State Of The Union

Stavropol, the group’s leader, walked over to the fireplace and spent several moments prodding the glowing embers with an iron poker as he pretended to search for the appropriate words to say. It was an empty gesture. He knew exactly what he was going to say. Spontaneity was not one of his attributes. It led to mistakes and mistakes were the harbingers of failure. Stavropol had rehearsed this moment in his mind for years. His raw determination was equaled only by his capacity for cold, detached calculation.

After a sufficient show of introspection, he raised himself to his full height, turned to his colleagues and said, “It pleases me to see you all here. We have waited many long years for this. Today we embark upon a new and glorious chapter in the history of not only our beloved Russia, but of the world. Fifteen years ago we-”

“Were much younger,” interrupted one of the men.

It was Valentin Primovich, the plodder, the worrier. He had always been the weakest link. Stavropol fixed him with a steady look. He had anticipated the possibility of dissension in the ranks, but not straight away. Unconsciously, his hand tightened into a fist. He reminded himself to relax.Wait, he told himself.Just wait.

Stavropol attempted to soften the features of his face before responding. “Valentin, we are still young men. And what we may have lost in years, we have more than gained in experience.”

“We have good lives now,” said Uri Varensky, coming to the defense of Primovich. “The world is a different place.Russia is a different place.”

“As we knew it would be,” said Stavropol as his eyes turned on Varensky. He had grown soft and lazy. Had Stavropol been told fifteen years ago that the thick narcosis of complacency would one day overtake such a great man, such a great soldier, Stavropol never would have believed it. “You forget that the change came because of us. It wasour idea.”

“It wasyour idea,” replied Anatoly Karganov. “We supported you, as we always have, but Uri and Valentin are correct. Times have changed.”

Stavropol couldn’t believe his ears.Was Karganov, one of the greatest military minds the country had ever seen, siding with Primovich and Varensky? The Anatoly Karganov?

Despite all of his careful planning, the meeting was not going the way Stavropol had envisioned. He stopped and took a deep breath, once again trying to calm himself, before responding. “I have seen these changes. Driving here from Moscow I saw them up and down the roadsides-old women sweeping gutters with homemade brooms, or selling potatoes and firewood just to make enough to eat, while the new rich drive by in their BMW and Mercedes SUVs listening to American rap music.

“In crumbling houses beyond the roadways, young Russian children smoke crack cocaine, shoot up with heroin, and spread tuberculosis and the AIDS virus, which are decimating our population. Where once we celebrated the deep pride we held in our country, now our posters and billboards only promote all-inclusive vacations to Greece, new health clubs, or the latest designer fashions from Italy.”

“But Russia has made gains,” insisted Karganov.

“Gains, Anatoly? And what sort ofgains have we made?” asked Stavropol, the contempt unmistakable in his voice. “The Soviet Union was once a great empire covering eleven time zones, but look at us now. Most of our sister republics are gone and we are locked in pitiable struggles to hold onto those few that remain. Our economy, thefree market economy so widely embraced by our greedy countrymen, teeters daily on the verge of collapse. The rich have raped our country, hidden their money in safe havens outside of Russia, and sent their children to European boarding schools. Our currency has been devalued, our life expectancy is laughable, and our population is shrinking. What’s more, not only does the world not need anything we have to sell, it also does not care to listen to anything we have to say. Where once we were a great world power-a super power-now we are nothing. This is not the legacy I plan to leave behind.”

“Sergei,” began Karganov, the ameliorator, “we have all devoted our lives to our country. Our love for Russia is above reproach.”

“Is it?” asked Stavropol as he slowly took in each man seated around the table. “I sense that your love for Russia is not what it once was. This is not a matter for the weak or the fainthearted. There is much work yet to be done and it will not be easy. But in the end, Russia will thank us.”

An uncomfortable silence fell upon the room. After several minutes, it was Varensky who broke it. “So, the day we had all wondered about has finally arrived.” It was not so much a statement of fact, as one of apprehension, tinged with regret.

“You do not sound pleased,” replied Stavropol. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you no longer are young men. Maybe youhave grown old-old and scared.”