From Russia with Love

From Russia with Love

by

Burt Sage

“You’re going where?” Dave asks, astonished.

“Minsk, the capital of Belarus,” I reply.

“Never heard of it,” Dave says. “What in the world would take you there?”

“Work,” I say. “You know, the skin patch for kid’s injections.”

“Oh,” Dave says. “Yeah. I know the situation.”

It’s the summer of 1993. Dave and I are sitting in the company cafeteria having our usual sandwich and Coke. Earlier I had finished a meeting with our research director about strategy to invalidate a patent that was preventing us from going to market with our skin patch. This product would keep kids from crying when an injection is needed. It’s a huge opportunity. But there’s a patent held by a competitor that’s blocking us from launching the product. They wouldn’t license their technology on acceptable terms. Our only recourse is to invalidate their patent.

“And there’s something in Minsk that can help?” Dave asks, puzzled. “I don’t even know where that is. Where is it?”

“Belarus is one of the countries that emerged when the Soviet Union collapsed. It’s directly east of Poland. Minsk, the capital, is right in the center of the country, and about 400 miles southwest of Moscow,” I say.

“The middle of nowhere, then,” Dave says, but there’s a hint of envy in his voice. “And you’re going on the company’s dime? What’s there that you need this badly?”

“To invalidate the patent, we need prior art,” I say. “We’ve got prior art on one of the two embodiments in the patent, but not the other. There’s a Doctor Ulasovic in Minsk who worked on skin anesthesia well before the patent was applied for. He says he’s published articles on both embodiments in the patent. But reprints of his publications are only available in the former USSR. He has offered to share them with us.”

“Why doesn’t he just mail them?” Dave asks.

“He could,” I say. “But what will really convince the patent court about the prior art is oral and written statements by him about his work. The best way to get that is to visit him. A video of him describing his work, along with copies of his publications, would be virtually impossible to refute.”

“Does he speak English?” Dave asks.

“No,” I say. “In conversations so far I’ve used an interpreter and it’s worked well. Our subsidiary in Moscow will provide one.”

“Is it just to Minsk and back?” Dave asks, as if there is something else on his mind. “To get there surely you’ll have a connection in Moscow. You should take some time to see Moscow.”

“My itinerary does include some time in Moscow,” I say. “The morning I land in Moscow I will meet the interpreter and she will join me for the trip to Minsk. We will meet Dr. Ulasovic the next morning, do the interview, and fly back to Moscow that evening. I will spend the next day in Moscow, and fly back home the following morning. The extra day in Moscow has something to do with cheaper airfare.”

Dave’s looking at me with that ‘do you think you could’ look in his eye.

“By any chance will you be going near Red Square?” he asks.

“As a matter of fact,” I say, “my hotel in Moscow is at the west end of Red Square.” I’m about to ask him why he should care about where I will be staying, when a light goes on in my brain.

“No way, Dave,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. “There’s no way I’m going to get you a brick from Red Square.”

“But I need one for my collection,” Dave pleads. “I have one from Bunker Hill that was there during the revolution. I have one from San Francisco that was on Market Street when the earthquake hit. And I have a couple from Atlanta when Sherman marched through. This would be the centerpiece of my collection.”

“Come on, Dave,” I sigh. “You know where Red Square is. It’s right beside the Kremlin. They have guards posted there 24/7.”

Dave sighs. “I guess you’re right. Not even you could find a way to get one. I guess there’s something you can’t do after all.” His head is bowed. He’s looking down at his half-eaten sandwich.

“Ouch,” I say to myself. “Dave really knows how to land a blow. Right in the old ego. Can I let him get away with it? No way. If there’s a way to get that brick, I’ll find it,” I say to myself.

But I tell Dave, “Sorry.”

I speak with the Moscow interpreter one more time before I leave. She tells me of some of the customs peculiar to the Soviet Union. She describes how you shouldn’t look strangers in the eye, how you don’t talk to strangers, how you should always carry extra money in your belly purse, and about the ubiquitous shopping bags. Almost everyone carries one in the event they come across a store that actually has stock in a needed item. You always buy more than you need because you never know when you will find that item again. And you buy enough to share with family and friends.

The custom that’s important right now is that visitors should bring a gift for their host. She tells me that most academics enjoy liquor. I’ll bring a bottle of Jack Daniels.

The flight to Moscow is uneventful, but it’s long. Sleep is difficult because I keep asking myself, “How can I get a brick from Red Square?”

My interpreter meets me at the airport ready for the trip down to Minsk. She’s an attractive twenty-something named Yelena. Our conversation is pleasant as we eat breakfast and discuss plans for the next two days.

It’s been four years since the fall of the Berlin wall; I ask her how that event affected her.

“It hurt everyone,” she says. “The Ruble plunged. Many had to sell treasured possessions just to eat. Crime soared. It didn’t affect me directly because I worked for our company, and I wasn’t paid in Rubles. But my parents nearly starved. If not for my salary, they would have. I have no love for my government,” she admits.

“I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” I say.

We change the subject. I’m pleased she’s assembled all the equipment we’ll need in Minsk.

