraine continues to teeter through its March 26 parliamentary election. With Ukraine’s political parties fractured, its Parliament is destined to be administered by a slipshod coalition of forces that will have difficulty getting anything done, let alone pushing through reforms that were supposed to be well underway by now.

A year of frustrations has darkened the sunny disposition of Ukraine’s onetime hero President. The meanest cut came on New Year’s Day, when Russia’s gas monopoly, Gazprom, breached a contract and turned down the pressure in a pipeline, freezing out Kiev during the coldest winter in decades. Russia was finished subsidizing a country that now covets EU and NATO membership, and it demanded an almost fivefold increase in the price of gas exports.

Although Yushchenko’s government forged what appeared to be a favorable agreement with Gazprom—prices only doubled, to $95 per 1,000 cubic meters, still well below European rates—it turned out that the deal didn’t guarantee prices much beyond the elections. And it interposed a third party that had little to recommend itself aside from the proper connections: a gas broker called RosUkrEnergo (RUE). Gazprom owns half of RUE, while the other half is controlled by Austria’s Raiffeisen Investments on behalf of clients it has refused to identify.

RUE has a dozen employees and no physical assets, yet it earned $500 million last year working with Gazprom across Russia and Central Asia. The Ukraine deal made RUE one of Europe’s biggest energy traders overnight, and it echoed the countless agreements that continue to plague this part of the world, exactly the sort of cynical pact that Yushchenko had pledged to bust. Russia was all too happy to let the gas dispute ensnare the faltering President, whose party, Our Ukraine, had slipped below 20% in the polls.

Things grew even stranger when Naftogaz Ukrainy, Gazprom’s opposite number in Ukraine, signed a joint-venture agreement with RUE that authorizes an entirely new firm, Ukrgaz-Energo, to handle selling the gas, further muddying things. The deal is so convoluted that anyone you meet in Kiev inevitably grabs paper and pen and sketches a diagram that fills the page with chicken scratch from here to Ashgabat, the capital of Turkmenistan, where a good portion of the gas emanates. It appears there is little the President can do to uncover the owners of RUE’s dark half, which many have speculated falls under the control of those same pocket-lining phantoms who have controlled business in Ukraine for the past 15 years. “We can start digging in this direction,” says Konstantin Borodin, director of the Energy Research Center of Ukraine. “But as a result, we can meet a mine that will blow up all the diggers, together with Ukraine’s economy.”

Someone has succeeded in making what should be a simple energy deal between bordering nations into a tangled web that thwarts all scrutiny. But the agreement begs for analysis because Yushchenko signed off on the deal. “What the Kremlin is doing,” says Borodin, “is teaching Ukrainians how to treat Russians.” Or how to be Russians.

The lesson comes at an inopportune moment for Yushchenko, who has proven unable to fight on so many fronts. The RUE deal is undermining his tilt toward Europe and weakening his standing as domestic politics collapse into disorder. He has also grown hypersensitive to criticism from a domestic press that he recently freed.

In September, Yushchenko sacked Tymoshenko, revealing a split between the two main factions of the Orange Revolution. To push through his choice of a new Prime Minister, Yushchenko made an ill-advised agreement with Viktor Yanukovich, the Kremlin-sponsored candidate he had beaten in 2004. The pact included an immunity pledge for the old guard that makes up Yanukovich’s political base, a sure sign that, for expediency’s sake, Yushchenko was willing to disregard his campaign slogan, “Bandits to prison.” If anyone missed the drift, it became clear when it was discovered that Yushchenko’s Justice Minister had lied about receiving a degree from Columbia University.

Now Yushchenko is fighting to retain the power of his office, reneging on an agreement he made during the Orange Revolution to cede a slew of presidential powers to the Prime Minister, who will be selected by the ruling parliamentary faction. Yushchenko has called for a referendum on the issue, but support is flagging. “If this deal goes through,” says Tymoshenko, “I’m afraid the only Orange person left in this country will be the President.”

Tymoshenko is sitting tranquilly on a divan in an Odessa hotel suite, protected by a cadre of security guards. She has just returned from the Black Sea port of Illichivsk, where she railed against mendacity to a crowd of several thousand. The words she uttered—about sticky fingers in the government, Russia’s enduring influence—sounded familiar. It was the exact fare she and Yushchenko had dished out during a revolution designed to eradicate all that.

“Ukraine has changed today,” Tymoshenko says, her yellow braids spiraling back off the crown of her skull. “But it’s wrong to think that just because we won the elections, we have won a victory against all of those clans. Immediately after it happened, they were a little stunned. But then they survived, got back into shape, and now they’re ready to get back into office.”

THE POSTER BOY for this trend is Ukraine’s richest man, Rinat Akhmetov, a steel and coal billionaire running for Parliament under the flag of the Party of the Regions, Yanukovich’s group. Akhmetov claims that, if elected (which appears likely), he’ll relinquish business in favor of politics. Yanukovich has said that should his party gain control of Parliament, he may put forth Akhmetov for Prime Minister.

With that possibility not far from reality, many are blaming Tymoshenko for having taken a vindictive approach to Ukrainian business during her seven months as Prime Minister. Tymoshenko compiled a list of privatizations she wanted reopened and ignited a costly fight with the gasoline industry. Her efforts met with little success, but they angered enough people that opposing forces within Yushchenko’s inner circle prevailed in ousting her. “You don’t take all the oligarchs out of power who control 60% of GDP,” says John David Suggitt, managing partner of Concorde Capital, a Ukraine investment bank. “You don’t try to throw them in jail. You don’t try to take away their businesses and expect them to invest $1 billion in new machinery.”

This is where justice and commerce have often parted company. Exacting change depends on your stomach for the consequences. To be fair, Yushchenko has not shied away from reform. His biggest achievement so far may be the undoing of one of the largest privatization deals in the former Soviet Union, reselling the Kryvorizhstal steel complex, which former President Leonid Kuchma’s son-in-law, the oligarch Viktor Pinchuk, and Akhmetov had purchased for $800 million. In a televised auction, Mittal Steel bought a 93% stake in Kryvorizhstal for $4.8 billion, nearly double the expected price. Rewards have come from Washington, where both houses of Congress have approved a measure to grant Ukraine permanent normal trade relations with the U.S. But for every Kryvorizhstal there comes a RosUkrEnergo, killing the momentum.

The RUE deal can be viewed as part of Gazprom’s bid to win back Soviet-era control over Ukraine’s gas industry, as well as gas routes to Europe. Russia is using one of its most strategic resources as a weapon to discipline Ukraine, with down-the-line effects for Europe, which receives a quarter of its gas from Russia, mostly via Ukraine. “Russia is an irrational empire,” says Oleksander Danyluk, an advisor to Ukraine’s current Prime Minister, Yuriy Yekhanurov. “Russia is one step ahead—they’re always one step ahead.”

ALL THIS TURMOIL has the big foreign money sitting on the sidelines, waiting to see just what may happen in Europe’s last great growth market. Delay seems the best bet for now, with Yanukovich’s party leading all pre-election polling at nearly 30%. Should Yanukovich’s party win, Ukraine’s pipeline system could very well be available for a grab by Moscow, and any number of Orange possibilities could fall by the wayside.

Was it too much to ask Yushchenko to transform this wild country into something compatible with the West? Was it sensible for him to make such promises? “There’s nothing worse than a fallen hero,” says Roland Nash, head of research for Renaissance Capital, Russia’s largest independent investment bank, which reopened its Ukraine office last year. Nash is chatting outside Renaissance’s Ukrainian investor conference in an old central-bank building in Kiev, with white pillars and a chipped yellow façade, and chauffeured cars piled up at the entrance. Several hundred international investors have come here to make closed-door deals while the hum of presentations drones on and on.

As much as anyone, Renaissance threw in with Yushchenko, going so far as to hand out orange nametags at last year’s conference. This time the nametags are wrapped in clear plastic. Nash and his crowd say they would prefer something approaching Vladimir Putin’s managed democracy instead of the uncertain energy that Ukraine transmits to the world. Russia may have clamped down on some basic freedoms, but the Russian stock market grew by 83% last year, producing the type of return that the big money had thought possible when Ukraine embraced a new set of values. “It’s such a well-understood story,” Nash says. “Investors have seen what happened in Eastern Europe ten, 15 years ago, and now there’s Ukraine. Even with all the problems, we have many companies that are interested. That should indicate just how much money could come in if they got it right.”

Some of that money is on display a few hours later at a well-heeled hotel, where Nash and his potential investors are frontloading for a little of the wildness that Ukrainian nightlife can provide. But one shouldn’t let the pepper vodka or the beautiful women cloud the greater issues. With monthly salaries of about $300 and a population of almost 50 million, Ukraine has great potential as both a center for cheap manufacturing and an emerging consumer market. So much, though, relies on political stewardship. “The mark of a great leader is making great changes,” Nash says. “A year ago Yushchenko was one of the most popular leaders in the world. He had the will of the people behind him. He could have made changes, but he didn’t. He disappointed absolutely. Being not corrupt was enough during the Orange Revolution but not enough to run a country.”

Despite the disappointment, one fact cannot be erased: Several hundred thousand people jammed the center of Kiev in 2004 to protest the underhanded practices of the old regime. The gambit worked, and the population grasps its power. Now Russia is putting that populist muscle to the test. “This deal has created a mechanism for control over Ukraine,” Tymoshenko says of the Gazprom agreement. “There is so much political influence of Russia in Ukraine—everywhere.”

Tymoshenko’s party, with numbers similar to Yushchenko’s in the polls, may prove pivotal in the new Parliament, swinging power to one of the other parties. If she doesn’t join a coalition, she says, she’ll gladly end up in the opposition. But whoever is in a position to control Ukraine—be it the President, the Prime Minister, or a filibustering segment of Parliament—temptation will remain. The unaccountable funds available through the dark half of RUE only perpetuate a cycle that preys on the less idealistic side of the human condition. It may take a genuine revolution to sort out the mess.

This was the third heavyweight title fight in Moscow in the last year, since the current wave of homegrown boxers has overtaken the division. An ex-Soviet fighter holds each of the four heavyweight championship belts: Ukrainian Wladimir Klitschko (IBF), Kazak Oleg Maskaev (WBC), Uzbek Ruslan Chagaev (WBA), and the Russian Ibragimov.

Capitalizing on such dominance, Moscow promoters are grabbing for a piece of the business that has long been the exclusive estate of American promoters in Las Vegas and Atlantic City. And they are doing so in their own particular manner.

Holyfield discovered this soon after arriving in Moscow last week, as he and his entourage appeared for an open training session at the Krokus City Mall, on the northwestern edge of the city.

This is no mall by traditional classification, but a Russian creation altogether: marble flooring, Doric columns, price-gouge cafes, scores of niche Italian luxury brands — and almost no customers. Holyfield engaged in several rounds of shadow boxing in a ring erected awkwardly between the silks and crystal. Cameras shuttered away as the sparse Russian crowd ogled the man best known internationally for the Mike Tyson-made chunk that’s still missing from the rim of his right ear. After Holyfield came Ibragimov, a champion whose humility bleeds into a bashfulness that sees him shy away from the cameras, even though he wears the belt of a champion.

The purse for the fight totaled $6.5 million, a richer sum than could have been found in the U.S., says Yuri Fedorov, the fight’s Russian promoter. Fedorov also promoted the first title fight in Moscow, last December, for which he paid Maskaev $3 million, double the fighter’s standard fee.

Ibragimov is sponsored by a local oil company, Nafta Moscow. It is just this sort of arrangement that Fedorov believes will perpetuate the current trend of Slavic champions. “We have a lot of rich companies that can have one boxer, or a team of boxers,” says the promoter. “We have asked the government for more recommendations. They need only to tell these companies that this is the thing they need to do. To many companies, government opinion is very important.” This new economic model, says Kathy Duva, CEO of Main Events, Holyfield’s promoter, is “why we all need to pay attention to this country.”

There are other reasons to pay attention while inside this country, and on fight night it didn’t take long to discover just why. The cops were waiting outside the arena to shake down the approaching guests for any number of supposed infractions, such as a lack of local passport registration or just looking sufficiently moneyed but insufficiently connected. The police parked a battered old bus near the entrance, and once they hauled someone inside, it cost minimum $40 to secure an exit.

Inside the arena, there was a conspicuous lack of Western Europeans or Americans — strange for a title bout involving the biggest name heavyweight American fighter left. The only noticeable foreigners were those attached to the event itself, the pint-sized Latin fighters on the undercard and the backslapping members of the sport’s professional traveling circus.

Ringside seats cost $3,000. (By comparison, the top ticket for the recent, much-ballyhooed fight between Oscar De la Hoya and Floyd Mayweather at the MGM casino in Las Vegas were priced at $2,000.) The Ibragimov-Holyfield fight failed to live up to its lofty price tag, however, as the champ and challenger conducted a 12-round Krokus City pantomime. It was the case of a lionhearted, but aged ex-champ conserving his strength in order to go the distance against a belt-holding opponent who has benefited greatly from boxing’s fall from primacy in the West. Ibragimov did not display the stuff of a real champion. This was no collision of cultures, no epic battle, no thing to be remembered. It was a night out.

Considering the way in which distance, price, and general hassle have conspired, are the Russians truly ready to host big-time boxing? The most charitable evaluation: not just yet. As for Holyfield, who turns 45 this week, he said he appreciated the visit despite the defeat. Given the chance, he said he would return. “The people have been great,” Holyfield said. “Treat me nice, you get me twice.”

“Hey, girl,” Vitali mumbles into the dark.

The shadow steps into the shaft of a street lamp, illuminating a pretty face that’s touched up with unease. Vitali reaches out to put a palm on her. And there is a moment just then, a gap, when her doubt disappears, when she is suddenly feeling giddy. “I know you,” says the girl. “You’re the guy from TV.”

This is what it has come down to for Russia’s most infamous television idol. Vitali Dyomochka has traded in a life as the brutal leader of a car-theft ring in Russia’s Far East for a life as the creator and star of Spets, a TV series based on his own wild times. They watch The Sopranos even in the farthest reaches of nowhere. And when a bona fide killer like Vitali gets his hands on a digital camera, he can tell the real story in a way that big Tony couldn’t dream up on that shrink’s couch.

There is a side effect, however. Vitali has been having trouble maintaining the fear, since it works out that you’re either a villain in the everyday or you simply play one on TV. And what kind of fun can you have if nobody’s spooked?

“AREN’T YOU AFRAID of me?” Vitali asks, shaking hands in greeting, clearly expecting a yes, hoping for one even. His voice is faint and scratchy. He is in Moscow now, cruising around and looking for a synthesizer on which he’ll compose and mix music for Spets. Vitali is particular about his purchase, sitting in shops and playing piano with slender, delicate fingers and a studied, upturned profile, his baldhead parched white in the mercantile fluorescent lighting. Once he finds what he needs, he packs up his tracksuits and makes for the airport.

He flies the nine hours back over the expanse of Russia. It is the same swindle. The main difference between Moscow and Russia’s far eastern capital of Vladivostok is the sum total of Chinese guys named Vladimir.

Unlike in Moscow, where the Mercedes jeep plays khan to the cars that swat each other along the roadways, in Vladivostok it’s Toyota’s Land Cruiser that affects top-down order. A day trip across the Sea of Japan and there’s an easy markup waiting for anyone who can front some cash and sail on back with an SUV, steering wheel tucked on the right-hand side. On Vladivostok’s rain-polished hillside streets, it’s still possible to hear the conspicuous grinding of the lawn mower engine encased beneath the hood of a Zhiguli. But by local consensus this is a national indignity, best tuned out, then forgotten, much like a certain 70-year period in the country’s history.

All Soviet revolutionary statues are still firmly in place here, watching over the whalers in Vladivostok’s distended port. All the while, fleets of halogen-lamped Japanese rides encircle them, pumping Russian club mixes through slits in the blacked-out windows, cracked just wide enough to ash a cigarette and watch the particles disintegrate in the sea-salt gust.

This is the only thing that Russia’s Far East has in common with California, across the Pacific: car culture. But this is a culture of stealing cars, rather than waxing them for the ride to the house party up the 405.

In Ussuriysk, a settlement of 250,000 souls, there are countless ways to go about appropriating a car. Vitali has two favored methods. He can frame it to appear as though you have negligently collided with his car in traffic. He will then demand your vehicle as compensation for damage, a demand made more persuasive by the submachine gun nosing out of his coat. Or he can sneak up while you’re changing a flat, slip unseen into the driver’s seat, and gas it once you’ve tightened the last lug. It’s a living.

