THE UNEDITED

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The mummy of Vladimir Ilijch Lenin was brought back to the mausoleum in the Red Square. All major acolytes of Vladimir Putin’s were waiting in the queue in an orderly fashion, reminding how people were standing outside grocery stores in the time of the cold war. They were not waiting for free potatoes or oranges, but they had to renew their homage to the Leader of the Red Revolution. Vladimir Putin, whose power had never been put in discussion for more than twenty years, had recently ordered to restore the monument and revive the symbolism of the Soviet Propaganda. The Russian czar had taken place beside the body of the master of his grandfather and observed at short distance the behaviour of the participants.

Once the manuscript just under the cover of Heidi’s book ahd been destroyed, the Body of the bolshevik Revolution collapsed on the ground and Putin could reassure himself that nobody else would have been able to cope with him. It had been quite easy to get rid of the former business consultant and the whole fight looked like a brief judo demonstration organised in front of the cameras. Vladimir Putin did not even want that the man in grey called the bodyguards. Nobody should know that an assassination attempt had come so close to succeeding. The mysterious bureaucrat was for this reason soon eliminated, victim of a whimsical car accident on his way back to Moscow. He was actually the only victim, since after all Lenin’s mummy had not been killed. Just put to sleep once again, after a few years of freedom.

The life of the former business consultant was spared, since Putin did not want to create a big fuss around a western sommelier of the Hotel Metropol suddenly disappeared after a trip in the countryside. His entourage still had to justify the absence of such a gifted chef de cuisine. The young lady had been scared enough to assume she would have never mentioned her experience. It would have after all been difficult for her to explain how an old edition of Heidi had allowed her to befriend LEnin and get so close to the Russian President. Even the police of the Democratic Kanton Zurich would have forced her to spend some time in a psychiatric hospital.

Beside Vladimir Putin, the young Briton was patiently waiting for the show to end. His cold blood and decision to not intervene, had been appreciated by the former KGB Colonel. The latter found the choice of the art dealer at the same time wise and witty. Despite his strong will to replicate the heroism of the Red Hand, the boy from Belfast thus exploited the chance to seal an advantageous agreement and come back to the business. He was now an art advisor of Putin’s, in charge of some delicate operations between museums, auction houses, galleries and the presidential private collection. A trade in a zone as grey as much as the suit of the bureaucrat mysteriously disappeared. The art dealer was certain that his new role was solid and reantable for the years to come.

The leader of the Red Revolution accepted with good will to prepare the dinner for his political heir, who was also the natural descendent of his personal cook. Perhaps Putin could have also learnt something from Lenin’s reaction, but both of them were pragmatic enough to nourish no illusions that their encounter would have led to a long term friendship. Two of the major enemies of the Western civilization were facing each other like in a John Wayne’s movie. There was no place for both of them in the city and the loser would have soon been dressed with a wooden suit. Lenin wore a black jacket while Putin a white one, the colour of the good gunslingers. In the cinematic edition of the Alexander Nevsky, however Sergej Eisenstein chose to provide the army of the evil with candid mantles, intentionally reversing the role of tonalities. The grey bureaucrat, in that combination of shades, sat far away as if asserting his own neutrality. He would have sworn his own allegiance to the winner. The Russian PResident was looking around himself, enjoying his triumph.

While waiting, the art dealer inspected the Canalettos on the walls, understanding that they were as authentic as Heidi's book. It had been decided that the inexperienced concierge should have tasted the food and the wine at first, thus mimicking the ceremonies of court tasters. The young lady was now carefully selecting the wines, among those available in the cellar. She had a wide choice, although the quality of the labels was so undisputable that she only had to pay attention  not to pick up a white wine for an intensive and spicy meat. The task was easy, but she was worried about Heidi's book being in the hands of Putin. What could have she told to Graf von Pazze if the Russian czar had destroyed it, or even damaged the first page? The young lady's mind travelled in a dream far away from the surrounding walls. The whole party could have faced certain death if the volume had been torn up or even burnt, but the woman was worried only to keep the promise she had made to the museum in Hirzel. Or at least to its curator. When she was back in the room, she realised that the food had already been served. Putin looked into her direction, revealing all the strength of his evil smile. The terror of the Western politically correct world appeared as a serial killer waiting for his prey. The young woman put the decanter on a side table and poured the wine in the glass of the newly promoted royal taster.

The young Briton drank the nectar and served himself the dish prepared by Lenin. He was wishing that the food were delicious, it could have been his last meal. Vladimir Putin was now quite focused to analyse the art dealer’s reaction, while firmly holding Heidi’s book. The son of Belfast, graduated in Cambridge, but at the University of West Anglia, gallerist, concierge and now food taster, did not suffocate, but enthusiastically devoured all he found on the table. He did not care about anything else, expecting to be executed within the day.

Putin did not care about those people surrounding him. He was looking into his dish, thinking about his childhood, the few traditions that could be handed over from father to son during the cold war, if you were born on the wrong side of the iron curtain. The Russian czar looked into the eyes of his predecessor, perhaps even his patron, at least the one who had allowed to his grandfather to survive the Revolution and his father to obtain a decent access to the apparatchik. Putin was aware that if Lenin ahd not succeeded during his early life to astonishingly climb the ladder of power, he would have not become the most dreadful enemy of the XXI century left-liberals. Perhaps he could have enjoyed a senior management position in any main enterprise of the country and enjoyed his private life without any major responsibility. Yet he realised that, beside judo, and even that mostly for propaganda reasons, he had no hobbies or personal ambitions. Putin understood at that moment that without the power he was detaining, his life had no worth. Driven by rage, much more than for self preservation or tactical reasoning, he suddenly took the cover of Heidi's book and tore it into pieces.

