Chapter 312 Builders and the Tsar (Bug Fix): What's the Gill Truck Factory Like?
Summer is the most enchanting season in Queshan.
Of course, every place in Moscow is enchanting in the summer.
It's just that this place attracts a lot of attention.
The lush green hillsides cascade down, connecting to the Moscow River. The river flows towards the Kremlin.
On a summer afternoon, white sails dot the river, and people are everywhere seeking respite from the heat under the shade of trees.
Ivanov walked through this picturesque summer landscape until he arrived at the villa.
Large clusters of roses bloom in front of the door, their fragrance intense and captivating, making them the most popular flowers in Russian flower markets.
A man in a suit politely invited him inside: "The mayor is waiting for you."
Then he lowered his voice, with an almost intimate tone, and said, "You have about half an hour."
Ivanov thanked him politely and stepped into the house through the teak floor.
Sunlight streamed through the blinds, falling on the solid wood desk and illuminating the enormous Moscow model displayed there. The mayor, over fifty years old, stood behind the model, commanding it like an ancient general.
The mayor wasn't smoking, but the air was filled with the smell of cigars.
Ivanov removed his hat and gave him a polite bow: "Good afternoon, Mayor."
The mayor nodded at him, the sunlight making his bald head gleam.
He smiled and said, "Welcome, my young sir. I heard you've already chosen a hospital location?"
Ivanov cursed inwardly, realizing he hadn't been given a chance to refuse.
However, he smiled and his face was full of sincerity: "Yes, sir, I have chosen this place. I wonder if it is suitable?"
The mayor looked at the location in the direction he was pointing and raised an eyebrow slightly: "Right next to the container market?"
“Yes.” Ivanov nodded and took out an architectural blueprint from his bag. “Our plan is to build a container hospital here so that we can get the hospital up and running as quickly as possible to meet the needs of the vendors and customers in the market.”
He smiled and added, "Of course, other Muscovites can also go to the hospital for treatment."
The mayor emerged from behind the sand table with great interest to examine the blueprints closely.
It is obvious that the hospital's architectural plan was not just a random sketch; it even included a 24-hour emergency area and a helicopter landing pad.
The mayor's gaze swept between the hospital's planning map and the model, seemingly with a hint of a smile: "You seem to care a lot about the vendors in the market."
“Of course,” Ivanov said without hesitation. “Merchants are to the market what factory workers are to the market; they are the creators of wealth. These itinerant merchants have actually taken over some of the functions of state-run stores, providing essential goods to countless Russian households. Moreover—”
He emphasized, "Without vendors paying for their own medical care, hospitals cannot survive."
He began with a compliment, "You are a scientist, so you probably don't like just hearing pretty words. A hospital is not just a building; it also needs a complete medical team and a constant stream of patients. Otherwise, even the most beautiful hospital will be like a factory that has stopped production, leaving only empty buildings."
The mayor looked away from the hospital's planning map and gently shook his head: "No, young sir, I am old now. I am no longer a scientist; I should be considered a builder now."
"certainly."
The June sunlight danced on Ivanov's face, making him look youthful and charming.
He pointed to the huge sand table on the solid wood table, "You, the builders of Moscow, we all look forward to building a brand new, modern, and beautiful Moscow under your leadership."
This is quite Soviet-era and should be considered a product of the old era.
But the short, stout mayor was clearly pleased; he even laughed out loud: "No, we should make our city more comfortable. You—"
He pointed at Ivanov, then turned to himself, saying, "I, we, everyone living in Moscow, should make this city more comfortable."
His thick fingers finally landed on the sand table.
Then he changed the subject and returned to the topic of shuttle merchants, "That's right, Ivanov, I'm glad that you, as the market operator, acknowledge that it is the shuttle merchants who create the market's wealth."
He nodded again, moved behind the solid wood table, sat back in his executive chair, and looked up slightly at Ivanov. "But I heard that everything sold in the market is foreign."
Sunlight fell on him, casting a shadow that covered the entire sand table.
Like a mountain.
Ivanov stood before the mountain, neither humble nor arrogant: "Yes, sir. The factory shutdown is not the responsibility of the Russian people, and they should not have to bear the consequences of lacking food and clothing."
There was a knock on the door, and a young waitress brought in coffee.
The aroma of coffee wafted in from the doorway, instantly filling the room with a rich, bitter fragrance.