Vitali left prison in spring 1997, after his second “sitting,” as the Russians say. He was dressed in pants that stopped mid-calf. A murdered brother, no money, no place to go, a constitution that had grown to crave prison gruel called “sechka.” It was that bad. And maybe it should have been for a guy who murdered a rival and then found the humor in it. “I aimed at his heart, but I missed,” Vitali says. “It shows you how poorly I know anatomy.”

But prison in far eastern Russia, mid-’90s, was no place for weaving macramé potholders. Overcrowding, scant supervision, a shortage of sechka. “When you live with wolves,” Vitali says, “you howl like a wolf.” And on the streets of Ussuriysk, there was plenty of prey, so many right-hand-drive cars on the road that wiseguys had taken to calling the place Little Tokyo.

VITALI STEERS HIS panther-colored Land Cruiser among Ussuriysk’s crumbling czarist-era minipalaces, Khrushchev-commissioned apartment buildings, and patchwork dogs that leap in the alleyways, lit by an unseemly sunlight. At least the sun is shining. Soon it will be winter, when darkness rules even in the daytime. “We are famous here,” Vitali says, scanning the streets in a tight squint. “We have a morbid reputation.”

It is a reputation that has been enhanced by near total exposure. Officials at the TV station that carried Spets in the winter and spring of 2004 estimated ratings approaching 100 percent.

“Real people, ordinary people, love this show,” says Aslan Saydaev, the director of Ussuriysk TV. “The percentage of ex-cons is higher here than in any other Russian region. It was a restricted zone in Soviet times, until 1989. The government paid undesirables to move here from other parts of the country.” Add to that the area’s high concentration of prisons and work camps, and the result is a population that has been operating off the Spets playbook for all of living history. The seven episodes that aired in 2004 depicted brutal murders, bloody rumbles and genuine, unsimulated sex (you can tell), all of it produced without the detached gloss of a network budget. “For people from the West, this show would be a shock,” Saydaev continues. “But for us, it’s natural—it’s who we are.”

Spets, however, has found detractors within Russia as well. Saydaev says that after viewing the show, officials from the FSB (the successor to the KGB) in Moscow “recommended” that Ussuriysk TV shut down. Now Saydaev, a Chechen, operates the channel underground, and is anxiously seeking safe passage to another country.

All this over a series whose mission statement expounded on one simple ideal: authenticity. Spets may be cruel and violent, but, Vitali says, the program is redeemed by the fact that everything contained therein is true to life. All of it actually took place, and nearly all of the actors are themselves the genuine perpetrators.

“We were tired of watching TV and movies that weren’t real,” Vitali says. “When a bomb is ticking, you know the timer will stop at the last second. When you see a movie with Steven Seagal, you know he will kill everybody single-handedly. When you watch a Jackie Chan movie, you know he will also win, but at the same time be funny. But no one can criticize our show, because it is our real life.”

Part Miami Vice, part senior class project, Spets spends a lot of time with its digital video cameras burrowing deep into the recessed pits of Vitali’s forever-focused Sinatra blues. Vitali has plenty of appeal— enough to persuade city officials to allow him to crash a car through Ussuriysk’s main movie theater, enough to convince his reallife wife to appear in the same episode with his real-life mistress. His eyes are, as the Russians might say, bez nichevo: without nothing. And he is always in character.

Rappers and hoods make good actors. This much we know. But good writers too? Within the fry-cook editing and wind-whistle audio quality of the small-budget Spets, gems roll out with regularity.

In one setup, a man sprints after a Land Cruiser, waving his hands in the air and yelling wildly, managing to convince the driver to hit the brakes. The man sticks his head through the window, casually produces a pistol and fires into the driver’s face. He then focuses his eyes on the female passenger, splashed in her boyfriend’s blood. The hitter is panting, and smiling, when he says, “Whew, I haven’t run like that in a long time.”

Vitali, who also wrote the scripts for the program, is the source of this dread humor, which reflects a life in which all is simplified, where everything rests on two-option equations: strong or weak, in or out, alive or dead. Spets blows any notion of reality TV into so many pieces.

VITALI PARKS AT Ussuriysk’s Club Lion, stepping over a flattened rodent at the doorstep and into the mirror-walled space. He sets a bottle of Hennessey on the table, and a broad-backed guy named Roman Alferov daintily pours the brown fluid into shot glasses laid out among the plates and silver and the lace placemats. “And in Moscow, they think that everyone in Vladivostok sleeps in a Land Cruiser and fights with bears,” Alferov says, chuckling to himself. The club, loud with techno-accordion music, begins to fill up.

Seated at the table are six main cast members of Spets, who also belong to Vitali’s car-theft ring, whatever may be left of it. They are all in their mid-20s. Vitali is a little older. “I’m 33—like Christ,” he says, turning away the Hennessey, since he doesn’t drink or smoke. “Someone has to stay sober,” he says. “And many drunk people go to prison.” (Ten members of the Spets cast were arrested during the shooting of the show; another was murdered by a rival outfit.)

Vitali nods respectfully to the neighboring table, where the regional mafia boss—the Thief of Law, as he is called—is snacking with the three best-looking girls in the place. The dancers up on the dance floor keep sneaking glances at the table of TV stars. But no one approaches, except for a few friendlies with switchback beaks and full-gold grins. If everyone else is reluctant to get close, it’s something other than coyness that’s keeping them away.

“There’s a reason people want to fight an actor like Russell Crowe in a bar,” Vitali says. “Because they know he won’t kill them with a gun or a sword. That’s the difference between us and the Hollywood people.” He folds his arms and eyes Club Lion with the cool appraisal of a man reclining in total ownership.

On an unseen gesture, the music in the club drops out, the dance floor empties, and the Thief of Law rises to stand over Vitali’s table with a crystal shot glass lofted in his right hand. “This is a toast to a normal boy from a small city, who found something to change his life,” he says, eyeing Vitali. “There are many things we can do to help him in that direction. And we will.” The drinks get drained, and the music kicks up again. But the Thief of Law is not finished. He leans in, and with a whisper, adds, “I want you to know that you are very safe in this restaurant. If anyone comes to you, these are not people. This is just dandruff.” In or out, dead or alive.

IT MAY SEEM a dangerous thing to reenact actual crime scenes for the cameras, for fear of revealing secrets, of finding oneself no longer with us. But Vitali explains that Spets consists of episodes that local police have already pieced together. In the instances when he portrays events previously unknown, he is only giving the cops tidy finales to inconsequential cases. In one scene, masked gunmen unload their clips into a car hurtling down a rural highway. The car pitches off a bridge and explodes. “In real life, my friend was driving that car,” Vitali says. “All the police found was his head. So now they know how it got there.”

The gang is moving on, escorted to the door of Club Lion by the lyrics of a popular song: “I will have a smoke and disappear in the darkness.” Soon the entire crew is surging in a Land Cruiser caravan down one of Ussuriysk’s main streets, which is lined with banks of ghostly birch trees on either side. “This show has changed my life,” Vitali says, his voice a faraway scrape, almost inaudible. “If I do something wrong now, people would recognize me. There is no way back for me.”

His Land Cruiser gets stuck at a stop sign behind a blue camper. A middle-aged man is at the wheel, driving his wife and children in the slow-moving vehicle. Vitali opens his car door and sticks his head into the wind. “Hey,” he yells into the camper’s open window, his voice full volume now. “Go fuck yourself, you whore.” The camper hurriedly moves aside, allowing the Land Cruisers to blow on past.

Vitali drives a few miles more. After a couple of minutes, he comes upon several cops on the shoulder of the road. They’re waving their batons in his direction, and he pulls to the curb. Vitali hops to the blacktop and meets the police as they approach his vehicle.

The cops pop the back hatch of the Land Cruiser. They rummage through old clothes and cardboard boxes, before coming upon a long black piece of metal machinery, a weapon by the looks of it. “What’s that?” asks the cop holding the flashlight. “It’s a camera tripod,” Vitali says with irritation, grabbing the hatch and slamming it shut.

Vitali climbs back into the car. “All that is in the past now,” he says, shifting into drive. “Now we make movies.” Vitali lets out a snort, leaving the cops the see-you-later stream of a couple candy taillights. You take your laughs where you can get them.

Alfer is a model scout in the land of models, the exclusive representative for Elite Models in the former Soviet Union. This is rather like fishing for shortstops in the Caribbean cowl, or sounding the Siberian turf for the oil and gas that everyone acknowledges is there, just waiting to be found. Yet such gross abundance makes work all the more difficult for Alfer, for he must extract the physically perfected girl from the blur of those thousands who possess the sad disadvantage of simply being stunning.

Alfer is the one who calculates the bodily proportions, who perceives the faces, who gauges the level of ambition, combing Russia’s wingspan territory and imperial genetic collisions, proffering the glass slipper. He discovers the girls who will sprawl across the polished handbills of Cavalli and Versace, who will walk the plank for Dior and Valentino, who will join the militia of Russian and pan-Slavic models that has overtaken international fashion in the last decade, having shunted the unfortunate Brazilian ladies to a tumbledown and distant secondary position. “We have the faces,” Alfer says. “We have the look.”

Aliona Doletskaya, the editor of the Russian edition of Vogue, estimates that 50 percent of the top models in the world issue from the former Soviet Union. “Because of this high percentage, they have bagged some of the most prestigious campaigns,” she says. “Natasha Poly for Gucci and Gucci fragrance, Valentina for Ralph Lauren, and, until last season, Sasha P for Prada. On top of the quantitative effect, there is definitely a qualitative one—Russian girls are very good looking.”

The thesis is easily proven in Kazan, the thousand-year-old capital of Tatarstan, Russia’s predominantly Muslim province, where a mosque of turquoise-tipped minarets rises above the stone walls of the city’s kremlin. Close by, in the Mega Mall, even those gray shoppers captivated by the gifts of the food court ogle the beautiful girls as they elapse down the runway in next to nothing. Cold outside, it is warm in here.

There are blonde bombshells. There are smoky, black-haired Tatars. There are a few girls of the angular, praying mantis variety. There is the girl next door. There are large lips. There are bikinis delicately tied at the hips, clasped carefully between the breasts. There are acres of abdomen, dimples in special places, girls showing themselves to best effect, as they have seen on Fashion TV. And in the surrounding shoe stores and clothing stores, there are glossy come-ons, advertisements like recruiting posters, established models calling these girls to travel, money, opportunity abroad—a lifestyle of the imagination.

Alfer, meanwhile, exists in the model ether, employing well-practiced eye, scrolling through the several thousand model mug shots on his laptop, a Bluetooth clip blinking in his ear with reports from his deputies of more girls in other places. The words “Italian stallion” print across the chest of his faded blue T-shirt, which he wears beneath a black leather jacket. He runs a hand through his spiked, action-hero hair, and enters each girl, by the numbers they’ve been assigned, into columns of “yes,” “no,” or “maybe,” which he has penned atop the sheet of notebook paper balanced on his knee.

Several of the girls stride confidently down the catwalk, determined to gain notice amidst the mall ephemera and the lounge music that pipes loudly from the stage speakers. A few of the girls stumble on their high heels. Others continually adjust their bikinis. Many of the girls stomp around like shaft horses, in need of instruction in the way to move when all lights are on them. Many of the girls have arrived with their mothers, who wring their hands, who coach from the sidelines, who try to catch Alfer’s eye and somehow make the process personal. But Alfer’s eye does not stray.

Alfer is in Kazan as part of the annual Elite Model Look Russia competition, a dozen-city feeder tour for the international Elite Model Look, an event with more than 350,000 contestants from 50 countries. “This is the instrument,” he says, gesturing to the catwalk. “It is the tool to help us collect the girl.”

And after a time, a girl worth collecting appears on stage. She is tall—they’re all tall—dark-haired, in a salmon-colored bikini, and she strides resolutely along the runway. Karina Zykova, 16, drove a 12-hour slog with her parents from the distant village of Kungur. This is her first casting. “A lot of people keep telling me that I should try and be a model,” she gushes offstage, in a jumble of all of the other girls, the skin, the goose bumps, the nervous giggles. “We came to see if I had a chance. I want to see the world and meet lots of new people.” Life is still not easy in Russia, despite the country’s rising economic might. But alongside oil, gas, and metals, feminine beauty ranks as Russia’s top natural resource. Modeling allows many girls to escape a fate inevitably dark; Alfer serves as a conduit to the light.

He looks Zykova up and down, grinning slightly. To the untrained eye, Zykova looks no different from the rest. Pretty enough. But for Alfer, beauty is something beyond the visual recognition of the average man on the make. This isn’t romance. This isn’t even lust. This is business.

“Proportion is very important,” he says coolly. He explains that a female model must stand between 5-foot-9 and 5-foot-11, must measure between 34.5 inches and 35.5 inches around the hips, must weigh between 108 pounds and 117 pounds. There is more. “For a successful career, a girl must have three components,” he says. “Number one is looks—face and measurements. Second is charisma and personality, her character. Third is motivation. If one component is missing, she shouldn’t be a model.” Even in the business of exterior beauty, a good attitude goes a long way.

Alfer lives by a similar code. As he leaps on stage and takes snapshots of the girls against a backdrop littered with the Elite insignia, he is pointed, direct. When he calls out the numbers of those girls he has selected for the final round, telling so many pretty girls that they are just not pretty enough, his benevolent, mollifying voice tells those discarded that this rejection hardly seals their fate. “Giselle never won a modeling contest,” he says. And when he engages a few of the finalists one-on-one, he jokes, he grins, he draws them out and divines their attitudes.
“He has no negative energy,” says Olga Vasilieva, a model from Perm whom Alfer discovered in 2007’s Elite competition. She now models regularly in Tokyo and Paris. “He gives himself 100 percent to the job. Because of that, he’s really attractive: you can see he’s totally immersed in his job. And he is very effective. Before I met him, I had no future prospects. Now there are offers, new people. He’s helped me become somebody in this life.”

Alfer returns to the couch after getting a closer look at Zykova. “She has a chance,” he says. “Her legs are a little bit big. But she drove 12 hours to get here, so she has the motivation. She will have no problem improving.” Alfer chooses Zykova and one other girl to attend the Elite Russia finals in Moscow, and he strides toward the exit with several associates, his day in Kazan now done.

AS HE ROAMS FROM ONE Russian city to the other, Alfer’s radar remains live. He meets girls in nightclubs in St. Petersburg and Novosibirsk, he sees them in airports in Sochi and Rostov, he jumps from taxicabs when they flash before him on the talent-choked Moscow boulevards. In the last several years, Alfer has discovered more than two hundred models to work shows from Paris to Abu Dhabi, and dispatched more than 30 Russian, Ukrainian, Belorussian and Baltic-state girls to legitimate careers in the West.

The West is where they must go. “There is no fashion industry in Russia,” he says. “All of the fashion is imported. In Russia, there are less than 100 real designers. In Italy, there are thousands of brands. And each brand requires models.” A successful, full-time model working in Moscow earns up to $20,000 annually; her opposite number in Europe and the U.S. can make between $50,000 and $100,000. The top models in the world earn $5 million and more per year.

For the many beautiful yet impoverished girls living throughout Russia, this is the dream. And of all of the many dozens of Russian women who have achieved the European and American catwalks since the fall of the Soviet Union, one woman stands above them all, crystallizing all aspirations—Natalia Vodianova, or, the “Russian Cinderella.” Twelve years ago, one of Alfer’s former competitors discovered Vodianova, then 15, selling fruit on the streets of Nizhny Novgorod, a city along the Volga. Vodianova has since become model royalty—acknowledged as one of the top handful of models in the world—and literal nobility, having wed an English earl.

It is Vodianova the girls see when who they’re really looking at is Alfer. Likewise, designers and agents and advertisers in Europe, Asia, and the U.S. see the same. Alfer is the channel. “Anton knows the style,” says Bernard Trux, a prominent Parisian haute couture show director, who has worked with the world’s top designers—Valentino, Jean Paul Gaultier, Christian Dior, Christian Lacroix—for 40 years. “Anton is not only somebody who will give you 20, 30 girls. He understands the look and the style.”

Alfer, 35, grew up in Samara, in southwestern European Russia, then relocated to St. Petersburg in 1989 to enroll in the computer science division of St. Petersburg State University. Alfer also studied fashion in school, and he began his professional life as a designer of women’s clothing. In the late-’90s, he created Russia’s first fashion website, www.moda.ru. It was through this portal, as European fashion houses began to realize the depth of the beauty pool in Russia and were looking for ways to locate new models, that Alfer made his initial contacts in the modeling business. After serving briefly as a scout for a Moscow agency, he hooked on as the Russian rep for Next, a major modeling agency headquartered in Paris. He shifted to Elite four years ago.

