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Accetto Chudi

May 5th 2024

by Matteo F.M. Sommaruga


From the small windows of the airplane, the art dealer, who had almost poured the coffee on his trousers, noticed at first that they had already reached Moscow. He had already seen the skyline with the buildings that until a couple of years before had hosted the local headquarters of the main international consultancies. He had more than one customer who was working for a big name of strategy and C-level advisory. This kind of individual with whom the lady of the group had shared the desk for a good part of her life. The worst part of it, considering her feelings and ambitions. She had never been on a project in Russia, nor in the Middle East, partially because of her choice, partially because she was considered far too well skilled for countries with low margins on middle-low rates. Although not as low as those on the Italian market, that was also a country she had learnt it was wise to avoid, for anybody in her own profession. Lenin was the one who was mostly surprised by the view of the city where he had been buried for so long. The modern structures, the lights of the offices, still on during the night, diverted the attention from the Red Square and the Kremlin. He managed to locate the spot of the mausoleum where he actually spent the last nine decades only with a certain effort. Only at that point in time he could feel relieved and close his eyes. While landing he did not look outside, but recollected the most important steps of his life as a Revolutionary leader. The death of his brother, of his colleagues, eventually of his political opponents at his own behest. Including the Holy Family of the Czar. He had since several years realised how cruel his ideology had destroyed the best attitudes of humankind, and also how the sprouts of socialism were poisoning the minds of far too many men. Vladimir Putin, the son of Stalin's cook, the autocrat who would have never existed without the Soviet Union, but who tried to revive the highest achievements of the Czars, was the last of a long series of failures of the Red Revolution. If he had managed to stop him then Lenin would have believed to be able to be forgiven for his own huge sins and be allowed to depart for a better world. Actually the eternal Monarchy led by the Supreme Entity, whose existence he had unsuccessfully tried to deny. The aeroplane touched the ground and the three companions had to pay attention not to add any coffee stains on their dresses. None of them had emptied their drinks, distracted by multiple thoughts, plans and expectations. They were not the only ones worried for their future. Also some of the other passengers were not able to hide their worries. Some of them had just abandoned the perspective of a brilliant career in the West, others were facing the idea of a long permanence in the army. Perhaps the war would have even ended quite soon, and with such astonishing success to guarantee the regime some investments to improve the quality of life of the whole population. It was hard to say, even for those better connected with the C-Room of the autocrat. Lenin looked once again into the eyes of his friends, he had to be sure that they would not panic if confronted by the Russian police. They were not like the Finnish officer, trustful and showing the highest understanding even for the worst criminals. Maybe they would have been happy to find a banknote of twenty francs in the passport. He had recommended the others not to exaggerate, not to show off that they were terribly afraid not to get through the border controls. Lenin realised he had to better confide in his companions, because he had no alternatives and under these circumstances only God, in whom he had not believed for a long time, could help. It could have been awkward if the Almighty had helped the Red Army to annihilate the loyal White chevaliers of the Czar, as much the defeat of the Trozky’s hordes in Poland was attributed to divine intervention. The art dealer, who had been accustomed to any kind of agreement with the customs all around the world, revealed in this case all his best qualities. Once picked up the luggage, he approached the agents of the Russian police straightforwardly and in the most mannerly manner. He gave his passport to the agents, letting a couple of hundred Francs fall into the hat of one of the officers. The Briton even took care to cover the landing zone of the bribe from the view of the cameras and smiled in such a gentle, affable way that the others greeted him as an old acquaintance. It was obviously not the first time the son of Ulster handled with the Russian authorities and he was even more at ease than in Finland. Indeed more integer officers made him nervous, but the art dealer was well aware that the former Soviet militia  was paid quite badly and irregularly. Despite most tourists denied any sort of blackmail, Russia had never changed since the time of Gogol and Chichikov. The trio was invited to open their luggage, that was not actually checked, and to go further without lingering too long in the area beyond the border control. They were now free to take a cab and direct themselves to the Hotel Metropol. The place had been for years the selected resort of the socialist delegations, selected from the most loyal activists of the capitalist world. It was now the gathering of the Putin’s acolytes and it would have become the best operating quarter and it would have become the best operating quarter for a small group of conspirators. Ironically the former business consultant could even rely on a free upgrade thanks to a fidelity card she had subscribed a few years before.  They were however supposed to overnight in the Hotel facilities as servants, not as guests.

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In Frankfurt like Heidi, in Zuerich like Lenin

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