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economy limped from one catastrophe to another, as the disasters piled up, Boris reached out desperately for help.
     At the president’s insistence, a telephonic hotline was installed between Boris and his trusted whiz kid, who seemed to have
     this whole capitalism thing figured out. Late-night calls became routine. A single push of the red button and the president
     would rail about this problem or that, long, whiny diatribes fueled by staggering amounts of liquor. Alex was a cool, sober
     listener; also a quick study with a mathematician’s lust for numbers.
    Yeltsin had little background and even less appetite for financial matters; all the economic prattle bored him to tears. Alex
     would talk him through the latest disaster—boil it all down to simple language—propose a reasonable solution, and Boris would
     pounce on his cabinet the next morning, issue a few brusque instructions, and a total meltdown would be avoided, or at least
     postponed for another day.
    One night after a long rambling conversation about the evaporating foreign currency reserves, Yeltsin paused to catch his
     breath, then, seemingly out of the blue, asked Alex, “By the way, how’s your house?”
    “Nice. Very nice.”
    “Is it big?”
    “Fairly large, yes. Why do you ask?”
    “I heard it’s huge.”
    “Okay, it is. Very, very big.”
    “How many bedrooms?”
    “Six, I think. Maybe seven. Why?”
    “Which is it, six or seven?”
    “I honestly don’t know. Could be ten for all I know. I’ve wandered through most of it, but there are rooms I’ve never seen.
     It was a wreck when I bought it, an old brick mansion constructed before 1917. According to local lore, it was built for a
     baron or maybe a wealthy factory owner to house his ten children. Poor guy. He was dragged out and executed by a Bolshevik
     firing squad three days after the last stud went in.”
    “Are you pulling my leg?”
    “The bullet scars are still visible on the west side of the house. That adds a certain charm.”
    “And after that?”
    “Well, I don’t know about the early years. But the Ministry of Education owned it for decades. Occasionally it was used as
     a school for children of the elite, sometimes as a training center for school principals. Of course they neglected it disgracefully.
     The electrical wiring, even the plumbing had not been updated since it was built. The pipes were made of cast iron. Turn the
     spigot and chunky brown slush poured out.”
    “But you like it?”
    Alex chuckled. “What’s not to like?”
    “You tell me,” Boris replied.
    “Not a thing. I used my own construction company to gut and rebuild with the best of everything. Voice-activated lighting,
     saunas in every bathroom, two mahogany-paneled elevators, the works. I even had an indoor pool installed, and a well-equipped
     gym. The attic is now a movie theater, twenty seats, with real popcorn machines and a ten-foot screen. A French chef and three
     servants live in the basement and take care of everything.”
    After a long moment, Yeltsin asked, in a suspiciously knowing tone, “And your wife, does she like it?”
    “There are a few things she might like to change,” Alex admitted, a loud understatement. Elena detested the house. He had
     bought and refurbished it before they met, a gift to himself after he made his first hundred million and regarded it as a
     neat way to pat himself on the back. A gay Paris decorator had been flown in and instructed to spare no expense. He did his
     best. He chartered a plane, flew around the world, slept in five-star hotels, loaded up on antiques from Asia, the Middle
     East, and Europe. He had drapes hand-sewn in Egypt, and furniture hand-manufactured by the best craftsmen in Korea.
    As the bills piled up, Alex convinced himself that he wasn’t being wasteful; it was a business expense, an unavoidable cost
     he couldn’t do without. The big moneymen from Wall Street and Fleet Street and Frankfurt did not talk business