ALFER LOOKS THROUGH THE WINDOW of his office atop a tower along Moscow’s casino-choked Novy Arbat causeway. The red-light evening traffic slips by down below as Alfer’s girlfriend, Evgenia Eremina, 20, already a model when Alfer met her in a nightclub last year, prepares the hookah. Alfer calls Eremina “very good protection” against the models that would throw and have thrown themselves at him in exchange for his influence in the world of their professional aspiration. She shoots him an icy glance, pausing in packing the tobacco into the hookah. One of Alfer’s assistant’s, Sergei Rostovtsev, sits at a desk, editing a runway clip that will soon appear on www.moda.ru. It is getting on in the evening, but around here, it is beauty as business, open all the time.

The reason for that is what Alfer refers to as his “fashion media technologies,” an outgrowth of www.moda.ru, which now encompasses a dozen similar sites registered throughout the former USSR. Several years ago, Alfer modified another of his sites, www.model.ru, enabling prospective models to upload their own photos and vitals. More than 10,000 girls have done so. While these girls are not all of top model caliber, many of them are, and Alfer is able to view the photos and profiles at his leisure. This has altered his strategy, allowing him to see higher and farther than finding and managing the next big star. “I’m not concerned about breaking one girl,” he says. “My goal is to make an industry, a new form of procedures.”

Alfer unfolds his laptop, and there on the screen is what looks like a geological survey map of the former Soviet Union, a guide to the territory’s great renewable resource of beauty. Icons representing his websites dot the map, domains localized in Ukraine, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Lithuania, and six other former Soviet republics. His plan is to attract the girls to his sites, allow bookers, designers, and other clients to view selected profiles, then remotely dispatch the girls to jobs throughout Europe, Asia, and the U.S.—all without the overhead and hassle of a traditional agency, or the man hours of traditional scouting.

“There’s no way to escape,” Alfer says. “Russian girls use Russian portals, Russian search engines. If they’re interested in being a model, they type ‘model,’ and my site is the first thing that pops up. This is a conveyor. You don’t need to walk the streets anymore, because all young girls are on the Internet.”

He lounges back on a daybed, smoking from the hookah’s snaked tube, satisfied with his plans. But Alfer’s life is not as leisurely as it appears. In Russia, even the business of beauty has its hazards.

Shortly after Alfer signed on with Elite in 2005, a man who toiled on the dark side of the flesh trade strongly suggested that Alfer supply him with fresh talent. Alfer declined the proposal, and shortly thereafter, he says, he returned home to find a strange man lurking in the vestibule of his residence. The man punched Alfer in the face. “This is so you will know who to work with,” he said. He then head-butt Alfer in the nose, bloodying his face, before fleeing into the evening.  

By all available evidence, Alfer has continued to play it straight, and he thus lives in the peril known to all Russian entrepreneurs. His most recent hazard concerns a 14-year-old model named Veronika Kushnareva. Alfer contacted her after discovering her on one of his sites and becoming captivated by her photos. He paid for cosmetic surgery to pin her ears, gave her a new name (Niki Kushe), and entered her in the final round of 2007’s Elite Model Look Russia, in Moscow. Elite’s Parisian representative chose Kushnareva as the winner of the competition. That is where the fairytale ended. “There is a lot of human risk in this business,” Alfer says, weightily.

As Alfer tells the story, a wealthy Russian businessman “befriended” Kushnareva and persuaded her family that modeling wasn’t in the girl’s best interests, that he could provide all of the financing that their lives would require. Alfer continued to push the girl toward modeling, and he soon began receiving anonymous threats over the phone. Instructed to keep his distance from Kushnareva, Alfer persisted in contacting her. Ultimately, he received a colorfully worded text message from an unrecognized number:

“Now we’re going to play hide and seek. You’re going to hide, and my people are going to look for you, and when they find you, they’re going to fuck you in the ass. You’ve made me angry, you public faggot. I haven’t been angry like this in a long time.”

Alfer shakes his head. “There’s a lot of shit like that,” he says. “All the time. With this work, my nervous system has become very strong.”

Now in order to safeguard his business, to ensure that he is running a model scouting operation and not a girlfriend service for Russian oligarchs, Alfer keeps a tight rein on the models he selects and supports. “He was always worried for us,” says Zykova, after the Elite Russia finals in Moscow. “There were many chances for men to approach us. But Anton was always protecting us.”

Alfer’s proprietary streak has not yet reached the level of one of Elite’s previous Russian reps, who assaulted the country’s top fashion photographer for refusing to use one of his models, sending the photographer to the hospital. All the same, whether it be predatory potential boyfriends or rival scouts, the threat of losing a promising young model is always there.

When Alfer repped Next, he discovered Irina Shaykhlislamova, a girl from Chelyabinsk. When Next balked at signing her, in stepped Georgy Dzhikidze, the scout responsible for finding Vodianova. Now known as Irina Sheih, Shaykhlislamova has appeared in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue the last two years, and is the international face of Guess.

Dzhikidze, known professionally as Giya, ruled the scouting market in Russia until 2006, when he died from a brain aneurism. Alfer’s competition now consists of four other full-time scouts. Considering the upside of the business—a scout usually takes a 10-percent cut on future wages or can simply sell a “mother agency” contract outright to an international agency—the competition between Russian scouts is unexpectedly collegial. “We all get along pretty well,” Alfer says.

By now, the lateness of the evening and the influence of the hookah find Alfer increasingly placid. He pulls his iPhone from his pocket, and begins scrolling lazily through the many photos stored on the device. “This girl, Nataly from Tallinn,” he says, pointing to the screen, where a girl curls herself seductively toward the lens. “She sent me her picture on model.ru.” He slides his finger repeatedly across the screen, flipping through scores of shots of perfect young women who stare back at him with desire—professional or otherwise, it is hard to tell the difference. Then he halts. “This girl, I met in the club; she’s from St. Petersburg.” He scrolls again. He stops at another picture. “This girl, she is very beautiful. But she’s not motivated. Her father is an Olympic champion.”

He whizzes through the photos, one after another, and the beauty of these young women begins to melt together. They could all be the same girl, the brain going numb in overabundance. It is a business. It is a conveyor.
Alfer stops once more, this time on a photo of Kushnareva, the one who got away. Kushnareva puckers her lips for the lens in an exaggerated sneer. “She looks like Linda Evangelista,” Alfer says. “She’s very fluent with the camera. She’s not afraid to look bad. She could be a really huge fucking star.” He pauses. “That’s why I’m upset. She’s born to be a model.”

Alfer smokes again from the hookah, running Kushnareva over in his mind. Like any natural scout of talent, for Alfer this is where romance lies—not in the girl, but in the discovery of the girl. “When you see a girl, you see the personality,” he says. “And when you see the picture, you see the look. And when you talk to her, you see the motivation—or you don’t see it.” Alfer smiles, the smoke of the hookah seeping through his teeth. “It’s voodoo,” he says.

Girls Gone Wild, the guerrilla video series that advertises on late-night TV, features endless loops of drunk, usually Southern young women flashing their breasts at Spring Break and other similarly public settings. In five years of operation, Girls Gone Wild has managed to dominate a category of its own creation; as such, Mardi Gras is the closest thing it has to a trade show.

It was the final Saturday of Mardi Gras, and all around us girls were going wild. There was Sarah-Brooke from Mississippi. Crystal from Clearwater. And Crystal from Orange County. Bulbous bits popped out of nowhere, from everywhere. The pimp in the sequined pastel Technicolor suit with matching cowboy hat smiled an alligator smile. He knew all about the long and terrible journey that had taken these tummy shirts from broken homes to the crumbling balcony that overlooked Bourbon St.

Mardi Gras started on the plane. A man stopped the boarding flow to stand in the aisle and spray clouds of cologne onto his neck. The airline handed out bead necklaces. A passenger showed his scrotum to a flight attendant. When the plane landed, a female voice came over the intercom: “Welcome to New Orleans.”

A deep-throated yell came from the bulkhead. “Show us your tits!”

The party had been swinging for something approaching two weeks, and this year had been gracious enough to include the Super Bowl. Fat Tuesday, the official final bell, was three nights away, though our cabbie figured that would be an anticlimax. “This is the night lots of tits come out,” he said, rolling a toothpick across his lips. “After tonight, Mardi Gras is over, as far as I’m concerned.”

THE STREETS WERE clogged with all kinds of accumulated debris. Steaming piles of swishy garbage. A battered Domino’s Pizza cart. Tweaked white kids with dreadlocks and ugly stains on their store-bought khakis. All of it locked in the narrow streets, the buildings closing in on either side, their trellised balconies dripping with middle-aged drunks in paper party hats. People grabbed complete strangers and gave them bear hugs, equally prepared for brotherhood or violence, any kind of physical exchange in the soul-robbing mélange. Screams and hoots rang out in all directions.

In the middle of it all, a malnourished man in a long beard bore a tall white cross. He shouted into a bullhorn. “You will never see heaven.” Behind him, two guys with Greek letters on their shirts loaded a pink beer bong for a friend in shiny new sneakers. “But the good news is, if you accept Jesus Christ, you won’t have to see hell.” The friend puked on his Pumas.

Everywhere, there were whispers of Snoop Dogg, bringer of The Chronic. If it was to be believed, Snoop was coming to Mardi Gras, and he was partying at each and every person’s very own get-together. “Snoop Dogg’s coming to the party tonight,” went the whispers along Canal St. “Dude, they paid him like one-point-five million.” “I saw his limo like an hour ago.”

We were all glad to be upstairs on the Girls Gone Wild balcony. And not just for the prospect of sex and free booze. From up above, the street resembled an endless copulation of confused ants, robbed of the gene that coded purpose. People crushed against each other, back to front, cheek to shoulder blade, like destitutes heading for a U.N. grain depot. Was this fun?

A large man lost his balance on the curb. He stumbled into a few guys standing in front of him. They in turn bashed into the backs of the people in their immediate radius. Within a second, one person’s stumble rippled through the entire crowd, making its mark not only in abstract energy, but in the wave splash of a man’s head against the wall of a stucco building on the opposite side of the street.

No, this wasn’t fun; it was to be endured. Most everybody understood the predicament. There would come along now and again a guy who took the bumps personally. On the far side of the street, a nudge became a shove, and so a punch was born. The blows came in ranging, swinging turns — clocking throats, noses, and sides of heads. At any one time, there were seven people involved in the escalating melee. One side would throw, and then the other in turn. This provoked something more than a ripple through the horde; more of a tidal wave, sending bodies, yelps, and debris rushing in every direction from the central point of conflict. The combatants jumped up and down. They smiled at each other, then swung and connected. They relished the release.

As the brawl entered its second minute, a stream of suds cascaded from a nearby balcony. The beer drenched the punchers and extinguished the fight as though it were a campfire. The unending crowd separated and swallowed up the combatants, who quickly became indistinguishable from the rest of the thousands. The horde suctioned itself together.

THERE WAS NOTHING so nasty as that going on up on the Girls Gone Wild balcony. The Girls Gone Wild crew rented the balcony, which was part of a barbecue-stained peach-colored “event room” that perched atop a Bourbon Street watering hole. Down by the bathrooms, there was a doorway to the bar proper.

A seven-foot wrought-iron gate had been swung tight against it. A zoo-like mass of people pressed up against the gate, peering between the bars for a blinking glimpse of the strippers as they passed by to relieve themselves.

Not that there was much urination. Everybody seemed to be rolling on something other than liquids. The Girls Gone Wild cameramen were genuinely endowed with an unending flow of good times — they had the best job in the world, and they knew it. They wore a uniform, a white T-shirt with blue long sleeves and a company logo. They looked like a softball team, and they roamed the balcony and the streets below in perfect unison, while operating cheap palm-sized video cameras.

The massive collection of partiers down below turned their faces to the balcony, where a handful of brassy blondes simpered in Girls Gone Wild babydoll shirts. A chant churned through the crowd. “Show your tits. Show your tits. Show your tits.” That’s all it took. Breasts spilled out into the open air: 50 degrees and hard nipples. The crowd roared an animal approval. It sounded like the call for an encore at a Sabbath concert — a steady stream of white thunder. Hundreds of flashbulbs cracked off simultaneously, bathing the Girls in the light of the most temporary stardom. The balcony quaked under the excitement, and everyone sensed that it could topple any second. Bead necklaces were flung through the air like ropes of jism.

The cops blew into the party. “Who’s in charge?” bellowed the lead officer, a middle-aged potbelly with a salt-and-pepper mustache and a stiff navy blue hat.

Everyone tried to ignore him, meekly muting their conversational tones, as though this would compel him to vanish. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked again. No answer. He visibly harrumphed. “OK then,” he said. “We’re in charge!” The cops trudged onto the balcony, where they disappeared in conversation with the man who was actually running the show. His name was Joe Francis, head of the Girls Gone Wild franchise. Francis looked like a prep school quarterback. In fact, he looked much like his target demo — fresh-faced, athletic and a little dopey. Then again, any guy who manages to pull an estimated 100-to-1 return can’t be all that dense.

The cop’s entourage was still filing in when a bright light filled the room. Another camera, yet this one was shoulder-mounted and broadcast quality. Two Girls Gone Wild guys in headsets and softball shirts huddled in the center of the room, where they whispered like teammates on the pitcher’s mound. “Dude, whose camera is that?” the one with the experimental facial hair asked the one with a tart on each arm. “I think it’s the cops’.” The first guy looked stunned. “They got better equipment than us.”

The cops wanted the Girls to stop going wild on the balcony. Foot traffic on the street had ceased, creating a bottleneck that was crushing people down below.

The police dispatched the cavalry, and pretty soon cop horses were doing doughnuts on Bourbon Street, knocking people down, frightening them away, for their own good, of course.

In a minute, the party ratcheted back up to its former pace. How could it stop? The plastic badges that guests were required to wear around their necks contained the words “Snoop Dogg” in big bubble letters: “Special Guest,” it said. Was this the source of all the whispers? With so many parties to go to, was Snoop Dogg actually coming to this one?

“EVERYBODY OUT!” CAME the yell, from a guy in a team softball shirt. “Now! Move it! Everybody out!” They cleared the place, as surely as though they were fumigating for roaches. All hundred guests were packed into a small anteroom one level down from the main party. Hulking figures barred the entryway.

Everyone fidgeted. There was no open bar down here. The place hummed with small chatter.

A woman shrieked. Then another. Flashbulbs bounced off the walls. Several huge black men trundled through a Tour de France maze lined tight with spectators. Then Snoop came visible. Just for a second. He was hustled through the crowd by a phalanx of handlers whose vigilance made you think they escorted the crown jewels, the president or maybe God himself. Just like that, Snoop was gone upstairs.

The rush came just as quickly, as everyone tried to regain entry to the party. People grabbed at the plastic badges around their necks, brandishing them like bone-skinny immigrants at Ellis Island holding up their papers to the inspector. It quickly became obvious that no one was getting upstairs. No one except the women, and if you had shelled out for surgery, you had a better chance.

A guy approached with his girlfriend, both well-dressed and attractive. The bouncer with the shaved head gave them the once-over. “She can come up,” he barked to the boyfriend. “Not you.” The couple looked at each other searchingly. They had seen “Temptation Island.” The girlfriend slipped from the boyfriend’s grasp and sprinted up the stairs. She took them two at a time. The boyfriend looked like a wilted tomato. It may have occurred to him that there comes a time at Mardi Gras when you must ask yourself: Am I having fun yet?

Snoop had the cultivated look of a pimp. He wore a black fedora and diamond-encrusted black shades. He hung in the back of the room, away from the balcony, where his presence would have incited a riot on Bourbon Street. Snoop’s crew included his uncle, who took naturally to tossing beads and Snoop promo stickers onto the crowd. And there was the man in the sequined pastel Technicolor suit with matching cowboy hat. His name was Bishop Don Magic Juan, perhaps the most famous pimp of his day. The Bishop had published an autobiography, “From the Pimp Stick to the Pulpit,” and figured prominently in the 1999 Hughes brothers film, “American Pimp.” But he claimed to have given up the pimp life years ago. Judging by the ghetto-dandy spectacle of his outfit, he hadn’t given up all of it. His right fist was covered in the spilled gold of a huge ring that read “Juan”; the ring on his left hand said “Don.” He and Snoop sipped from personalized golden goblets. Joe Francis, the prep school quarterback, chatted them up in his softball shirt.

