Free The King of Vodka by Linda Himelstein Page A

knew you had to pay double, and no one ever asked where the money went or why. Arseniy tugged at his wallet and handed over the money; in return, he received the application. Arseniy smiled and nodded his thanks. The man pointed up and Arseniy headed to the second floor.
    Unlike the décor of the Moscow State Chamber, the cast-iron stairs and the iron railing looked overused. Everything in the building did, including the people. Arseniy, however, boyish in his quest, was the exception. He climbed the stairs, turned the corner, and walked into a waiting area outside the chancellery. Arseniy’s fate would be determined here.
    He took a seat on a worn bench against the wall, glad to sit down and rest his legs. He did not even bother to try to fill out his application in his rudimentary scratch, preferring like everyone else in the room to rely on officials to do the writing.
    The chancellery was decidedly more pleasant than the downstairs had been. The room was quite large with wood floors and wooden tables covered by nondescript broadcloth. On the walls hung several portraits of unnamed officials in gilded frames. Five immense windows sucked in the outside breeze.
    Arseniy had to wait his turn to see the most senior official here, known as a table head, a common title that stemmed from the fact that he literally sat at the head of a table. This man was clean-shaven, according to the law, and wore the state uniform. He commanded authority within the small army of bureaucrats that pecked away around him. This man could single-handedly determine how pleasant—or unpleasant—to make the day’s procedures. His decisions were often sound and reasonable, but they could also seem arbitrary and casual.
    As each man made his way to the front of the line, the table head dictated his answers and then signed his name at the bottom of the application. In this way, Arseniy was no different from the others that day, putting his barely legible signature to paper when it was his turn. But he did have an edge over the other men because he had important family ties to the guilds. By this time, Ivan was one of only 1,916 merchants in the first guild and knew exactly how to work the system. He had revealed everything to Arseniy.
    The table head looked closely at Arseniy’s application, checking for any inaccuracies or opportunities that might yielda few extra rubles from the applicant’s pocket. Arseniy, knowing better than to take a chance with his future, did not let the man wait for long. Nonchalantly, he had hidden a little something for him between his documents.
    The official found everything in order. He waited for Arseniy to unveil his purpose and justify his intent. He had heard so many stories from the never-ending stream of merchant wannabes who darkened his doorway. This one, he yawned, would be the same as all the others. Still, toying with these poor, ex-serfs could be amusing. Arseniy would have presented an ideal target. The exchange might have gone something like this: Why do you wish to be a merchant? Isn’t it a bit late for you? the official would ask, smirking as he eyed Arseniy’s mostly gray beard and lined, sagging face.
    Like my brother Ivan Smirnov before me, I was once a serf. Now I am my own man. I look to create a better life for myself, for my family, and for my community, Arseniy would have replied in his well-rehearsed imagined exchange.
    And how will you make such a change ? Going to shave that beard of yours? the man might mockingly inquire.
    Arseniy would have shown no emotion. He had expected as much from his inquisitor. I will do what my family does best: I will sell wine. I will sell tobacco. I will sell kefir. My brother Ivan has done this for more than two decades. My brother Grigoriy did it as well. I believe I can do it as well . I believe it is in my blood.
    The table head would be skeptical. He had heard this kind of answer so many times before—outsized ambition