power), independent media with a materialrnbase controlled by the state, and unlimitedrnbusiness opportunities for thosernchosen to enjoy them. Not much in thernway of verisimilitude, but if you are thernpresident of a multinational corporationrndesperate to sell your country down thernriver, it’s more than enough to bringrnround the stodgiest shareholder.rnAnyway, punters like Berezovsky andrnZhukov were among the lucky ones. I’mrnnot saying that they had got a head startrnby keeping their distance from the secretrnpolice, or that they had been picked tornplay the part of entrepreneurs in the pantomimernof Russian capitalism just becausernthey had a firm handshake and anrnengaging smile. But by the time auditionsrnwere held, the specific loyalties ofrnthe men who were going to make uprnwhat would soon be popularly known asrnthe “Russian mafia” hardly mattered.rnThe premise was that a certain percentagernof the country’s wealth, say five percent,rnwould be turned over to them—asrnhad been done once before during thernNew Economic Policy of the 1920’s —rnand their inborn greed, human vanity,rnand a modicum of effort would do thernrest. In a matter of a few years, the simulacrimirnof capitalism in Russia wouldrnhave a pockmarked but convincingly humanrnface. As for controlling this mafia,rnsince when does a 95-percent stakeholderrnworry about how to control the smallrnfry?rnSo much for the digression, the pointrnof which is that people like Sasha Zhukovrnare basically good fellows, living high onrnthe hog, and endowed with a mentalityrnvery much like the lottery winner’s. Thernonly problem is that, like many lotteryrnwinners, they tend to reassess their livesrnex post facto, reorganizing everythingrnfrom kindergarten on into a logical chainrnof causes and effects that lead inexorablyrnto the moment when they picked thernright numbers and received their rewardrnfrom the hand of fate. It never occurs tornthem that they are mere extras, expendablernand replaceable, in a political productionrnthe likes of which the West hasrnnever dreamed possible. How could itrnever occur to them? They take the West,rnwith its Kensington penthouses and itsrnMisses Greece, very seriously. So whenrnthey get taxed in Moscow, or shot inrnCannes, or arrested in Piccolo Romazzino,rnthey are very surprised.rnThe news of Sasha’s arrest reached mernat the Grand Hotel delle Palme in Palermo,rnwhere I have since decided to spendrnthe coming summer. I had never visitedrnSicily before, and had it not been for thernunexpectedly and fortuitously acquiredrnfriendship of the G —, a family of hereditaryrnPalermitani, I would never havernmade the effort of tearing myself awayrnfrom Venice at a time when the crab seasonrnwas just beginning. Besides, like thernRed Army of old, I only go where I am invited.rnAlfredo G — brought me the day’s Corriererndelta Sera with a happy smile on hisrnface: “Friend of yours?” On seeingrnZhukov’s photograph next to the grimrnheadline, I told him that I would normallyrnregard the poor rich sucker as a passingrnacquaintance, but now that he was behindrnbars, and rather more probably putrnthere by the hubris which is the nemesisrnof the lucky than by any real malfeasance,rnyes, I was more than happy to regardrnhim as a friend. Afredo signaled hisrnapproval of my reasoning with a Masonicrnwink and, standing in a Palermo streetrnand craning our necks like two Superenolottornsavants scrutinizing the villageby-rnvillage distribution of the weeklyrnjackpot, together we read the article.rnThe Milanese take on the news did notrncontain any references to arms smuggling,rninternational intrigue, Russia, orrnthe Balkans. The crux of the story wasrnthat, in August of last year, Sasha gave arnparty for 600 guests at his Sardinian lovernnest, where his immediate neighbors includernItaly’s George Bush, Silvio Berlusconi.rnPresent among the celebrities werernAlba Parietti (in American terms, roughlyrnspeaking, Martin Perctz trapped in tiicrnbody of Vanna White), Prince CarlornGiovannelli (Taki Theodoracopulos minusrnthe wit, I regret to say, as well as therncharm and the money), Marco DernBenedetti with his wife Paola P’errarirn(Sonny & Cher, if Sonny had made threernbillion dollars selling mobile phones),rnRobero Cavalli (Italy’s most feted fashionrndesigner cannot have an American counterpart),rnand so on down the length of thernRoman social edifice, which was decoratedrnfor the occasion with a number ofrn”girls with crystal tattoos sent over by anrnescort agency in Milan” and topped withrna vase “containing twenty-two kilos ofrnBeluga caviar.”rn”I already told the television people Irndon’t know anything about him,” saidrnone grandee, Ignazio La Russa, “so whatrndo you want me to say? This storyrnshouldn’t be making the papers.” “Irndon’t really know who Signor Zhukov is,”rnsaid another guest, Paolo Cirino Pomicino,rn”but why should I feel embarrassed?rnI was just there by chance. I came withrnfriends. I was staying with Daniela Santanchc….rnYou know how she is, I alwaysrngo where she tell me.” In her turn,rnDaniela Santanche told the Corriere:rn”No, we had no idea who the Russianrnwas. You know how it is in the summerrnhere, it’s like a caravan, one group justrnfollows another. We dropped by only forrna few minutes.” Supposed to haverncrowed thrice in the story, tiie cock of thernGospels was by now more like a galvanicallyrnoscillating dead frog.rn”You sec? That’s your Venetians forrnyou,” muttered Alfredo. I tried to explainrnthat the perfidious gobblers office caviarrnwere Roman, Milanese, Bolognese, anythingrnbut Venetian, tiiat Venice was lessrnresponsible, from the strictly ethnographicrnpoint of view, for the complexion ofrnItaly’s beau monde than just about anyrnother Italian city you could mention —allrnto no avail, because to Alfredo the distinctionrnbetween any tvvo places on thernmainland, even as utterly dissimilar tornthe mainland dweller’s mind as Romernand Venice, was dwarfed by their basicrnnorthernness, their cold and calculatingrnnorthern baseness. If I had come fromrnFlorence, Alfredo would have said thatrnleaving friends in a lurch was a Florentinerntrait. “They are all alike,” he said.rn”That mafia. Not a grain of loyalty.”rnAs for Palermo, I will have to wait andrnsee.rnAndrei Navrozov is Chronicles’rnEuropean correspondent.rnLIBERAL ARTSrnNO HABLA, DUDErn”Spanish Lingo for the Scfi’V)’ Gringornpromises to be the fast, fun way tornIcani Spani.sh. . . .rn”‘Slang is an integral part of modernrnSpanish, especially when communicatingrnwith the young. P’romrninsight on the culture, to pronunciationrnof the most useful words, andrnnow slang, this book has it all,’ exclaimedrnRhonda Cooke, an employeernat In One P^ir Publications. ‘Eachrnchapter is just three pages long; inrnless than 10 minutes yon can masterrnthe words you want for the situationrnat hand.'”rn—from a press releasernAUGUST 2001/33rnrnrn