This was an odd coincidence of cultures. Yet it was inevitable that these forces would locate each other. Last year, Snoop released his own hardcore porn video, “Doggystyle” — an X-rated version of the standard mansion-bound hip-hop video. He had traded in thug friends for pimp friends. And after all, it was Snoop who managed to connect gangsta rap culture to the very frat boys who snatched up the Girls Gone Wild videos in numbers that allowed Joe Francis not only to own a private plane, but to upgrade to a larger one. For some women, rap videos made bootylicious a thing worth their aspirations. The Girls Gone Wild videos operated on the same principle. You could argue that without Snoop, Girls Gone Wild would not exist.

Three Girls Gone Wild cameramen weaved through the Bourbon St. throngs, which measured 50 men to every woman. Ultimately, they located four women huddled together. They were college students from Georgia, and their eyes dazzled at the sight of the bright camera lights. They knew Girls Gone Wild, and they played it coy. “Nah,” said one woman, until her friend singled out the elaborate plastic flamingo bead necklace worn by one of the cameramen. She pointed, he nodded, she flashed, huzzahs went up from the crowd, and the flamingo beads were thus granted.

Back at the party, Snoop engaged in a handshake. His hands, like the rest of his body, were long and slender and in no hurry. “My new friend, Joe Francis, we’re working on lots of different opportunities together.” Snoop talked in the way he does, as though he had been hypnotized by a Siamese cat and had never come out of it. The world for him rolled a little bit slower than for the rest of us. “Joe suggested this was a good place to get together.” What kinds of projects were they working on? The rapper mainly couldn’t say, content with mystery. “Time will tell,” Snoop said. He oozed a celestial chill. “We shall see.” His words strung out as the video camera lights popped on, momentarily blinding a few unsuspecting bystanders, including Ricky Williams, the New Orleans Saints halfback, who strolled in from the balcony to replenish his bead supply.

A dark-haired woman in a Girls Gone Wild tummy shirt attached herself to Snoop’s side. A crowd gathered. The cameras rolled as the woman began to wave to and fro in an S curve. She seemed restless and bothered. Snoop watched calmly. The woman continued to squirm as she tugged at her drawers, revealing a fully shaven pubic area. Snoop formed the slightest grin. The scene was done. The camera light clicked off, and so did the woman. She sank back into a soulless malaise as she marched dutifully back onto the balcony, which creaked under the weight of flesh and bone.

“I guess it was the law of averages,” Pastor Steve was saying as he stepped into the frigid Philly air. “My driving finally caught up to me.” Pastor Steve is the oddest of Eagles fans. He grew up in the woods somewhere in New England, and listened to Eagles games on a HAM radio setup when he was a kid. Now here he was, pulling into the last football game at Veterans Stadium on a personal invitation from the team owner himself. I never asked questions.

Lifting myself out of the car, I sidestepped a pile of steaming puke, then ripped my jeans on one of Pastor Steve’s smashed taillights. We took off across the parking lot, squeezing through a rusted hole clipped in the fence. Filthy gray piles of snow were everywhere. The wind slashed across my face. In the distance, there it was — Veterans Stadium, a charmless collection of concrete slabs and wavy interior walkways, all of it ringed with a white cap that could have been snow or icing or a sure sign of aging.

I knew all about how decrepit the Vet was, but I couldn’t wait to get inside. I’ve been to a few of those new stadiums and arenas in the last decade of furious building around the sports world. All I ask is: Where’s the savagery? Do sports fans really go to games in search of comfort?

We found my brother-in-law at the bar inside the Holiday Inn up toward the Walt Whitman Bridge. He was chumming around with some tall guy named Cliff. Cliff was buying everybody drinks. Eric made friends easy, especially in this crowd. The Eagles were his reason for being. He and his brothers were Irish Catholic from across the water in South Jersey, and they still talked about the only other NFC title game played at the Vet, when the Eagles kicked Dallas up and down the field in 1980. God, did I hate the Cowboys. We all did. Eric didn’t have a ticket, but Pastor Steve and I were going to get him into the stadium somehow. “There’s no way I’m missing the last game at the Vet,” Eric said, and his eyes bulged.

Eric rearranged his Eagles ski hat, then he and Cliff started up the first cheer of the day: “E-A-G-L-E-S-Eagles!” A bizarre ritual to anyone who doesn’t root for this team, but in spite of the cheer’s drawn-out length — because of it, really — it’s worn like a badge of honor around Philly. We downed a few beers, then flicked our heads to see Ron Jaworski scooting off to the stadium, walking past a crude oil painting of himself on the wall of the bar. The game was still four hours away, but out in the hall, there was already a staggering line at the bathroom.

I’d seen all this a hundred times before. My dad was a sportscaster in Philly when I was a kid. I played sherpa to a ton of camera equipment and, in return, I got to roam the sidelines during the games. These were the Buddy Ryan-Rich Kotite years, when Randall Cunningham compiled a highlight reel every week, and Reggie White separated quarterbacks from their will to compete.

I remember standing a few feet away when Keith Byars struck the Giants’ Pepper Johnson in the pit of his soul, launching him into the air, where his fists and feet joined together like a roped calf. I remember standing in the Eagles locker room after a big win and watching Jerome Brown interrupt a teammate’s interview with CBS by talking about the way a certain girl could do a certain thing. A commercial that used to run locally had me frozen in adolescence, hopping like a spaz behind the end zone after a Mike Quick touchdown.

Most of all, what I remember is the sound of the place, the roar that pierced my head when Eric Allen grabbed an interception or when Cris Carter scraped the sky for six. The ear would break down the roar into waves, sine curves. It was like cupping a stereo-grade seashell to my ear.

It had been 10 years since I’d seen an Eagles game at the Vet. I was ready to believe that the place had changed. I knew I had changed. I knew Randall Cunningham had changed. When I talked to him last, he was leading a Bible study/rock ‘n’ roll hymnal in Las Vegas. Philly fans never understood Cunningham. I know I never did, though I gladly accepted Randall’s opaqueness of spirit in return for his physical unpredictability during a game. He was pushing 40 in Vegas, and I asked where he found the motivation to continue playing in the NFL. He leaned forward and looked me in the eye and said, “When my team wins the Super Bowl, they’re gonna want to know what the quarterback has to say. And when they come to me with their cameras, that’s my opportunity to spread the gospel. And when I die and I go to meet St. Peter, he’ll look at me and say, ‘You weren’t just a quarterback. You were a quarterback for Jesus. Come on in.’” We all need deadlines.

Yes, the Vet had changed, if only a little. The rainbow seats had been replaced by a set in uniform blue. But they were still the same hard plastic, better for standing on rather than sitting. The seats were so unforgiving, I figured it would be the last thing to get misty-eyed about on a day of wistful moans. Yet, in the week leading up to the big game, rumors spread through the Philly papers that some fans were planning on packing wrenches in order to walk out with a stadium chair. That way, I guess, they could always remember just how uncomfortable the Eagles had always made them — it was 43 years since their last championship. In the car on the way down to the game, some guy named Matt rang up the local radio station, WIP, and with all the authority of the sports-talk caller said, “All you Bob Villas out there — leave it at home. Somebody I know’s dating this cop, and he said they’re gonna have metal detectors today.” The host thought over the info for a second, then said, “Matt sounds like he’s plugged in.”

“THIS IS WHERE ALL THE FREAKS go to tailgate,” Eric yelled in my ear, over a mixture of Kid Rock and Metallica, which changed in proportions with the shifting wind. With one stride, we crossed into Hades, and a funny car engine ripped off my ear. There were huge pipes and cylinders and gleaming gewgaws attached to a giant shopping cart. The thing must have been 15 feet tall, and there were two guys in winter coats sitting in the kiddy basket, goosing the engine. A crowd gathered around the cart when the drivers started throwing free junk into the air. Just as quickly, the cart was gone, speeding down Packer Ave. in a blur of linked metal and blue smoke.

A woman stuck her torso through a window of the Holiday Inn. She was wearing a Tampa Bay jersey. A crowd of guys caught sight of her and started booing. Someone threw a handful of ground beef in her direction. Then she took off the jersey and flung it over her shoulder. She was completely naked. The crowd gave her a cheer:

“E-A-G-L-E-S-Eagles!”

Eric, Pastor Steve and I came upon fans in Eagles gear taking turns break-dancing in a circle. They were popping and locking in Reggie White jerseys, spilling gobs of Yuengling from cans stuck in cozies. A couple of them dropped to the ground, but the puckered asphalt grabbed onto their jeans when they tried for backspins.

Someone placed a chair in the circle, and a middle-aged woman started giving a guy a lap dance. She wore a green construction hat, with Eagle-wing decals stuck on the sides. The crowd tripled in size, and the woman had her shirt off a moment later. A balled-up dollar bill shot from the crowd. The buck hit the woman in her hard hat and bounced off.

“That’s Warren Sapp’s liposuction’s in there.” That’s what the man said, pointing to the strange goo that fired his homemade grill. He was feeding wood into the base of a 12-foot red chimney. He had just swung an axe and split a log on the parking lot ground, and now he was tossing kindling into the fire. It was a life-size cardboard cutout of the Maytag repairman.

A turkey boiled in brine at 250 degrees, and a school bus expelled smoke whenever the front door swung in. This was a minibus for preschoolers. It was painted Eagle green, and above the windshield it read, “Show us your tits.” Inside the school bus, they passed around a cigarette. All the seats on one side had been replaced with carpeting, and a guy in a full-face Eagles hunting mask had a woman in an Eagles football helmet in his clutches. The walls were decorated with laminated ticket stubs from Vet games past. “And these over here,” explained a guy in a baseball hat with a mechanical Eagle attached to it, “these are from when they had the players’ kid pictures on the tickets and you had to guess who was who. I think this one is Spagnola.”

A fan in a green wig, Lone Ranger mask and black cape hoisted man after man over his shoulder and onto the roof of a random trailer home like he was a superhero doing his duty. A stubby man in an ankle-length mink coat and Eagles sunglasses walked calmly into the teeth of a harsh wind with a corncob pipe in his mouth. A roly-poly standing on top of a Winnebago removed his shirt and started rubbing his bare belly. Men in Kelly green jumpsuits relieved themselves on the power converters located on the other side of a fence. A fire alarm squawked like a diving submarine over at the Holiday Inn.

Nobody cared. Nothing mattered. It was the end of school, when you burned all your books and trashed the classroom. The old Spectrum where the Flyers won the Stanley Cup had been replaced. You could see that the Eagles’ new stadium—Lincoln Financial Field—was almost finished, its upper decks hanging a few lots over like big broad shoulders. And the first bits of tall wrought iron rose high where the Phillies’ would soon be playing out their futile existence. This guard was changing, the last of it, the newsreels and the grainy highlights all about to go away.

And it was all happening in perfect Philly style, with the pride of the true barbarian. Tampa Bay’s stadium has a  pirate ship attached to it like some infantalized attraction. Some people get too much sun.

Philadelphia has its own troubles. It’s too big, too close to New York to avoid it. It’s been a long comedown since the First Continental Congress. Philly’s second place, and the teams never win, not for 20 years. This tends to make you bitter and caustic, and in need of a little sunshine to lift your spirits.

Which is what Eagles fans knew they had coming, if only the team could pull out one more win. A trip to San Diego and the Super Bowl was on the line. All the Eagles fans in that parking lot had the same thing written on their faces. Drunk, yes. But they also realized how perfectly everything was shaping up. The last game at the Vet. The NFC Championship. The Super Bowl. If it wasn’t a storybook, it was at least an obviously prepackaged tour.

Eagles supporters aren’t like Cubs fans or Red Sox fans, whose allegiance has something of a boutique quality. Eagles fans want desperately to win, and win now before they die. So why do they get so down on their team at the slightest sign of difficulty? Why do they boo in such a way that brings them lasting fame? Because Eagles fans deserve better than second-place, and they’ve been burned so often in the past that it just feels like a better bet to boo. At least that way they’re getting in the game. At least that way they can show how much they care, which is terribly much.

But this day was different. It was all so geometric. How could it go wrong? How could Philly lose to a city of such thin blood? And how could the Eagles leave their fans anything but a gleaming memory of the old barn?

Pastor Steve and I left Eric at the boiling turkey and made our way to the stadium. A minute before, Pastor Steve was pounding beers in the “Show us your tits” school bus, and now he was heading to a silver-service brunch date with Jeff Lurie and friends. I had to grab my own pass, and I got stuck with several hundred other fans waiting for a security frisk. A fan with scraggly hair and a scar slicing his jaw line cracked a Budweiser can over his head. Spray flew everywhere. He took a big gulp, then handed the can to a stranger standing behind him. “Pass it down,” he said.

I HAD PASTOR STEVE on the phone, but with no warning, four F-14s screamed over the stadium. It was hard to make out, but Pastor Steve was saying that he had a ticket for Eric, a way to sneak him through a side door. I called Eric, but there was no answer, and I made my way down through the crowd.

People were still filing into their seats when the coin flipped at midfield. Fans wore jerseys and hats dating back several logo changes. All of the team’s history was coming to bear in a single moment. Ron Jaworski was out on the field, reenacting a play from the 1980 NFC title game. He handed off to Wilbert Montgomery, who jogged into the end zone holding the ball over his head.

The real game quickly erased that moment of sentimentality. When Brian Mitchell ran the opening kickoff 70 yards, the Vet erupted, just as I remembered that it could. A random fan on the concourse grabbed my hand as I darted past. “We’re going in,” he said. Duce Staley punched it in from a few yards out. Less than a minute into the game, and the Birds were seven points closer to San Diego. Inside the Vet it was like Rome, with bodies spilling over one another, confetti flying, hollers ringing out.

And there wasn’t a single part of it that was manufactured. The same old ads for M.A.B. Paints and Herr’s potato chips hung from the crude scoreboards. There were no “official” noisemakers or rally caps. The closest the Eagles front office came to enforcing unity was handing out white homer hankies, and even those looked like they were pulled prematurely from the hamper. All of this meant something. It meant that whatever happened in here today was of the fans’ doing. It did not come from a memo on some TV executive’s desk in New York. And it was not fabricated by Starter or Home Depot or any of the other companies that have gradually eroded the things that make places like the Vet, in all its crumbling decrepitude, a place that cannot be improved.

The crowd was bundled mostly in black and blue all the way around the bowl, like one big bruise. The field looked even rougher, and everyone in the football world knew just how awful and unforgiving the artificial turf was. When I found Pastor Steve and squeezed into his row, he pointed toward the field. “This is the true frozen tundra,” he said. “You break your arm when you get pounded into this stuff.” I called my brother-in-law again on my phone, but got no answer.

I met a few people in our row. Handshakes went around until I met a guy who said he was the Governor of Pennsylvania. I laughed in his face. Then I looked at Pastor Steve, and remembered his brunch date. This was, in fact, the Governor of Pennsylvania.

Gov. Mark Schweiker had been coming to the Vet since it opened in 1971. He knew what the Eagles meant to Philadelphia. Former Philly mayor Ed Rendell once said that if the Eagles were in the playoffs, you could raise taxes and no one would notice. Rendell was two days away from being sworn in as Schweiker’s successor, so this game was pretty well Schweiker’s last public act.

Did he think that something would be lost when the Eagles headed to the new stadium—”the Linc,” fans are calling it already—next door next year? “This place,” Schweiker said, scanning the crowd with steely eyes, “the fans here know the 12th-man quality of this place. And you don’t wanna give up something that helps you win.”

It was well into the second quarter, and the Eagles were not comforting their believers. The fans roused the Eagles with steady chants, and did their best to confuse Tampa Bay with a general roar, but the Eagles just couldn’t find their footing. The crowd didn’t grow impatient, exactly, but there was a feeling of uneasiness venting from the seats as halftime came with Philly down seven. Here was the initial thought: Have we put our hearts on the line, only to have them broken again and finally?

The fans booed the halftime show of Ja Rule. Finally, thankfully, somebody was willing to stand up to the glam strongarm of Fox and the NFL. Dog Philly fans all you want for their propensity to boo, but don’t ever say they can’t smell a rat.

The game began to slip away from the Birds in the third quarter. Donovan McNabb and coach Andy Reid couldn’t manufacture any momentum. When it looked as though they had done so, penalties reversed it all. Darkness fell when we weren’t looking. Everyone could feel it. The Eagles had lost heart. But the fans hadn’t.

