A Rump Sum

I'd like to tell you why we started The Journal – the part of our website habitually called a blog by other sites. We think our Journal can create a little chamber of sanity – where nothing is necessarily stunning or ever impactful, and yet – a place where we engage and inform readers without fanfare, in practical, helpful ways.

Here’s how we do it: Quartet employs a stable of investment professionals who understand the realm of business and also happen to be quality, high-polish writers and editors. In market terms, we are long brevity and short buzzwords. The latter may initially impress, but with diminishing returns. Lasting success rests on respect for the client’s time and intelligence. Here's an experience from early in my financial communications career that might sell the point.

In the early 1990s, Russia was rightly called the Wild East. Market capitalism had just arrived and it was a free-for-all. People whose parents and grandparents had been engineers and scientists saw a fresh future as marketers, salesmen and PR professionals. One such, called Nikolay as per a pseudonym we chose for him, grasped the opportunity sooner than most. By the late ‘90s, he had the right degree, internships, externships, and mildly relevant work experience to be crowned PR chief at a top Russian brokerage. This once-hot firm, now long-defunct, accounted for one-third of the Russian Stock Exchange’s daily trading volume in 1998 – an ill-omened accomplishment in the run-up to that year’s infamous crisis.

Nikolay had a perfectly nondescript appearance, near-genetically imprinted by three generations of KGB ancestors. This is no joke: they have ways to make you vague. Medium height, sparse hair, a grayness about the eyes, the thousand-mile stare of one focused on results at any price.

Nikolay also had little polish: this was post-Soviet PR, after all. He wore oversized, over-washed shirts vague about the collar; also bus driver's shoes. He was also wonderfully egomaniac and a toady par excellence. A semester misspent in London assured him that the Queen's patois, of which he had traces, was superior to my native American. He liked my clothes and presentation; otherwise, he was unimpressed. I did get the impression he envied my ties.

Like a clockwork mouse, Nikolay would appear at the gates of the Research Department during lunchtime. We ate chained to our desks, like fanatic machine gunners. He would thrust his upper torso through the doorframe, knock too softly, then screech in an underfed voice: A feast in time of plague? This went on until one of us, anticipating his bon mot, lobbed over the shoulder, More like a plague during a feast. We didn't see Nikolay for a week.

On the eighth day, a fundraising plea arrived from the Russian National Orchestra, decorated with the fat, textured business card of the orchestra's Danish director, Per Nielsen. An idea insinuated itself into my under-stimulated imagination.

With the department behind me, I wrote the letter Nikolay so richly deserved to receive – in English, bien sûr. Running an orchestra is hard labor; who has time to master cruel Russian? The maestro saluted savior Nikolay, truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children – also a passionate lover embracing the Arts, as all true Russians do. Herre Nielsen’s eyes surely swelled with manly tears as he penned this note. Kind Nikolay, who donates his hard-won bonus for the year – the entire bloated sum – to the orchestra's emergency fund! His wondrous largesse would buy seat-heaters for 100 musicians, forced to rehearse in cold concert halls. Why, the money was expected today! Please check your account to confirm the withdrawal.

We attached Nielsen's card to the note and whipped up a convincingly swish envelope. Shushing unprofessional giggles, the head secretary herself placed the fraudulent missive into the mail cart, and we sat back to await the PR king’s scorch-brained arrival.

Lunchtime came and went without our pigeon making his habitual appearance. At last, he sauntered in: no knocks, no weak humor – twirling a 14K gold neck chain in his right hand, nodding bird-like, wearing a tense little smile. Atypically, he was silent, examining us, the dirty dozen. Then, his tirade went off like a Katyusha battery. This unholy folly – our letter! You’ve really outdone yourselves – or rather, Davíd, the American provocateur, with his infernal humor! He really admired it, he said, our pan-oceanic perfidy, and had even checked his bank account – twice. No rump-comfort from his kopeks! Our beverage industry analyst chose this moment to spray sugary tea all over his screen protector.

I remained seated, feigning ignorance, disinterest. Nikolay patted my shoulder, said, Don’t be so modest. I didn’t try to look innocent; more like indifferent and, in a devious twist, diffident. He pulled out the letter from some unknown pocket and dropped it on my keyboard. I pretended to read, forced a chuckle, said it bettered my style, thanked him for the compliment. He wasn’t buying; I didn't budge.

He patted my shoulder again, waggled his pigeon head, but with a look almost admiring. Everyone was suddenly very busy, uninterested in letters or conspiracy. Luckily, the department chief popped in, asked for something, and the spell was broken. I never fessed up. Nikolay called his bank daily for a month.

My letter had served its purpose.

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