Dialogues In Eastern Europe

This is how it all came about.

Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, had expressed a Worry to her Master of the Horse. The Worry eventually made its way to Whitehall, where it began to percolate down through the various layers of British bureaucracy until it reached a certain individual in MI 6, who recalled that I had a relationship (of a kind) with the cause of the Worry. So could I help?

After a rather generous sweetening of the Strunsky pot, I agreed to do what I could. I was going to take action in any event, because of a threat to my sugar beets. And not only to the beets, but also to the workers who were involved in tending them. Now I like to think I look after my workers, and in my Ukrainian holding, they were, to put it bluntly, freezing their asses off.

Vladimir Putin had turned off the gas.

Now Britain has a not insignificant investment in sugar beets as a possible fuel substitute. As for me, I have a considerably more significant investment. So meet it was that I have a little discussion with Mr. P. on the matter. This was not overly difficult to arrange, the result of a rather wild evening in St. Petersburg where a number of things were exchanged, not the least of which were confidential cell phone numbers. Russian is one of the six languages I am comfortable in, and the following dialogue then ensued.

"Vlad, it's Simone. Turn the gas back on. My sugar beets are suffering."

"I've told you to only use this line in an emergency."

"This is an emergency. You once said that you would do anything --"

"That was in the heat of a moment."

"And there was Vladivostok. Awkward situation for you, given that the bitch --"

"All right, all right. But it's not my fault. It's the fault of Yuliya Tymoshenko."

"What on earth has she got to do with it?"

"She wants a lower price for the gas."

"No she doesn't," I replied. "She wants a bigger cut, into her personal account. Really, Vladimir, the woman is venal, and if I remember correctly, she used to run a gas company herself. She knows you can afford it. So what's really going on?"

There was a short silence before he answered.

"I asked her to my dacha last month, and she turned me down flat."

"Of course she did. You picked the wrong venue, and no media attention. Ask her to, oh I don't know, hell, ask her to the Bolshoi. Make sure there's lots of press, including the internationals. Invite Paris Hilton. Then throw a big party. Lots of vodka. Yuliya will like that. A lot."

"Medvedev might have some concerns --"

"Well, Vlad, you'll just have to deal with that. I mean, power is like a present, and you gave Dmitri a really big one.The person receiving it will shake it, toss it about, weigh it and after all that will open it. I think Dmitri is in the "opening" phase. But you know this."

"Perhaps you're right. Ah, er, do you think that you might have a word --"

"With Yuliya, you mean."

"Yes. And I will give the gas question serious consideration."

"You do that. And for goodness sake, do something about the infrastructure of Gazprom. The lines are in terrible condition. One or two breaks, and Russia itself will have a gas shortage. Now I will see what I can arrange with Yuliya."

That conversation was much shorter. I had negotiated the Ukrainian sugar beet concession with her, and had little difficulty. Particularly when I threw in the silver Hummer. Yuliya was a bit hesitant at first about agreeing to anything that Putin had on offer, but the Bolshoi and the concomitant media attention proved too hard to resist. I also urged her to lose that ridiculous braid she parades around in, pretending she is of the Ukrainian peasantry. Yuliya Tymoshenko is about as far from peasantry as you can get.

So there, problem solved. Maybe. But the real answer lies in a non-Russian pipeline, like the one being proposed that would link the EU directly to Central Asian energy suppliers. I am all for it.
The name of this pipeline is Nabucco, and any pipeline named after a Verdi opera has got to be a winner.

Even if the opera is an early one.