I jumped on the elevator going up. The doors opened onto the 700 Level, and it was as if onto the edge of the Earth. The first thing that hit me was the wind, which whipped along the unprotected concourse. It felt like a centrifuge. Off in the darkness of Southwest Philly, refineries and power plants kicked out huge plumes of vapor and mist. Lights blinked from distant smokestacks, and a full moon hung behind a few stripes of cloud. “No Bucs fans served here,” read a sign on a beer stand.

A groan swept through the seats on the other side of the concrete slab behind me, then came a shower of boos. When my head cleared the threshold, there I was: in the Nest of Death. The 700 Level has played host to some gruesome moments in its history. And for Eagles fans, it’s a proud, if largely undocumented, set of incidents. All the way up here, it feels like watching a film reel of the game, and it all seems to play out in slow motion. The temperature feels 10 degrees colder.

Cops in face warmers pounded their feet on the ground to spur some circulation. A woman wearing full facepaint threw up while sitting in her seat, and her friend in a neon green wig waited an entire Eagles possession before taking her out and cleaning her up. The exhaust from a blunt gave an entire section a contact high. From this frozen vantage point, it was of particular pain when McNabb overthrew a wide open receiver down the middle of the field. The boos rained down on the quarterback from the Chunky soup ads, and a huge shirtless guy in mittens booted a wheelchair down a set of stairs and into a cop’s icicle shin.

Everybody was in agony, especially at the thought of what was slipping away — a trip to sunny California. “Take his neck off,” came a woman’s scream on the ensuing punt return.

Downstairs, the Governor hopped up and down to keep warm. His hood was up now covering his reddened ears. The players on the sidelines wore long overcoats. When the Eagles regained the ball, the fans in the lower sections pounded their feet on the metal flooring, trying to inject pulse and feeling into a frozen and fading situation.

And then came the end, an interception that the Bucs returned the length of the field for a score. The Vet was so quiet, you could hear the hum of the generators beneath the stands. There were still three minutes left, but the concrete bowl emptied almost entirely of its human contents. “Well, see you at the new stadium,” said a man wearing a Flyers hat as he shook hands with the Governor.

In the end, a day that was to be one of loud triumph was defined by quiet moments, by gnashing anguish, and by a giant Eagle egg laid in a game the city had to have. The two-minute warning came with the Bucs hamming it up for the phalanx of cameras that converged on their bench.

The tunnel at the other end of the stadium opened up. Years ago, the maintenance crew used to open the tunnel door whenever the opponent lined up for a field goal, sending an unpredictable wind whipping along the turf. But now all it expelled was a bunch of cops on motorcycles. They rolled out solemnly with red and blue lights flashing, as in a funeral procession. A few people in the far end zone threw confetti they had been saving all game. The wind carried the paper across the field as the Eagles misfired on their final fourth down.

I left Pastor Steve for a tour of the locker rooms. Reporters clogged the makeshift press conference rooms, where the coaches gritted their way through all the questions. I roamed the halls, which were strewn with wasted and out-of-date debris. A 20-year-old workout machine. A golf cart with four flat tires. Wires hung from the ceiling, clumped together with plastic handcuffs. Entire sections of concrete walls had come undone a long time ago. A security guard asked me to steal Keyshawn Johnson’s gloves for him from the locker room. I said I’d try.

A TV blared from somewhere. James Brown, the lockjaw Fox host, was saying that John Gruden had “steered the pirate ship into uncharted waters.” May the Lord have mercy on our souls for ingesting this. My kingdom for an acceptable turn of phrase. Or a rotting old barn that still has a soul. I can’t say that I won’t develop some level of affection for the Linc. But I wouldn’t bet that it won’t be hijacked in some form by the same types who employ James Brown.

I walked into the Eagles locker room. What a sad place. It was all mumbles and hums. Keith Byars was there, Jaworski too. Jeffrey Lurie walked in and stopped short inside the entranceway. His eyes were shocked wide open, and his mouth was unable to close itself. But no one was talking to him, least of all Donovan McNabb, who stood a few feet away, dressing with his back turned to the world. This locker room was no maze of amenities. But it was the last time the Eagles would see the inside of it, and that had to mean something. This was the place where Jerome Brown used to roam — laughing and yelling and making everyone swell. If only Warren Sapp knew how far off the mark his whole act really was.

I took one final trip out to the stands. A couple of cops leaned against the railing, staring out at the field, where the clean-up crew had begun its chores. There was nothing going on, nothing for them to do, and yet they remained, looking at a world that was already gone. Finally, one of them opened his mouth. “F—ing Donovan’s not going to Disneyworld.”

Cop helicopters patrolled the sky overhead, their propellers clipping the air. In the parking lots, people did what came naturally. They burned stuff, whatever they could find tossed into rusted old drums. There’s a quick scene in Rocky where a bunch of guys huddle around a barrel fire on the street, and I’d be a jerk for not mentioning it. One drum in the Vet parking lot had “Go Eagles” poked through it in perforated letters. Fire flickered through the holes, sparks tossed high into the air, and somewhere the tinkle of broken glass rang out like a dinner bell.

Turns out Eric found his own way into the stadium, paying 50 bucks for a ticket. He sat up in the 700 level with a broken cell phone that couldn’t pick up my calls, drinking in the last of the place. As well he should have. He followed his people back to the Holiday Inn bar for the final rounds. Then he spent the following day laid up in bed with some kind of Eagles sickness that prevented him from speaking.

I found Pastor Steve parked beneath an overpass on Broad St. I knew it was him because there was only one hazard light blinking on the whole broken car. He was dropping me at 30th St. Station for a train back home. We rolled through the stoplights on Broad St., heading into the heart of Center City. Every store window held an Eagles sign. The street was dark and lonely. The candles had been snuffed out. The wind gushed stray trash across traffic. “I guess that’s the bitter end,” said Pastor Steve, downshifting into a red light. The engine groaned. I could see the yellow orb of the City Hall clock looming up ahead. William Penn stood atop it all, and as I remembered, his foot extended into a stride. The guy must have been freezing up there. I couldn’t imagine it being any other way.

Good thing, ’cause bouncers in the sketchy warehouse district known as Deep Ellum need to inspire as much dread as possible. Ehr, 30, does alright, standing six foot seven with a full sleeve of tattoos. But in this neighborhood, that’s just fitting in.

Deep Ellum is for the freaks—the bikers, punks, skinheads, and drunks who couldn’t care less about Troy Aikman and oil and urban sprawl. Toss in a few visiting yuppies and cowboys, plenty of ennui and $2 beers, and it turns into a nightly contest to see who’s the meanest, drunkest bunch in the bar. Standing amid it all, Ehr needs both the mediation skills of Jesse Jackson and the subtle persuasion techniques of Walker, Texas Ranger. Elm is the street where JFK got caught in the crossfire, and 15 blocks east of Dealey Plaza, it’s bound to go off at any minute.

Tonight’s spark materializes out of the bar’s blackness. A short punk with greasy hair and crossed-up trailer park eyes claims that Ehr (pronounced “Air”) stole his seat. He’s jabbering about how he just got out of jail. Ehr’s not impressed—and he’s not giving up the stool. Then the smaller man baits the hook.

“An hour in the joint,” he says, “and I’d have you on your knees.”

This does make Ehr leave his chair, and he stretches to his full height. “You’re in the free world now,” he says, towering over his insulter. “You got to chill.”

The man yanks a false tooth out of his head and yells. “Come on!”

Ehr just levels his gaze, letting the smaller man fall from his view. “I’m not working tonight,” he snorts. Now that bar brawls are his business, Ehr has nothing left to prove. There’s no hair left to shave.

IT’S 10 P.M., AND LAST NIGHT’S toothless con is a distant memory. The sidewalks are just starting to move, and Ehr’s on a stool outside checking IDs. Harleys crackle down the street. Guys with two-foot mohawks amble past, screaming about the band they’re on their way to see. A trio of skinheads clomps into the tattoo parlor across the street.

They’re running out of ink in Deep Ellum ’cause the full sleeve is high fashion. Ehr’s right arm is a car crash of color, and you must look closely to appreciate the detail. It took about a year and a half to finish. “That’s a knight fighting a seven-headed dragon,” Ehr says, offering the inside of his elbow. “That’s my gargirl. And that’s my garguy.” He twists his shoulder to show two gargoyles in the throes of mutual love.

A roar erupts from inside the bar and Ehr bolts to check it out. Eyes adjusting to the inner blackness reveal a dank hangar and danker denizens. Three pool tables see action under low-watt red lights. A cockroach skitters through the traffic of moving balls on one table and nestles in the scum that’s collected under a bumper’s bevel. Murals of dark, sad faces line the black walls. A shabby copy of a self-portrait of Mr. Sad himself, Vincent Van Gogh, hangs in the back. Rob Zombie howls from the jukebox.

But something here elicits cheers. It’s a hockey fight that a bunch of regulars are watching on a TV by the edge of the bar. Their black boots are stomping, their wallet chains are rustling, and the lights glisten off their slick hair. The Elm Street crowd has an Outsiders glaze about it—minus the romantic idealism. Every night it’s the same crew. “Everybody knows each other in here,” says Ehr. “They get drunk and remember why they hate each other.”

EHR IS THE KIND OF GUY who could get in a fight with a friend one night just for the hell of it and drink a few beers with him the next, not a word spoken in between. Nothing much makes him say Wow, and the only time his face gets animated is when a pretty girl strolls by or you get him talking about punk music. If you didn’t know him well enough—and only two, three people do—you’d think he didn’t care much about anything.

Ehr walks back outside where Jim Hughes, Elm Street’s owner, stands checking out the Friday night scene. Hughes, 32, has sandy hair in a ponytail and he wears a tan knit vest that showcases the biceps that he maintains with singular devotion. Hughes has owned Elm Street for three years and he used to run security by himself. It’s always been kind of rough.

“This bar was a dangerous place to even walk by,” says Hughes. “You could get hit by a body being thrown out.”

The fights were generally manageable, mostly two guys tumbling into the street, rolling around a bit, and heading home with a busted lip or a bloody nose. But one night about a year ago things got ugly. Toward closing time, a couple of guys no one had seen before at the Elm Street got pissed off about an offhand comment and started busting up the regulars with pool cues. Pretty soon the whole bar was swinging away. Ehr happened to be there that night. He wasn’t working at Elm Street then, but he whacked a few guys and the brawl petered out. He’s been on the payroll ever since.

“I figured, if he’s willing to jump into a pool stick brawl,” Hughes says with a laugh, “well, that’s good enough for me.”

Ehr might have been consciously applying for the job. He was looking for something to do back then. He’d bounced at another bar for a couple of years, but the place had just shut its doors. And the punk band he plays in hadn’t booked a show in a while. But he knew something would materialize.

Enough people knew him in Deep Ellum. His band, Pump’n Ethyl, had been around since 1990. They played all the big clubs in Dallas, and Ehr was hard to miss—big and bald, dropping bass lines for songs like “Lonestar Police State,” “Hippies Suck,” and “What a Ho.” (“What a ho/Janet Reno,” goes the chorus.)

Ehr figured he has been in 40 fights since he was 20, and he wins more often at pool than he loses. As for bouncing as a career, nothing else made much sense.

“From drinking and playing bands, I’ve spent half my life in bars,” he says. “If I’m gonna hang out, I might as well get paid for it.”

There’s no 401(k), but there are perks just the same. And they’re written all over the boys’ faces tonight. Ehr and Hughes are feeling good, talking loud ’cause it’s their bar and it’s Friday night and the girls are checking them out. A bouquet of lip-gloss and cleavage approaches the door and Ehr halts the women shy of the threshold.

“I make sure to ID the pretty ones,” he says. “That way I get to see their names—their real names, not the ones they give out in the bar. And I get to see what city they’re from, whether they’re upper class or lower class.” He scrutinizes one woman’s driver’s license while her friends shuffle nervously on chunky heels. Ehr holds the woman there for maybe a second too long. Then he sees something over her shoulder that prompts him to wave them all inside.

It’s his girlfriend come running.

Jennifer hurtles between cars from across the street. Her shoulder-length white-blonde hair is pulled back, allowing the cars’ headlights to bounce off the dozen piercings in her head. She’s wearing a plaid Catholic schoolgirl’s skirt and fishnet stockings. She and Ehr have been together a week, and there’s something aw-shucks about them as she wraps her arms around his neck, swinging off him like a kid on a jungle gym.

But this is Deep Ellum, after all, and Jennifer’s not to be underestimated, even at a slight 110 pounds. She broke her hand a month ago against the face of a woman who insulted her. The fracture didn’t stop her from beating up a punk rock guy in a dress last week—she elbowed him into submission. They call her Tank Girl.

She has her own full sleeve, too, full of WWII bomber plane art. Raising her hands in the air, she reveals armpits blanketed in blue and yellow tattooed stars, a mind-numbing application of the needle. “I like a woman who can take more pain than me,” says Ehr, then he covers her face in kisses.

A COUPLE OF NEWCOMERS walk into Elm Street, squeaky-clean types in Southern Methodist University sweatshirts. A few regulars turn on their elbows at the bar, baring sets of snaggleteeth. It’s Ehr’s job to hop between these opposites when they inevitably attract. Mostly he tries to figure out who’s in the wrong, who’s the rowdy one, or who he knows to be a chronic troublemaker, and toss that guy into the street. But he always has some leeway—the bouncer’s prerogative. “Sometimes I’ll have to tell a guy, ‘Come back tomorrow night, because the bar doesn’t like you,’” he says. “The regulars, this is their bar. I just work here. A lot of times I don’t try to mediate. I try to get it outside. Once it leaves the threshold of the bar, it’s the Dallas Police Department’s problem. They’re much more equipped to deal with it. They got guns, badges, authority. I got a T-shirt.”

He also has his sobriety, which may be as much for professional efficacy as for comic relief. Ehr doesn’t drink on the job, and he’s reminded why just now as a couple of women stumble outside.

“Okay. Okay. Okay,” says one of the women, chopping at the air like a samurai, as she and her friend begin a sloppy discussion about a particular stud inside the bar—and which one of them he’s after. There’s a lot of burping, slurring, and vigorous hand-motioning that nearly topples them both.

“There’s nothing funnier than watching two people who are totally out of it trying to reason with each other,” Ehr says.

It’s getting toward closing time and a final few people cram into the bar, looking up at Ehr and hoping to be recognized. They call him Mark, they call him brother, they slap him five. “I’m everybody’s brother and everybody’s friend,” Ehr says, “and I’ve never seen ’em before in my life.”

Soon enough, it’s 2 a.m., closing time in Dallas, and it’s Ehr’s job to kindly persuade everyone in the bar to down their beers and head for the exit.

“If you don’t work at the bar,” he bellows, standing tall in the middle of the room, “if you’re not sleeping with someone who works at the bar—it’s time to get the hell out!” They meander, they crawl, they wrestle each other toward the door. There’re always a few hangers-on who won’t buy the fact that it’s gotten so late so soon, and they say they’re staying forever.

But they look up at Ehr’s unsmiling face and decide to get on their way. Finally it’s just the bartenders, counting their take on top of a pool table. There’s a game going on at another table, and Jennifer’s running every ball. She calls out to Ehr, who’s rounding up empties down the end of the bar.

“Honey, where we going tonight?” Jennifer asks.

“Home, darlin’,” comes his booming reply.

She winks at her opponent and says, “I like being the girl every once in a while,” bringing the cue stick to rest just above the felt. Then she slams the eight ball with a pop into the corner pocket and her lips curl into a smile.

At the end, it’s Tank Girl and her bald bouncer trudging down the sidewalk in overlapping embraces, leaning on each other after another long night. He opens the passenger-side door of his Mazda for her and then slides in behind the wheel. They kiss a long kiss, visible through the haze of the back windshield. Then Ehr fires up the engine and aims toward home, where they’ll sleep the night off till it’s dark again tomorrow.

This wasn’t the paranoia hour. That’d come later. For now, everyone was settling into a rehearsal room upstairs from the gig in Greenpoint. It was an old Polish social club called Warsaw, and it was shellacked with Brooklyn’s professionally unimpressed, all come to fold their arms over this kid the Brits were praising as some idiot-savant.

On the way to the stage, Skinner and his crew, The Streets, sorted through a full frown of waxen hair and ironic t-shirts that wheezed ingestible layers of ancient cigarette smoke. Skinner did not stand out. He was getting “lairy,” as his record proclaimed, and he was doing it with “Mahr-lawn.” As in Brando. As in brandy. As in cognac.