Just by smelling it, you can tell that this coffee is made from imported coffee beans.
It's clearly not in the same league as the cheaply brewed coffee that audiences pay a fortune for after a show at the Grand Theatre.
The mayor retained his Soviet-style gentlemanly manners, politely thanking the waiter before turning to Ivanov with a smile: "Really?"
Ivanov nodded and gave the young waitress a charming smile: "Of course, after all, a beautiful lady like her shouldn't be without a beautiful dress in the summer."
The waiter was wearing the latest style from the shopping street.
In Moscow, Chinese-made products can be seen everywhere.
The mayor laughed heartily, as if he had forgotten about the topic, and warmly invited Ivanov to have coffee with him.
He sighed, “It’s terrible, really terrible. Those fame-seeking people are utterly destroying this country. They only know how to destroy; they don’t know how to build. They’ve ruined the order that a country should have.”
Ivanov listened with a smile, showing no interest in how the mayor was discrediting his political rival.
It's all old news; it's been repeated countless times on television and in newspapers.
After berating his rivals, the mayor took a sip of coffee and sighed to Ivanov, "As a builder of Moscow, I believe you can build this hospital well."
He put down his coffee cup, staring intently at Ivanov, a faint smile playing on his lips. "As for the Chechens on this land, I will make them leave."
What Chechens? They're the mafia that's based in this area, of course.
Moscow’s markets, large and small, are like a forest, and are not located in every part of the city.
And next to each market, there are gangs of all sizes. They make a living by "maintaining" market order and collecting protection money.
Clearly, the young upstart in front of him was already impatient with the mafia's frequent interference and wanted to use the government to expel them.
Ivanov, his secret exposed on the spot, showed no embarrassment whatsoever. Instead, he smiled broadly and looked at me sincerely: "Then I'll have to trouble you, Mayor."
The mayor picked up his coffee cup again, unconcerned about the businessman's petty schemes.
Equivalent exchange—yes, every merchant should adhere to the principle of trade.
"Smart, very smart," he praised. "I really admire a smart young man like you. You know how to organize production and how to manage."
Ivanov displayed humility: "You flatter me. To use a Chinese saying, those who have experienced reform are all feeling their way across the river."
The mayor repeated the phrase "crossing the river by feeling the stones," nodded, and then spoke without any preamble: "Then, I suppose you can build this road just like you built the hospital."
On the model, a large road outside the container market is marked with small flags.
The mayor pointed his thick finger at the flagpole, "Moscow shouldn't have roads like this, full of potholes."
Ivanov followed the direction of his finger, cursing inwardly. This wasn't just buying a piece of meat and getting a bone along with it; it was a piece of meat with a complete pig skeleton.
The road where the flags were planted was a full twenty kilometers long, and turning it into a wide asphalt road would cost over a million US dollars.
Ivanov's fingers landed on the metal of the flagpole, feeling its icy touch.
He never wanted to be taken advantage of.
If he had even the slightest such thought, then he wouldn't need to find another way; he could simply cling to Punoning's coattails and become his money bag.
He shook his head decisively, directly refusing the mayor's request: "I'm sorry, sir, thank you for your trust. However, I am not capable of handling two projects simultaneously."
"No, you can do it, and you should."
The mayor's shadow engulfed half of the Moscow model, and the Leningrad district was shrouded in the shadow of the folds in his suit trousers.
He pointed to the other end of the road, "because this road leads to the Gill Truck Factory."
Ivanov made no attempt to hide his surprise: "The Gir truck factory?"
“That’s right.” The mayor nodded, picked up the phone receiver, and ordered, “Bring it here.”
The young secretary, dressed in a suit, brought the mayor a thick stack of documents.
The mayor pointed his thick finger to the first page of the document and exclaimed in admiration, "You are a true businessman, not one of those investors who masquerade as businessmen and swindle people. Those new Russians only know how to plunder, while you are a builder. Ivanov, you have done a great job at the Kuznetsk Steel Plant."
He read aloud from the documents one by one, “You brought orders to the steel plant, a lot of orders, a steady stream of orders, and you also organized the steel plant’s production.”
His voice sounded like a sigh, “I once managed a market, a vegetable base. I know all too well how inefficient and shoddy Russian enterprises are. Back then, it was filthy and stinking; it wasn’t a production base, it was worse than a toilet.”