The flight to Minsk is uneventful as well. Dr. Ulasovic meets us at the airport and introductions are made. It’s a small airport—his driver and car are parked within easy walking distance. It’s a bright, sunny afternoon, but the trip into the city is weird. It’s silent. The countryside reminds me of the foot hills in North Carolina with the lush green woodlands and gently rolling hills. There are no businesses on either side of the highway, and no access roads. We travel along a modern six lane limited-access roadway, but we see no other cars all the way. None going our way, none going the other way. For thirty minutes.

We’ve booked the best hotel in Minsk. It looks like a royal palace, and the rooms are well appointed, each with century-old art and over-stuffed chairs. But the shower doesn’t work, and hot water isn’t available during the day.

There is only one other couple in the restaurant while we have dinner. The service is superb, as is the food. At least that’s what Yelena tells me. The cuisine is brand new to me and not to my taste.

The next morning we take a taxi from the hotel to Dr. Ulasovic’s apartment. It’s in a building right out of a South Bronx housing development. It looks like a cement grain silo with walls rising straight out of the ground. The four apartments on each floor are serviced by a pair of elevators and a stairwell. There’s no lawn; the grass surrounding the building is so high it could be harvested. It hasn’t seen a mower for months, maybe years.

A single light bulb illuminates the foyer where we take the elevator. Dr. Ulasovic’s apartment is on the 19^th floor of this 20 story building, an indication of his status.

We’re warmly greeted by Dr. Ulasovic and his wife. After introductions I glance around the apartment. It is immaculately clean, but everything is dated and well-worn. Again the walls are covered with art by long dead artists.

I make my offering of the bottle of Jack Daniels. It’s very warmly received. After a few minutes of chit chat while Yelena sets up her equipment we get to work. I’m delighted he’s so comfortable in front of a camera.

Yelena and I leave knowing that we have all we wanted and more for invalidating the patent. We hired Dr. Ulasovic for four hours at $250 per hour. There were tears in his wife’s eyes as she watches the ten $100 bills pile up in her husband’s hand.

Yelena and I are seated in the restaurant of our hotel in Moscow for dinner when we discuss plans for my free day in Moscow. Going to the Moscow flea market is high on our list, so we will do that after breakfast. I then tell her about my plan for later that afternoon, right around dusk. “We’re going to try to remove a pavement brick from Red Square,” I say. At first she’s repulsed by the idea. But when I lay out my plan she buys in.

On the way to the subway to take us to the flea market we walk the entire length of Red Square, from west to east, passing Saint Basil’s Cathedral at the east end. The colors are as bright as people had said they would be.

Along our walk we survey the square, looking for possibilities for getting the brick. The good news is that there is no mortar holding the bricks in place. They have used the technique of vertical bricklaying so that only the end faces up. The bad news is that the bricklayers were highly skilled. There’s less than a millimeter between the bricks—there’s no way to just pull one out.

About halfway to Saint Basil’s we notice that a barricade has been set up to our right. As we investigate we see that some damage has occurred to a small area of the square and there are broken bricks laying in the dirt. The good news is that there are intact whole bricks at the border of the damaged area. The bad news is that we are only about 40 yards from one of the entrances to the Kremlin, and there are two guards stationed there.

We walk on and take the subway to the flea market. Usually Yelena is quite talkative, but during the subway ride she is uncharacteristically silent. Suddenly she says, “I know how to do it. We will need a small trowel.”

“I brought one with me from the US,” I say. “I expected to do some digging.”

“Good,” she says, and smiles.

Daylight is fading as we walk up to the barricade. Nothing has changed.

“Look for one that might be slightly loose,” she says.

“I see one,” I say.

“Bend over near it like you are tying your shoe lace,” she says.

I do as she says. “Now, try to wiggle it out,” she says.

As I use my trowel to wedge the brick loose, Yelena shouts, in Russian, “You swine. You’ve spilled your beer all over my skirt. Now I have to wipe it off.” And she storms about 15 yards away from me, pulls a towel from her shopping bag and tries to wipe off the beer. “It won’t come off. You beast!” she swears in Russian. “I’m going to have to change.” She takes off her ‘soiled’ skirt and lays it on the ground. Now in her panties, she pulls out the clean skirt she had put in her shopping bag earlier and puts it on, cursing me all the while. I can hear the guards laughing.

By now I’ve loosened the brick and put it in my shopping bag. “Got it,” I say to Yelena in English. She picks up her soiled skirt and storms off towards our hotel, still cursing in Russian. I run after her carrying my shopping bag. The guards are still laughing.

Once past the west gate of Red Square, we both start laughing. We will remember this night.

I arrive at work early the first day I’m back. I’ve wrapped the brick up like a Birthday present and placed a card on the wrapping that reads ‘From Russia with Love’. Dave hasn’t arrived yet, so I place it on his desk and head for my office.

About an hour later Dave arrives at my office with several of his co-workers in tow. He’s grinning from ear to ear. “I knew you could do it,” he exclaims. “All I had to do was goad you a little. You took the bait hook, line, and sinker. Well done.” He and his co-workers break into applause.

“Now,” he says, smiling and sitting on one of the chairs in my office, “Tell us how you did it. And don’t leave out a single detail.”

I smile. They are all ears. “Well,” I say, “It was twilight on Red Square, and…….”