As in Hennessy. Skinner had a handle of the stuff jammed into his fist, and he used it as a baton to part the crowd on his way to the stage.

THE NIGHT HAD begun with vodka. In the van making fast from the licorice marquee of the GE Building in midtown Manhattan. The Streets played a taping of Last Call, NBC’s late-night test market, and they needed a few snorts to put the shambles behind them.

The vodka bottle circulated around the van, and the van meandered through Manhattan traffic, which was bloated with blueshirts in the day of another Code Orange. The van kept braking, lurching forward, then halting again, crystallizing the pathos of touring for a period of time well beyond comfort.

Skinner’s manager, Tim Vigon, was feeling it, and his chest heaved with choked air. He looked through the window at a few huffy fat girls in red overcoats shuffling out of the W Hotel and toward some sherry-soaked dinner party. He gasped, “Ah, Miami….”

South Beach was the ultimate destination of this U.S. tour in support of Original Pirate Material. Tomorrow it was off to Boston, where Queen Amidala was scheduled to come front and center. Then the Streets were flying to Miami for the Ultra Music Festival, an all-day DJ slog through pills and plastic surgery, terrycloth mini-Sisqos announcing themselves like popping corn.

South Beach would be crawling with beasts and lunatics, Biblical monstrosities. It was important to be mentally prepared. Sorted with the proper gear. “Hey Mike,” someone shouted from the back of the van. “What’s the weather forecast for Miami?” Skinner’s head arose as if from a blackened sea. “A storm front’s coming through,” he answered. “Get your boots on. We’re going hiking.”

Skinner cackled and his lips parted to expose a curious set of teeth. There were bent nails, China doll miniatures, one or two browned-out heroin jobs, and random gaps all the way around. The boys called him Jaws, and his teeth were the capper to an oddball appearance. Jumbo lollygag eggs for eyes. A stork’s head that stooped forward under the gale-force winds of this newfound recognition. His surname described a body that must have weighed 110 pounds.

Let’s be fair. It was known among his inner circle that Skinner had been having a rough time keeping his nutrients down. On a recent trip to Dublin, a van rental company made a grand show out of lending The Streets its souped-up deluxe cruiser. That evening, Skinner made an even grander show of disgorging himself on the van’s back sofa. In its own little way, his body was trying to say that he’d better stop drinking brandy.

BUT WHO’S LISTENING? After the Brooklyn gig, it was back upstairs for the continuation of an endless multi-part serial. Skinner and his band were spent on booze and beers, getting diesel off some homegrown. He corralled a friend and jutted a finger toward the toot aligned on a chipped school desk. “Right,” Skinner barked like an upperclassman. “Clean that up.”

The room had begun to go bulbous with shouts and strangers. Impertinent questions cluttered the air, the kinds of things uttered during chance encounters and grabs for cash. “Do you have any coke?” They were two girls, and minutes before they had been outside wandering the cold corners for an alleyway to relieve themselves. One girl tugged at the buttons of her jean jacket. Her red t-shirt was a Coca-Cola mockup, the lettering altered so slightly and splashed in bright guilty white. One friend tossed her head toward the other. “Give us cocaine,” she said, “and I’ll let you make out with Laura.” They said they were 18.

Too bad for Skinner he had a girlfriend. You could see him in the corner talking on a cellular, cupping it to his fangs. Meantime, the darlings on charley and everybody else blew down to a bar around the corner, where all the white people were dressed in black. Johnny Jenkins, Skinner’s drummer, brushed burnished apple cheeks with the girls and set them enough at ease. It was on to the hotel much later, until the lamps went redundant against an unsolicited sun.

By this point, a daytrip to Boston had tumbled off the list of hopes and dreams. But duty couldn’t be subdued, so the band made it to LaGuardia, where everyone holed up in the food court and overslept their flight.

While the boys were curled up in ripped jackets and reeking jeans, the band’s road manager was getting the good cop/bad cop routine in a windowless room off the airport terminal. He was a cheerless thug with a dirty-blonde pompadour; name: Trigger. Security kept finding bundles of cash stashed all over his body. It came to something like $10,000. This was for touring, but with bombs shocking and awing Baghdad, Bad Cop asked: “Does bin Laden write checks?” Threats of deportation issued forth, but a few hours later, Trigger was wandering bewildered among the gates, stroking his pompadour, making sure his head was still there.

TRIGGER MADE IT to Boston just before the show, at a club called Paradise, stationed far from rapture in a soul-draining drizzle. The dressing room was all tension and exhaustion, black leather and mirrors, which buzzed with the bass of an opening act. The crowd was all college kids. On the other side of the wall, the actress Natalie Portman had a balcony to herself and a handful of Harvard friends, each of them dressed in strange hats, a fedora here, a newsboy cap there.

Johnny the drummer was picking at the rider tray of cold cuts, looking like a bit of meat himself. On his neck, something like deep-purple B-movie makeup published the conquest of last night’s 18-year-olds. Or one of them at least. “Yeah,” said Johnny, grinning with conceit that passed for chagrin. “The fat one.”

Skinner’s unpeeled eyes darted all over the room, unable to focus on anything as the crowd noise hummed in anticipation of get-off time. “Something about this isn’t right,” he said. Everyone piled into the firetrap hallway that led to the stage. Electrical wires dangled from the low ceiling. Nowhere was comfortable. Skinner hopped from one foot to the other, and a wire scraped against his neck. He zapped off the ground. This was nerves, not electricity. Hardened by the day’s events, Trigger placed his hands on Skinner’s shoulders. “Dig deep,” he said.

The music kicked in up on stage, strings tugging over syncopation and synth. The song was “Turn the Page,” Pirate’s first track, and in that Boston club, it transported Skinner to some knowledge that he was greater than the sum of his parts. “That’s it,” he spit into the microphone that he held to his mouth, hidden from the college kids. “Turn the page on the day walk away. ’Cause they’re sensing what I say. I’m 45th-generation Roman….”

This was a big-needle injection. Skinner’s back went from hunched to a proper height. His eyes tightened and finally focused. He turned and bounced onto the stage, while evidence of the crowd’s approval squeezed tight and spiraled down the vacant hallway like a June wind.

Forty-five minutes later, Skinner blew into the dressing room in a cloak of moisture, yanking a plug out of his ear. “So glad it’s over. There then. That’s it? Bed. Miami.” But first it was an audience with the queen. Portman and her posse infiltrated the green room. She was tiny, reductive, with soapy skin and the cloak of an unexceptional Psych major. There proved no purpose or rapport in this social call, and Portman was gone after 10 banal minutes of talk about foul weather and lousy transportation and “I really love the record.”

Skinner had his manners in place. For all the loud chatter in his rhymes, he was playing the part of well-behaved lad, one with predictable and forgivable predilections. He had made his record in his bedroom, with his mother fixing eggs down the hall. Now that he’d been thrust before all the geezers and gazers, he was having trouble assuming The Role, or even understanding what that role allotted him.

But there existed a consistent promise of Miami. At mention of the town, Skinner became consumed with explaining a certain strategy. “The rails, that’s for later. When I put my ice skating boots on—that’s a register for disaster.” He had a bottle of brandy in his hand, and he tucked it in the crook of his arm, adopting a pedagogue’s pose, eager at the eyebrows. “Here’s how it works: I get lairy on beer. Keep it as late as I can. Then hit the rails about 1 o’clock. That’s sensible inn’t? That way, you keep the paranoia down as late as you can. You know the paranoia hour. You want it when the sun comes up, so you can say, ‘A’ight, let’s go to bed.’”

A sky-high redhead slithered onto the leather couch beside Skinner. She had a monumental chest, and it was barely restrained by a turquoise hammock. This was another in the long line of Skinner’s moments of temptation, to which he claimed he had never succumbed. Tonight he was beyond fatigue, and that made this girl, Jill, try harder and harder still. “When are you coming back to Boston?” Jill cooed, as she pulled her endless skirted legs up underneath herself. “Coming back to me.” Skinner flicked a fly off his cheek.

The band and Jill cruised for sushi to a dive down the street, where they belted out a karaoke version of Enrique Iglesias’s “Hero” against a video backdrop of a yellowed beach. Not long after, Jill balanced gymnastically on her shoulder blades at the hotel, dehammocked and rendered otherwise limitless. All parties eventually passed out. Jill slipped from the suite in the gray-blue, leaving a note scrawled in purple lipstick and Boston particular: “I’m wicked sorry.”

ALL THAT MESS quickly and gratefully got behind them, and the record heat of a Miami evening poured over like the penultimate reprieve. Skinner was heading down Collins Ave. in a cab, piles of pros walking jauntily down the road on glassy stilettos, tugging at their micro-minis every few steps. The scars grew fewer, the features more symmetrical the closer the cab got to the Delano. A guy with Al Sharpton hair rolled down the blacked-out window of his Cadillac and yelled toward a group of women shuffling up the sidewalk. “Yo,” he said, “Gigi want his money.”

Skinner didn’t register the comment. He had just come from a party where the med unit removed a convulsing body on a stretcher. (“Let it be a warning,” intoned Morgan Nicholls, Skinner’s 32-year-old bass player.) The Streets caravan rolled up to the Soho Club at 4-something, and Skinner skyrocketed up to the penthouse, priced at $6,000 a night.

It was an Art Deco palace overlooking the shapeless, ebony Atlantic and the glowing emerald swimming pools dealt out on the sand. Fat Boy Slim perched behind the decks, playing records for a few intimates. Everyone showed the whites of their eyes, and Skinner swung to the sound under a three-story stucco roof that gelled pink and purple orbs. There were aqua gems and naked nymphs. A wind whistled past, someone nearly toppled into the reflecting pool, and an immense platter made an appearance. There were 50 lines delicately diced, befitting the silver service, and everyone bent at the waist, twirled tender connecting them to a few hours more.

That about cashed it, and the sun chased The Streets before the eyes could melt down and go roll back for a while. The sun was aimed straight in their eyes, this the late-noon reward for playing an electro-festival with Paul Oakenfold and Underworld, the headliners that the trance heads were coming to see.

Skinner was all knees and elbows on stage, a white t-shirt grabbing his ribs, his kid-sized plaid Izod shorts weighed down by a remote battery pack. He pranced around with a head shaved on the number one setting, his limbs showing bony like a 14-year-old in a growth spurt. He lifted his eyes toward the stone-slab amphitheater laid out before him and saw jetliners downshifting across the sky through big blasts of cloud. Hanging speaker sets and parapets of white tents swayed in a merciful breeze.

Everyone was wet and sweaty. There were fields of super-fuzzy Kangol hats pulled low over eyebrows. String bikinis promised to snap at any equation of conjunctions. Zapped-brown skin tensed under the inflexibility of daily weight work and nighttime posing. Skinner had never seen so many fit girls, stalking around the lot of them in silver sunglasses with clear lenses that encased their eyes in something like lip gloss. These were spoo guards, and in Miami even the men were wearing them, along with deep orange clam-diggers and sleeveless high-performance wear. Up by the drink stands that were doing wild business in water and juice, people passed each other wordlessly, trading silent backward longhorn fingers.

“Is anybody on pills?” Skinner shouted at the crowd. He tilted his head back and stuck two fingers into his mouth. (“They liked that,” he said later. “Any drug reference in America….”) A girl in ketchup-red hair laid down her glow sticks in favor of the hip-hop flat hand, bouncing it to Skinner’s beats.

The Streets retired to a mobile home backstage, where they would pass the remainder of the date in a scene of steadily degrading human manners. The tour was finished, and there was nothing more to worry over, except taking Miami for what it was worth. And on this night of lunatics and livestock, it was worth a good deal.

In no time, Skinner was teased up on cheap hooch—E+J brandy—and he gripped the bottle all night like it was his boarding pass to the first moonshot. He had the wrath up at full blast. “I never liked you,” he hissed at some poor unfortunate who got too close to the center. “I never liked you.” He kept saying this, on and on. Usually it was followed by an apology of some utterance. As the night drew on, the words came scattered and adhered to a fading logic.

A grainy crew swirled outside through the mobile home window, fortifying itself on free drinks. A muscle-bound Puerto Rican from the South Bronx burst into the trailer in a black biker shirt. He was serious, and he set down to rolling the bluntest blunt these English kids had ever encountered. Soon the trailer was awash in textured exhalations and unlatched admissions.

Everyone was having trouble with their balance as it was, and it didn’t help matters that the trailer sat on a slope, leaning to the passenger side. “Look at ‘dis,” Skinner whaled, lassoing his visitor with a ropey arm. “A real live Hispanic New York man. We can ‘awl learn a very lot from ‘im.” Skinner’s backup singer, Kevin Mark Trail, sucked on the last of the smoke and blew immense rings into the air while squinting at his image in a wall-length mirror, running a palm over his braids.

It was well dark outside, and Skinner’s unbalanced face was by now sown in quivering beads of sweat. He was E’d, jacked up, and blazed out. And he was looking for trouble. “Cunty!” He started yelling that, over and over to anyone standing near him. “Cunty! Cunteeeee!” He was overcome with phantom rage, and he burst out of the trailer, bounding down the thin metal stairs a wobbly two at a time in search of a target.

The air was heavy with a monotonous hum, and Skinner lost himself in a crowd of swillers on a march toward the music. He waved his access pass at the appropriates and found himself standing stage left in a nest of industry types watching Paul Oakenfold dictate the motions of the crowd. The slope was jammed with maniacal faces, the stage lights twisting over them in a coquette’s fan of mellow gold. His hair extended into a modest tower, Oakenfold danced on the balls of his feet between his two record players, and he shoved an index finger toward the great expanse.

“Oakenfold’s a cunt,” Skinner growled into a nearby ear. “Why the fuck’s he pointing?” Skinner and Oakenfold had a running feud, which appeared to be particularly hurtful to Skinner, since he had paid homage to Oakenfold on one of Pirate’s well-played tracks. You could tell Skinner didn’t want the feud. But like a proper Brummy, he wasn’t about to back down, especially not to a guy who wore formfitting t-shirts. “He walked out of my gig and said, ‘That’s not garage,’” Skinner yelled over the thwaps and the sizzles. “Well, he doesn’t know what trance is.”

With such tormenting proximity—only 20 feet from the occupied jockey—Skinner got it in his head to rush Oakenfold in full view of the acolytes assembled on the rise. “Let’s take him out,” he sputtered. “Let’s go. Fuck him. We’ll take him out right in front of everyone.”

Skinner made a move toward the amps that surrounded “Oakie,” as he called him, but several brutal bouncers stepped in the way. Skinner was trying to push things forward, but the security guards had their eyes on him, their tensed fingers waiting for an easy excuse for a mismatch. Skinner wasn’t that far gone yet.

But he still needed to act out. He furiously shook a can of Coke, then opened it to a spray on everyone surrounding him. Someone returned the favor, pouring soda on Skinner’s head, which only enraged him further. All Skinner had left was his dear bottle of E+J brandy, and he hucked what was left of the booze into the crowd around him. The alcohol streamed over several ducking heads and splashed directly into the eyes of a guy who was wiping his Coke-glazed spoo guards on his shirt.

The man bellowed as though burning shrapnel had ripped through his sockets, and he scratched wickedly at his eyeballs with his fingernails. The bouncers handled Skinner by the scruff of his neck. He didn’t feel a thing, and he reappeared in the band’s trailer with his shirt stained as though from a car wreck, his eyeballs halfway out of his head, his incisors bared and gnashing.

Skinner grabbed the nearest bottle of anything and began baptizing everyone in the trailer, indiscriminately pouring great flowing quantities of liquor down throats and shirtfronts. His breath shot short and hard. The last two hours he lost.

Women were coming and going, mostly going. “Maybe the people who run the world should be smoking Els,” said a girl wearing a silver serviette as a shirt. “Aw, ith alright,” said some teenager, spraying the air with an unredeemable lisp. “Long ath you buy me thumb Hennethy.” A delicate Russian girl found her way onto the trailer, stepping regally on pricey heels. She would go on to spend the night in a pile of powder, eventually urinating a half moon into her jeans while wide awake and mouthing foreign sounds.

Out the door and down the street. Ghostly pink-aqua Miami neon pierced the darkness, and the air womped with concert music 10, 20 blocks away. Stragglers and demons roamed the parking lots, their tongues licking their lips in manic effort. There was growling. Skinner roved from one foot to another, eventually finding his way to a penthouse in an illumined hotel at the brim of the water.