He squinted slightly, as if recalling the scene through the lens of time: "Blackened carrots, rotten cabbages, and moldy potatoes were everywhere. How could such garbage be sold in the market, forcing innocent people to line up to buy it? It's a crime!"
Ivanov laughed: "You've improved the market. The citizens are all grateful to you for providing them with a supply of fresh vegetables."
Before even getting to know this new leader in Moscow, Ivanov had already memorized his resume perfectly.
He speculated that it was this experience that gave the mayor such confidence that he could act as the steward of the entire city of Moscow, just as he managed the vegetable farm.
The mayor took a sip of coffee, as if to recall the bittersweet taste of the past: "So I truly understand that managing a company well is no easy task. Excellent managers are few and far between."
He withdrew his gaze from his memories and focused on Ivanov. "I believe in you. You can manage the ZIL truck plant. Just like you organized production at the Lada automobile plant, just like you brought in a steady stream of orders at the Kuznetsk steel plant, restore normal production at the ZIL truck plant and ensure that every worker receives the wages they deserve."
"Clang—"
With a soft, crisp sound, the coffee cup landed back on the saucer.
The mayor's shadow loomed over the massive sand table like a mountain, his gaze fixed intently on Ivanov: "Young man, I believe you can do it. The Gir plant is the industrial heart of Moscow; you must make it beat again."
As Ivanov left the mayor's villa, his gaze once again fell upon the roses by the door.
Under the setting sun, they bloomed so brilliantly, like human heads dyed blood red by the sunset.
But he had to admit that the blood-red roses were still fragrant and captivating.
Back in the commercial street that evening, Ivanov curled up in a wicker chair and called Wang Xiao, recounting his experiences of the day.
He sighed, finding it unbelievable: "There wasn't even an auction process!"
Although his taking over the Kuznetsk steel plant was pre-arranged, at least it was just a formality.
He genuinely participated in the auction.
Now, in Moscow—the heart of Russia—he has become a manager appointed during the Soviet era, like a paratrooper, without going through any democratic procedures, and has simply become an appointed factory owner.
They've even abandoned their last shred of decency.
"He wasn't the city's steward," Ivanov concluded. "He considered himself the master of Moscow."
This is terrible; the city seems to have reverted to the Tsarist era. Those who shouted for freedom have once again elected a new Tsar for themselves.
Ivanov had to apply mentholatum to his temples; he felt like his head was about to explode.
Even through the phone line, Wang Xiao applied mentholatum to her forehead; otherwise, she wouldn't have been able to concentrate on reviewing so many documents.
As she looked at the project documents, she laughed at Ivanov on the phone: "Didn't he ask you to continue donating to the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour?"
Ivanov had the window open, so the advertisements for the color TVs downstairs drifted up, featuring the classic line from the wildly popular MMM company: "MMM Company, Russia's hope."
It's a hope as illusory as the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour.
Ivanov cursed, exasperated, "He might as well have just asked me for money. How ridiculous! I thought they didn't know Moscow needed new hospitals and new roads."
They extorted merchants to act as city builders while spending large sums of money on building churches.
The country's rulers, like its territory, are constantly on the verge of division.
Wang Xiao smiled gently: "Money doesn't mean much to city builders right now. Rubles are unreliable, so the mayor will have to barter with you."
In Moscow, where the entire production system was falling apart, even relying solely on the US dollar could not effectively organize standardized and smooth production.
Wang Xiao praised him sincerely: "Look, Ivanov, you were chosen by the mayor not because you are an oil tycoon, but because you are an outstanding organizer and manager. You can bring a company back to life."
It was obvious that her flattery pleased Ivanov, but he seized the opportunity to make another request: "Your Majesty, you must come to Moscow. I need you now."
His voice lowered, tinged with a coquettish intimacy, "You know, I can't make such a big decision on my own."
In fact, he didn't think it was a particularly good deal.
He did want a car factory, but he wanted Kamaz. It was a modern factory with top-notch facilities and highly qualified workers, on a completely different level from ordinary Russian enterprises.
Even today, he is still following up on Kamas's privatization and has no intention of giving up or switching sides.
The Gil factory was in terrible shape: overgrown with weeds, production halted, and drunks everywhere. Who would want to favor it? Just a debt-ridden, aging, and dilapidated factory.
Its glorious history is not its source of confidence, but rather a slap in the face that mocks its current desolation.