He was surrounded by DJs and DJ promoters who had lost the light from their eyes some years ago. They were sitting motionless, as though in a doctor’s office, waiting for the mound of pharmaceuticals they had ordered from the hotel bellman in the starched Nehru.

Skinner was sandwiched between two zoned-out Miami girls on the couch. “I haven’t slept in two days,” garbled the one in the gingham halter-top. She had a long neck, and she could barely hold her chin off her chest. The other woman had spent the day backstage at the festival talking on her hands-free, typing on her two-way, and flashing her better parts at the closest shooting star.

Someone handed Skinner a small baggie. “It’s pure MDMA,” whispered a voice. With a face twisted into a look of obligation, Skinner opened the package and looked down to find the faintest coating of powder. It was clear by his silent look of concern that he had arrived at the paranoia hour. And right on schedule, with the sun creeping up the window over his shoulder. This is what it all came down to.

Skinner swiveled his head at his manager, then at the girls. Pomegranate described his eyes, which sagged toward his waist. He was just trying to stay positive. He ripped the plastic bag along its edge, and lifted it toward his face in a desperate throw. It landed at his nostrils, his eyes went dark, and a great big sucking sound dropped the curtain on the evening.

К сожалению, не могу поручиться за всеобщность своего суждения. Я не верю, что большинство остальных американцев взирают на порочное поведение столь же восхищенными глазами, какими смотрю на это я. Более того, у американцев есть склонность мерить других такой меркой, соответствовать которой у самих у них не получается. (Возможно, это характерная черта не одних только американцев, но временами кажется, что это так.) И все же данное несоответствие не означает, что в силу его всё, что мы злословим, является непременно хорошим. Оно тоже может быть плохим, а зачастую таким и бывает. Порой мы оказываемся правы.

Впрочем, что на самом деле означает “плохой”? Что такое “плохо”? Чтобы разобраться, обращаю внимание на последний новогодний спор между Россией и Украиной из-за газа. Как утверждал Кремль – и это не вовсе лишено доверия, – ему нужно было только одно: получить справедливую цену за свою продукцию. Киев утверждал, что внезапный скачок цен является возмездием за избрание правительства, тяготеющего к Западу. Что до американской точки зрения в этом вопросе, то представлялось логичным рассматривать данный эпизод как все тот же повтор изнемогающей мстительности России.

Различие в том, как Россия смотрит на себя и какой Америка видит Россию, возможно, коренится, по сути, в нынешней склонности России играть то, что она добродетельна, оставаясь на самом деле внутренне глубоко порочной. Это можно выразить так: “Я люблю Запад – я ненавижу Запад”, – свидетельства чего попеременно проглядывают то в улыбчивых саммитах Путина с Бушем, то в усилиях Кремля вызвать призраков из этого алфавитного месива: НАТО, ОБСЕ, НПО и т.д. Веди себя Россия неизменно озлобленно и неуступчиво, вместо того чтобы извечно ударяться в капризные заигрывания, у американцев, возможно, сложилось бы иное мнение. С течением времени постоянство обычно добивается успеха, даже если то, что вы отстаиваете, пользуется плохой репутацией.

Ведь, понимаете ли, большинство американцев, в отличие от большинства россиян, истово устанавливают абсолютные ценности плохого и хорошего, не удосуживаясь принять во внимание то обстоятельство, что все люди одновременно и хороши и плохи, хотя и в разной мере. В этом смысле наш мир проще, чем ваш, и мы более чем уверены, когда кто-то отвечает нашему представлению о том, кто они такие.

Есть у американцев еще одна особенная черта, о которой нелишне упомянуть. Даже несмотря на то, что США демонстрируют господство в нынешнем мире, американцы, как то ни странно, неизменно встают на сторону обделенных. России же, в силу различных исторических и географических причин, никогда не выпадет играть эту вызывающую особое сочувствие роль.

Насколько я себе представляю, у России два выхода: быть исключительно хорошей или совершенно плохой. Либо попросту вообще позабыть, что Америка думает, а лишь усесться поудобнее и получить удовольствие от кино.

Bob Guccione Jr. should have known something was amiss when he saw some strange guy assembling a tent in the hallway outside his Gear magazine offices. But Mr. Guccione simply gave the guy a strange look and walked past.

The strange guy was Brett Forrest, a freelance writer who believed that Gear owed him nearly $4,000, part for a story that had been killed around a year ago and part for a feature on the XFL that ran in the magazine’s February issue.

After repeated calls and no paycheck, Mr. Forrest arrived at Gear’s loft office in Chelsea on June 21 to ask nicely one more time. He said he walked into the finance department just after 11 a.m. “I said, ‘I’m here to pick up a check,’” Mr. Forrest said. “And they’re like, ‘Oh, yes, oh, um, yes, we’ll call you.’ The same shit I’ve heard from them from the beginning.”

After a heated exchange with Souzana Dandoura, head of human resources, Mr. Forrest walked out and promptly set his tent down in a spot outside Mr. Guccione’s office. The writer had made a T-shirt that read “PAY UP” and taped two signs on the side of his tent reading, “YOU OWE ME $3,865.”

That provoked some action. “Bob came running out and [Ms. Dandoura] came running over, and all these people ran over and they ripped the signs off and pushed the tent around,” Mr. Forrest said.

According to Mr. Forrest, Mr. Guccione said: “You can’t do this–get out of here. We’ll call the police and have you removed.”

Amid the commotion, Ms. Dandoura came back with his check–unsigned–in her hand, Mr. Forrest said. “Basically, they’ve just been sitting on it for all these months, refusing to sign it,” he continued. “And she holds it out to me and says, ‘Here it is, right here–you’re just making it harder on yourself.’”

Still not satisfied, Mr. Forrest unzipped the tent and went inside. He had a book to read–Chester Himes’ Yesterday Will Make You Cry–and some peanuts. Mr. Guccione went back into his office, and things returned to normal–or as normal as possible, considering that an angry freelancer was tenting in the hallway.

Then Tim Wood, the managing editor, knocked on the front of the tent. “He’s like, ‘Can I come in?’” Mr. Forrest said. He invited Mr. Wood in, whereupon the managing editor scrunched down with Mr. Forrest and said that the writer should have called him for help first–a suggestion that produced a guffaw from Mr. Forrest.

“He was cool about it,” Mr. Forrest said. “It’s like they sent him in to be the hostage negotiator. He’s sitting in there, he has a couple peanuts, we’re hanging out and I get him to take a picture of me.”

“I just wanted to get in there so he knew we were on it [the payment situation],” Mr. Wood told Off the Record, “like we weren’t going to wait him out like a squatter or something.”

Eventually Mr. Wood went back outside, and within 20 minutes he returned to tell Mr. Forrest that his check was ready. Mr. Forrest–by then a little bit paranoid–told Mr. Wood that he wasn’t getting out of the tent without his check. The editor obliged the writer and returned with a check for $3,654.

“I looked at it and I said, ‘Tim, this isn’t the full amount,’” Mr. Forrest reported. “He kind of got this sheepish look on his face, like Oh, fuck.” The writer mulled his situation over. “I just debated, do I hold out for more? I just said, ‘O.K., I’m out of here,’ and I packed up.”

Mr. Guccione later told Off the Record, “I actually had to have a bit of a grudging admiration for him. It was a slight admiration for the innovativeness of it.” In the next breath, he added firmly, “It was inappropriate, and obviously it’s not conducive to wanting to continue a relationship …. [It] upset some of the other staff here, who just thought it was inappropriate.”

Mr. Guccione acknowledged the delay in payment, but said: “It is unfortunately the way the business is if you’re a freelancer. It’s nothing I’m doing institutionally, and most of my writers have no complaint whatsoever. He fell through the cracks.”

Mr. Guccione also denied threatening to call the police. “We don’t threaten,” he said. “If we had wanted to call the cops, we would have called the cops.”

For his part, Mr. Forrest didn’t seem concerned about burning that particular bridge. “I’d like to work with some of the editors there if they go somewhere else, but you know, I’ll never write for anyone who doesn’t pay. I mean, I understand things fall through the cracks. I mean, that’s part of being a freelancer. One of the things they’re saying is, ‘We’re not singling you out.’ I know you’re not, but I don’t really care. I just want my money for work that I’ve done.”

The whole affair took 47 minutes. Said Mr. Wood: “I wish he’d handled it differently, but I understand why he did it–and damn if it didn’t work.”

A marvelous canter across one of media-land’s most misbegotten enterprises. One now only awaits the NBC movie of the week.
–Christopher Byron, bestselling author of Martha Inc. and The Fanciest Dive

Parts of Long Bomb seemed reminiscent of the prose of Hunter S. Thompson…. Long Bomb is a tale of loud and empty promises and the failure of style to become apparent, let alone triumph over substance.
–Bill Littlefield, host of “Only A Game,” National Public Radio

When historians look back on the “anything’s possible” hubris of American culture at the turn of the millennium, one hard-to-miss boondoggle will be the “extreme” football league that promised to take professional football to new levels of “reality” and gore…. Forrest writes snappily and brings some memorable XFL characters to the page….Well-told tale of ego and excess run amok in big-time sports.
–Kirkus Reviews

Last season’s most egregious stinker came courtesy of NBC and Vince McMahon, who attempted to parlay the low-brow “attractions” of wrestling with all-access football. The result was one of the worst failures in television history and is recounted in hilarious detail. No one comes out unscathed—whether it’s bumbling players, sleazy cheerleaders, lunkhead broadcasting execs or embarrassed celebrity announcers.
–USA Today

Ooops! For so many, this sums up the one season experiment of the XFL. High hopes to He Hate Me—how did it happen? Long Bomb is an intriguing tale that reaches far beyond the football and the bombast.
–Chris Berman, ESPN

Football is the madman’s search for his soul. Brett Forrest brilliantly shows us the connection between the network suits and the battered bodies cranked through the meat grinder. They share a testosterone-fueled dream of exceeding themselves through football.
–Peter Gent, bestselling author of North Dallas Forty and The Franchise

Brett Forrest has authored Long Bomb, a great read on the late, unlamented XFL. Working from the fringes of “He Hate Me’s” Las Vegas Outlaws, Forrest provides a perversely hilarious, time-lined put-down of those most deserving to have engendered sports and TV’s all-time fiasco.
–New York Post

Long Bomb compellingly recounts the hubris, egos, and clashes behind one of the biggest television disasters of all time.
–The Onion

Forrest’s sentences crackle with pop, energy, and dazzling metaphor. And even though we already know how this tale of overweening greed and arrogance turns out, we keep turning the pages compulsively, like rubberneckers passing a car wreck, so we can see up close the bloodied egos and smashed ambitions of chutzpah-heavy hucksters and hustlers like Vince McMahon, Jesse Ventura, and Dick Ebersol. Long Bomb is the bomb.
–Peter Alson, author of One of a Kind: The Rise and Fall of Stuey “The Kid” Ungar, The World’s Greatest Poker Player and Confessions of an Ivy League Bookie

Considering that nobody cared much about the XFL, Vince McMahon’s one-season pro football fiasco, why should anyone want to read about it? Well, for one thing, Forrest’s book is very funny. And for another, it provides a definitive look at the greed and hypocrisy of many people involved in pro sports…. R.I.P., XFL.
–Washington Times

With Long Bomb, Brett Forrest brutally telestrates the leering and grandly miscalculated fin de siecle spectacle that was the XFL. Forrest’s unsparing autopsy of a book should be required reading for anyone who knows that pro sports is more than just a game.
–Elwood Reid, author of If I Don’t Six, Midnight Sun, and D.B.

Forrest is a big talent, and this book is filled with enough insights and wicked one-liners to expose the way sports really gets packaged for TV.
–Shaun Assael, bestselling author of Sex, Lies, and Headlocks

The XFL, a loose-cannon combo between football and the WWF, was supposed to revolutionize TV sports. Instead, it stumbled and died in its first season. Read the inside story in Long Bomb.
–New York Daily News

Long Bomb proves the venture headed by wrasslin’ honcho Vince McMahon was never really on the brink of anything but pretty certain failure.
–E!

Destined to be recalled as the New Coke of the new millennium, the XFL makes a fascinating case study in corporate hubris.
–Variety

Journalist Forrest recreates the short but provocative run of the XFL….This fascinating pop culture tale is recommended for all libraries.
–Library Journal

So it was odd when two men who had assembled the biggest bomb in TV history began high-fiving on the sidelines of a football field. Yet they were, clutching cigars and each other, casting back in laughter like the winning quarterback-receiver duo. This was hardly a show of humility. They hugged, released the hug, and then hugged again, as though there were something to celebrate, something that demanded ceaseless glee. They sucked on their cigars. It was as if they had just won the million bucks on “Survivor.”

To Dick Butkus, their display was as crass as a juggler at a funeral. But the face of pro football managed to hold it together. Quietly, he shuffled away from Dick Ebersol and Vince McMahon.

Dick Butkus was so gifted a football player that, to borrow the parlance of NFL Films, “to talk about him is to drain the vocabulary of superlatives.”? When opponents talked about him, they drained of color. Butkus was the meanest man ever to play pro football. It just happened to be his misfortune to endure six straight losing seasons with the Chicago Bears. He never made the playoffs. And he never asked for a trade. He knew how you were supposed to act when you got your butt whipped. It didn’t involve complaints and demands. It certainly didn’t involve bear hugs and high fives.

The two men standing near him on the Los Angeles Coliseum field had it all wrong with their grinning and chortling. As Butkus beheld them from the corner of his eye, he knew that the only thing tougher to accept than losing was a teammate unaffected by loss. What did the XFL mean to Dick Ebersol and Vince McMahon? Was it really just another TV pilot in an endless line of “projects”? For Butkus, the XFL was football, and its demise was like getting blown out in the biggest game of the year. He looked like he was passing a stone. Or riding out a mistake.

Butkus and the XFL had always seemed a curious match, football’s Prometheus joined with men who dealt in mirage. Nevertheless, the whole venture seemed to teeter on his shoulders, still prodigious decades after he snapped his last quarterback like a wing bone. When you got down to it, the XFL’s fortunes could not have settled upon a more fitting barometer. Butkus also knew his way around Hollywood. He lived in Malibu. Had he been the type, he could have bragged about appearing on MacGyver three times. If Butkus okayed the thing, then the thing was good.

Butkus was better dressed than his superiors in his double-breasted gray suit to their grubby sweatpants and pleather sleeves. He was more mannered and discreet, just trying to get through the XFL championship game with a modicum of decency, waiting to put the experience in the fish-eye mirrors of his RV as he peeled out of the stadium parking lot one last time. He’d never say as much. But all you had to do was look at that face of a thousand fulfilled threats, of not a single veil, with its many wrinkles and scars folding indistinguishably into one another, and realize that Butkus was accustomed to communicating without words.

You wouldn’t guess the meaning by locating the XFL’s big-time announcer, who dutifully rumbled from the broadcast position but simmered with the inexpressible rage of a patsy. You wouldn’t know it from spying Dick Ebersol and Vince McMahon, who continued a yearlong pageant of public romance, their close conversation cascading above the play on the field. You wouldn’t know it if you polled the fans, a twenty-five-thousand-person colony of the lonesome and the die-hard. But you could read it in Dick Butkus’s sodden face. The XFL wasn’t just a confused flop. It was the kind of embarrassment that made you want to smack yourself for not knowing any better.

For the men in the mesh, selectivity had nothing to do with it. What else were they going to do? Trained to realize the exaltation of the individual, these football players couldn’t so easily dissolve into a world of thankless professions where no one called your name on the PA. And why should they, when a league as steeped in hype as this one came begging for their efforts? The XFL was supposed to be much more than a football league. It was a shot at extending the dream, and one of several jackpots awaited—Hollywood, pro wrestling, the NFL—if only the players performed. The XFL promised as much to them as it did to its viewers. And so did recent history.

Driving through the swelling midsection of Las Vegas, a town of winking promises, an XFL quarterback heard a single name, and a story’s many details tapped with familiarity along the encoded compartments of his memory. It was the story of a guy with few prospects who spent his weekdays working in a grocery story and his weekends playing quarterback in a pro league that once paid its players in fast food. The story was of victory’s essence, of winning when they said all you could do was lose. It was the story of Kurt Warner, the stock-boy quarterback who went from the Arena Football League to the NFL, where he won the MVP trophy. How it happened and why it happened, none of that mattered to the castoffs jacked up on Warner’s mythology. The main thing was that it happened, and that it could happen again.

A thousand players stood on the outside of the NFL looking in, toiling like ranch hands in one third-rung league or another, watching the dream fade slightly with each passing day. When the XFL blessed them with its creation, it was a reprieve not unlike an eleventh-hour phone call from the governor. Kurt Warner’s departed minor-league ghost assumed a very real presence, and XFL players referenced his story only half as much as they dreamed it. They had faith. And they had license. They had another chance at being big shots.

A guy with a nappy head of hair busting out in a parabola, Rob Smart corralled the ladies at the Drink, a meat locker off the Strip in Vegas, telling them what they wanted to hear. His pockets busted out with digits written in flowery script. He was the XFL’s poet laureate, and his recognized riff won him bounty of one sort but not another. Attention was his only denomination, and he gladly accepted it.

Kelvin Kinney had done all that was asked. In some kind of perpetual pain, he sat at the plastic bar of a papier-mâché casino, his left foot a similarly lifeless plank. He ordered a glass of Louis XIII cognac, having approached refinement through years in the NFL’s chocolate-on-pillow hotels. No matter how swell he drank, nothing could shake a sense of betrayal. He earned almost $1 million for his last season in the NFL. Now he played for less than $50,000. It wasn’t the money that compelled him to further cripple himself. Kinney had given the NFL all he had, and they treated him like a draft-dodger, some kind of traitor. He was after something else in the XFL.

Ryan Clement rode through Vegas, talking and talking about Kurt Warner, with whom he shared a position and a fallow period, if not a personal relationship with God. They marked Clement for greatness while the fuzz was still on his face. He was supposed to be the one who made the rifle passes and the fat paychecks. Somewhere it all derailed, and his head grew foggy to forget. Instead of leading the Broncos downfield, he was pinching toes to check the customer’s fit.

The car glided under the bulbs of the Strip, which consumed Clement in a blaze of white light. A billboard hung up ahead, standing out in the morass. It was a picture of a man in an oxford shirt holding a check in his hand, smiling broadly. He had good reason. GEORGE HANOVER WON $250,000 AT OUR SLOTS, read the ad copy. In a haze of exhaust fumes and fat, wavy desert air, Hanover’s smile existed in a facsimile of motion. He appeared to smile in real time. He was nobody made somebody, loser then winner. Lost in the gestures of his story, Clement didn’t notice the resemblance. As it was for several hundred others, the XFL was Clement’s slot machine, his land rush, his best shot at following Kurt Warner’s act with one starring himself.

The players weren’t the only ones taking chances—the higher ups were calling for a Long Bomb.

One small problem: Last night I stayed out until 5 a.m., and I’ve been pounding Cokes all morning to stay awake—four cans before I pick up my pencil. Now I would like to use the restroom, but the TLC doesn’t allow bathroom breaks (cheating). It’s a serious policy indeed: Legend has it that two years ago, a man soiled himself in the middle of a test, and passed.

I make it through the first section without incident, but before part two begins, I’m rocking my grammar-school desk back and forth on the chipped tile floor. I rip through the hour-plus section in 10 minutes and make for the bathroom.

This isn’t the MCAT. I get my score a week later: 98 percent. Time to see if I can hack being a hack.

FIRST AVENUE AND First Street, 5:30 P.M. Awkward moments abound on my first day. I’m a vain lover behind the wheel, thinking every sidewalk gesture—a wipe of a brow, an arm through a sleeve, a finger pointing to a spire—is meant for me. More than once, I veer to the curb and find no fare. At 47th Street and Park Avenue, a statue fakes me out, a bronze businessman hailing a cab.

Finally, I pick up my first passenger. He seems harmless enough, a feckless yuppie about my age. Nonetheless, butterflies flutter in my stomach. I hope I know how to get where he’s going. “Eighty-eighth Street and First Avenue,” he says. It’s a straight shot north, and I’m relieved—so relived, in fact, that when I get to 88th and First, I look down at the meter and see that I never turned it on.

ASTOR PLACE, 8:05 P.M. An old lady gets in with her middle-aged daughter. The younger woman wears a big red sun hat, and Mom reminds me of Marge Schott—same Pete Rose bowl cut, same Marlboro baritone. “I love New York,” barks Marge, as we glide through animated weekend streets. “Just love it, don’t you? The shows, the shops. New York has everything.” Her daughter assents, and asks if I agree, which I do. Then I steer around Union Square, and a bus just about takes my back end clean off.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” yells Marge. “What the fuck! That fucking maniac! I’m sick of this city. Just get me where the fuck I’m going and I’m outta here!” She tells her daughter to stop talking to me. “When you’re driving,” she shrieks, “you shut your yap and you get me where I’m going.”

I recall the words of Amit Gogia, a Bangkok-born Master Cabbie instructor: “If you want to drive a cab, you got to eat the humble pie.”

FDR DRIVE, 3:45 A.M. A coked-up couple hails me at 86th Street and Third Avenue. When we turn south onto the FDR, I hear a zipper rip on the other side of the partition.

A cabbie told me that he once picked up a couple who’d just wed at City Hall. They consummated the marriage in the backseat. Afterward, the groom told the driver to park under the Brooklyn Bridge. “I want you to have sex with my wife,” he said, and the drive did as he was asked. Then the groom joined in.

I rotate my rearview mirror to get a better look at the woman’s blond head bobbing for apples. In my month of driving, this never happens again. The daily life of a cabbie is low-rent and run-down, and boring to boot.

TRIBECA GARAGE, 21st Street and 10th Avenue, 5 P.M. I have to climb a ladder to meet the eyes of the Bangladeshi dispatcher, who works behind greasy bulletproof glass that fronts his elevated booth. “My name is Abdul,” he says, chuckling, “not Mohammed.” He’s playing a joke—as much on himself as on me, the token white guy in the garage. I slide my hack license under the glass and laugh. I make a point of laughing at all of Abdul’s jokes so he’ll hurry up and give me a key to a cab.

You lease a car for 12 hours, from five o’clock to five o’clock, whichever shift you want, day or night. (I drive at night, ’cause that’s when the kooks come out.) The fee runs from $100 to $115, higher on weekends because of all the people out there partying. Garage owners don’t pay attention to what your meter says; all they care about is the lease money you pay at the end of your shift. You also pay for gas.

Seasoned hacks can net $150-plus on good nights; I took home $100 on my second time out. It’s not Wall Street, but if you’re an immigrant working seven days a week and living in a Bronx shoebox with 10 other people, this job is a goldmine—especially if you have generous passengers. Most cabbies average 25 to 30 fares a shift, so tips add up. Usually, people take care of you if you know where you’re going and mind your manners.

And if you know Martha Stewart, you know the importance of details, even in a cab. I met a driver who switches the cab’s radio to a station that he thinks his passengers will like—sizing them up before they even get in the car.

But the key to raking it in: Don’t ever leave your cab. Hungry? Grab a falafel and eat it while trolling for fares. Need to use the bathroom? Hold it. Or take the Manhattan gas station tour. If you’re up to it.

ORCHARD STREET, 5:26 P.M. No matter what I do, cops, pedestrians, and other drivers hurl epithets at me because I’m at the wheel of a cab, a conical advertisement sitting on my rooftop like a dunce cap on a mischievous student. I obey a stop sign, and a cop, in a rush for a slice of pizza, slams into my back bumper with his cruiser. I swerve to avoid hitting a pedestrian on Sixth Avenue, and he flips me the bird. A driver cuts me off heading down Varick Street, inviting me to perform illegal acts on his dog as he goes.

I stop at a red light alongside another cab, and the driver rolls down his windows. He sticks his big, bald black head into the light breeze and asks how my day’s going.

“Slow,” I say.

“I’m gonna quit,” he says. “Move upstate.”

“Not worth the hassle, huh?” But the light turns green, and he’s already gone, cutting me off and getting a jump on the next block’s fares.

“There’s no brotherhood out there,” a veteran cabbie tells me back at the garage. “I don’t want to make eye contact with you. I don’t want to speak to you. I might have to cut you off. I’d cut my mother off for a fare.”

CANAL STREET AND Mott Street, 1:35 A.M. Travis Bickle said some day a real rain would come and wash all the scum off the streets—and figured he’d be the one doing the rain dance. I’m starting to realize that I, too, have become a disdainful observer of the people on the streets, reveling in that same imaginary power.

Travis had guns, lots of them. All I have is my off-duty switch, which I’m only allowed to turn on at the end of the shift. But sometimes I can’t help myself. A guy in a black turtleneck hails me. He sees my off-duty light and pleads silently as a I approach, his cell phone a totem between praying hands. I shake my head and drive on, taking bizarre satisfaction in denying a New Yorker the one thing he thinks he can always get: access.

TWENTY-SEVENTH STREET and 10th Avenue, 4:11 A.M. Until now, being held up has been the least of my concerns. I’m more worried about not knowing how to get to Battery Park City, not having change for a $20 bill, or not knowing how much to charge for a trip to Newark airport.

Then I pick up this guy outside the techno club Twilo—cue-ball head, thick silver chain around his neck, arms resplendent in red and orange hot-rod flame tattoos. Snaking around the red-velvet ropes, he stares at me, wild-eyed, and hops in my cab. He looks like he’s between gigs with the house band at Rikers Island.

Once, over lunch at Blimpie, Stuart Shinbein, of Master Cabbie, explained how I would come to recognize a sketchy fare. “You’re gonna develop that seventh sense,” he said, leaving me to guess about the sixth. “It’s called a cop’s stomach.”

Right now, I’m experiencing a spot of indigestion, so I ask the fare where he’s from.

“Edmonton,” he says.

“What’re you doing in town?”

“I’m a hairdresser. I’m here for an Aveda conference on styling products.”

Some day a real rain will come….

TRIBECA GARAGE, 21st Street and 10th Avenue, 5 P.M. Some drivers own their cars. Cabbies who lease full-time usually arrange for the same car every shift. But part-time hacks like me get whatever the dispatcher throws our way. And these cabs are time bombs. The first passenger on one driver’s shift opened up the back door and said, “Uh, mister, you have no backseat.”

Today, my off-duty light doesn’t turn on. My window doesn’t roll down. The meter’s temperamental, too; it rattles with every inconsistency in the road. There’s no seat belt. My door doesn’t unlock from the outside. The blinkers don’t shut off automatically. A Bic pen cap serves as the radio’s volume knob. The car drifts hard to the right. And I don’t even want to think about what’s happening under the hood, but the “check engine” light won’t shut off.

NINTH STREET AND First Avenue, 11:13 P.M. A guy wants to go to The Monster, a gay club in the West Village. He catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “But you gotta work, right?” he says.

Ask any hack: Gay guys hit on cabbies late at night. As one driver put it, “You’re their last chance at getting laid.” Most hacks will tell you that homosexuals are their preferred clientele—no macho bullshit, no problems, good tips.

A driver told me about the last time a passenger invited him up to his place for a beer. They downed a few, and the guy said, “Look, I’m gay. A couple of my friends are coming over later and you’re welcome to stay.” The driver said no thanks, went out in the hall, and waited for the elevator. When it opened, three behemoths got off and headed into the apartment he’d just left. “They were linebackers, man!” the cabbie told me. “I narrowly escaped.”

TRIBECA GARAGE, 21st Street and 10th Avenue, 5 P.M. Two drivers sit at a Formica table, talking and listening for Abdul to announce their names over the static-choked PA system. “I’m from Saudi Arabia,” says one, stabbing a finger at his friend. “We don’t fight each other. We kill only white people.” He glares at me from across the garage.

Five o’clock is always a car wreck of nationalities, with everyone crowding the dispatcher’s booth to get their keys. Africans, Arabs, Indians, a few Eastern Europeans—all communing in cliques. I feel like a dodo bird, and my passengers also know something’s up:

“No, really, whose cab is this?”

“What are you doing speaking English and driving a cab?”

“You’re not really a cabdriver. What are you, a writer?”

FORTY-THIRD STREET and 11th Avenue, 4:32 A.M. This rocker hops in, wearing a black cotton T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a studded black-leather bracelet on each wrist. “Name’s Damien,” he says. “Wanna have some fun?”

He points me to the Market Diner, where I turn off the engine and leave the meter running. A half-dozen transsexuals patrol the parking lot, waving to passing cars and hooting at pedestrians. We sit on the cab’s trunk, and Damien starts talking to Africa, a John Leguizamo lookalike in a firehouse-red dress. A trannie wrapped in blue sequins squeezes her boob, and a dollop of goo squirts from the nipple. “I’m lactating,” she says.

Mimi, an Asian he-she in a geisha wig, sashays up to Africa, who grabs Mimi’s hand and rubs it against her crotch. Mimi’s eyes light up. “El grande,” she says, rolling the r. Africa then spreads Damien’s legs and moves in close, revealing the silver-dollar hickey on her collarbone. “I wanna get fucked,” Mimi says to me. “You have big dick?”

I look over at my fare. Africa is wrapping her fingers around his manhood, which pokes over the waistband of his black pants. With a free hand, she’s running her fingers over Damien’s teeth and gums and tongue, and he’s eating it up. Behind us in the diner, people put away forkfuls of home fries.

CLINTON STREET AND Houston Street, 8:15 P.M. I pick up two people who later turn out to be my new neighbors. It’s strange how many friends I see randomly on the street, how many degrees of separation occur in the cab, how many people I find I know.

But I never pick up a celebrity. A fellow cabbie was smoking pot one night when he picked up a famous R&B artist. He extinguished the joint right before the guy hopped in. “I smell that,” said the musician, as they roared up the street. “Send that back here.”

BROADWAY AND 51st Street, 2:57 A.M. As I approach the end of my month-long stint, I find myself becoming as brazen as a mobster. My driving philosophy: If someone can be bullied, bully them. I don’t own the car, and it’s beat-up anyway. I can drive as fast and loose as I want. I can get away with anything.

I pick up a friend who knows how to get where he wants to go, so I toss him the keys. (Penalty for letting a civilian behind the wheel of your cab: possible revocation of your license and a fine of up to $1,000.) I’m staring down a tough decision: He’s taking me to Flashdancers, a subterranean midtown strip club with a one-drink minimum, and if I drink and drive, there goes my license.

Five Buds and five lap dances later, the club’s closing and they’re kicking us up the crimson-shag stairs. In the cab, we throw back a nasal-sabotaging cocktail of Altoids and Japanese hot peas, just in case we get pulled over. The internal combustion sparks a revelation: As the strippers leave the club, we can actually pick them up and drive off with them—the strip-bar patron’s seldom-realized fantasy.

I swing by the club’s entrance and cut in front of a dozen cabs. (Penalty for jumping a taxi line: $50.) The strippers walk out, and I recall a trick I learned at Master Cabbie. “I speak English!” I yell. “Take my cab.!” (Penalty for soliciting a fare: $50.) “We already got a ride,” says a curvy Brazilian dancer, pointing to a guy strutting like a stud toward a parked taxi. I lock eyes with him and he storms over to my cab. Then he smiles.

“I remember you, yo,” he says. It’s Frank, who graduated with me from Master Cabbie. “You gotta come here every night at 4, yo.”

FIFTY-NINTH STREET and Fifth Avenue, 3:30 P.M. I hail a cab, and a prune’s at the wheel. Whenever I take cabs now, I’m always getting the driver going on some story. I ask this guy how long he’s been a hack. “A coupla days,” he rasps. “Ha!… Coupla thousand.”

We drive past a cover girl standing in front of Saks. “Oooh, wouldja look at her,” says the prune. “When I was younger, back in the ’50s, me and my friends would drive around in my cab, messing around. We’d see a hot broad on the sidewalk and yell out, ‘Hey, cookie!’ She’d turn around, and we’d say, ‘Not you, dog biscuit!’ Ya know, take ‘em down a notch.”

KING STREET AND Sixth Avenue, 12:20 A.M. All this driving is messing with my head. I haven’t exactly mellowed. I’m just duller—not really awake, but not asleep either. It’s my last night.

I’m cruising in a cabbie coma of zero sleep and perpetual motion when I stop for yet another fare. The traffic light turns yellow, so I gun it. But one of the two passengers I’ve picked up, a middle-aged exec, has only one foot in the cab. Down he goes, ass-first, in his camel-hair coat and Brooks Brothers three-button. I drag him half a block before processing the screams of his colleague in the backseat. Skidding to a stop and looking through the open back door, I see the guy stand up. His right pant leg has a gaping hole and his knee’s gushing blood as he falls into the cab. May passengers yelling murder, all I can do is punch the meter and keep moving forward.