Wang Xiao comforted him, "Let's take a look first, and then make a decision after we see the situation at the factory."
Unlike Ivanov, she wanted to take over the Gir factory.
It wasn't that she was optimistic about the factory's production capacity, but rather that she was optimistic about land prices in Moscow.
If the factory goes bankrupt in the future, it doesn't matter. We can just build high-end apartments on the factory site and sell them for a lot of money.
She had no intention of provoking Ivanov, and simply urged him repeatedly, "Go and take a look first."
Ivanov hesitated, unwilling to move: "Come with me to see."
The forests and the desolate industry saved the Moscow sky; the moonlight on a June night was so enchanting.
Unlike the dangerous allure of a blood-stained rose, this is a serene gentleness.
The moon illuminated the way home.
Wang Xiao refused: "Dear Ivanov, you know I can't go. I don't want to anger the workers."
Three years have passed since the collapse of the Soviet Union, yet a market economy system has still not been established.
Throughout history, economic difficulties have led to political extremism. The CIS countries are no exception.
Neo-Nazis is gaining traction in Moscow today. Moscow's workers and poor, suffering the pains of transition, are pinning their hopes on the far right.
The appearance of Wang Xiao, with his typical foreign face, in the car factory undoubtedly challenged the workers' fragile nerves.
No need.
Don't do things that aren't necessary, and don't take unnecessary risks.
Ivanov remained silent for a long time.
Wang Xiao softened her voice and reassured him, "We agreed that we would fight on two fronts. Now, this side can't do without me either."
She didn't shirk her responsibility; in fact, she was extremely busy right now.
The buyer of the newly extracted oil, Mitsui Group, after paying a 30% down payment, made a new demand, hoping that the remaining payments could be made in lieu of other goods.
They didn't want to spend any more US dollars.
This is not surprising, as the current Japanese government must maintain a stable exchange rate to ensure its export advantage.
So now Wang Xiao's focus has become that she must select suitable products, ensuring that she doesn't suffer losses while also preventing the Mitsui Group from rejecting her outright.
Ivanov chuckled: "What cunning Japanese."
So, what can they get from the Mitsui Group?
Real estate assets?
Mitsui Properties, a major Japanese real estate company, owns a large amount of land, buildings, and other property assets. Although land prices in Japan are currently falling and the real estate bubble has burst.
However, even a weakened camel is bigger than a horse; land and property in Tokyo are still valuable.
Equity or stock?
A behemoth like Mitsui Group may hold shares in other companies in addition to its own stock.
These can also be very valuable.
However, all of the above is obviously wishful thinking; only a madman like the Mitsui Group would give it to them.
Wang Xiao analyzed the current situation of the Mitsui Group and was more inclined to believe that what the other party wanted to do was industrial transfer and technology transfer.
Due to rising domestic labor costs and the pressure of yen appreciation, Japanese companies generally choose to relocate labor-intensive industries, such as electronics assembly and auto parts production, to Southeast Asia and China.
Moreover, it has technological advantages in electronics and precision instrument manufacturing, and may hope to maximize its profits through joint ventures.
Wang Xiao and Ivanov spent a long time analyzing the situation over the phone, carefully considering every possibility.
Among these, the manufacturing of auto parts is of great significance to the Gill Trucks plant that they are likely to take over.
The electronics and precision instrument manufacturing industry is just as alluring as the semiconductor industry they aspire to develop.
The two became more and more excited as they talked, and Ivanov couldn't help but exclaim, "I really hope that we can also build such a large-scale integrated commercial complex."
Anything you pick up can be turned into a carrot dangling in front of a donkey.
Those words are really hurtful.
Wang Xiao slammed his hand on the table, deciding he didn't want to think about it anymore.
"They don't want to pay. Let Mitsui tell us what they can offer in lieu of money."
Ivanov wholeheartedly agreed: "That's right, there's no reason for them to be kings."
Now, Wang Xiao and I are the ones who hold the oil. Even though oil prices are currently low, we still have the right to choose our buyers.
I don't want to think about it anymore. I'm going to take a shower and go to bed.
The next day, Wang Xiao replied to Mitsui in the same way, and then received a reply from him that evening.
Mitsui wants to cooperate with them to open a large oil refinery on Sakhalin Island.
As a long-established company, Mitsui has strong technological advantages in petrochemicals.
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