Even Lenin did not anticipate that move, nor he had been able to stop the Russian President. The business consultant suddenly woke up from her dream, she took courage and jumped on Putin’s chair. The man in the grey suit had no time to intervene either. Only the former art dealer continued to enjoy his meal and, with absolute self control, poured himself a glass of wine.

Lenin 

The party entered the dragon’s lair. The Russian czar was sitting on a wooden chair behind a decently decorated table. The room was surrounded with works of Italian masters dating back to the early XVII century. The art dealer recognised a few with a quick view, but did not dare to express his knowledge. The major threat to the Western democracies smiled in his direction. “How would you appreciate my collection? Would you like to get closer?”. He spoke wonderful English, unaffected by American words and accent. After all he had been a KGB colonel and he should have received proper training.  The young Briton was surprised and felt suddenly cold. The whole party was probably facing a higher risk than they had expected, but he should not give up right now. Many men in the Red Hand did not surrender even when they knew quite well that they would have been executed by the IRA squads or would have faced social discrimination for the remainder of their life. “It is difficult to say, I mainly traded with contemporary artists and never had the privilege to deal with such valuable oeuvres”.

He decided to concede that he was not an experienced concierge and had begun with the job only a few weeks before. After all, there was nothing to be hidden from modern Soviet intelligence. Despite corruption, they maintained a high level of efficiency and were perhaps still stronger than the NSA or the CIA. They ahd after all the advantage to be led by an expert of the field and not to be subject to ethical constraints. An asset on which most criminal organisations could rely. “I am honoured to meet you. You have been daring. I hope this elegant lady has studied her part well. I would be disappointed if my dinner would be ruined by the wrong choice of wines”. The former business manager recollected the scene of an old Bond movie, where 007 understood that he was facing two professional killers because one of them committed a fatal mistake with his recommendation. The idea of that couple of assassins, portrayed in a clownish way, made her in a good disposition. Her mouth naturally smiled. Putin carefully observed her facial expression, which was interpreted as a disconnection from the circumstances. The woman was hardly realising where she was lingering around, but she was unconsciously scared enough to avoid any reality check. She thought that she could have behaved more properly if she kept on dreaming about outdated scripts where a Wester spy could always rely on his good luck. “I see that you are reading a book, and not on your iPhone. I appreciate cultivated people, even more conservative ones. Would you mind to let me give a look in that?”, added the Russian President. The business consultant could not hide her reluctancy, but she could not refuse the order either. She knew that it had been a faux pas, to bring Heidi's volume with her.

“Let’s look under the cover”, the nephew of the apparatchik's cook did not cease to make his monologue appear like a brilliant conversation. His public did not move and was more and more vigilant. “It is a beautiful, old edition: I am not an expert, but I suppose you can confirm that it is authentic”. The Russian leader did not address the young lady anymore, but was staring into the eyes of the father of the October Revolution. It was Fate, as if the Greek and Roman deities were still in power, who had organised that unique meeting. “After all, this signature and this calligraphy is yours”, concluded Valdimir Putin scrutinising Vladimir Ilijc Lenin as if he were interrogating a disgraced comrade within the walls of the Lubljanka. “You know that if I only damage this page, you will be back to being a mummy. I can even allocate some budget to restore your temple. It can boost the morale of my accollites”. It was always the modern czar to speak. The old Soviet leader did not show any reaction, revealing the political genius, although an evil one, who allowed him to deceive all his opponents, around one hundred years before. “It is for you a unique chance to enjoy the full taste of your grandfather’s recipes. I bet that you would not ruin such an enchanting atmosphere”, replied Lenin with a silken voice. He was like a witch cat, quietly facing a dragon. The Russian President enjoyed the moment, he was delighted by such a show of character. Vladimir Putin realised that he had still to improve some of his own soft skills.

Lenin

It was a week since the first visit of the mysterious bureaucrat. The whole party was now prepared to meet the latest Russian autocrat, whose reign had been so long to be second to Stalin’s only. The dark car took a road directed outside Moscow, but the trip was not longer than an hour, as promised by the Kremlin’s emissary. “You see, there is nothing you must fear, it is all propaganda”, continuously repeated the man who wore a grey suit and nothing more original than a socialist realism painting. The art dealer would have liked to reply that Goebbels insisted on the fact that a lie, after multiple times, could become the truth. He did not however want to appear sarcastic in a stronghold of the Soviets. Moreover many others attributed the same quote to Lenin and he was reluctant to offend a person that has so far behaved so decently with him. The former business consultant felt a similar impulse, but she was sometimes still under the effect of the measures taken by her previous company towards anybody who expressed a not politically correct opinion. After all nor the Americans nor the Red Army loved Hitler’s propaganda chief officer. Lenin did not react to the words of the bureaucrats. He did not appreciate his way to communicate far too mellifluously for the envoy of his successor. Political commissars had always been quite rude in his time and the few ones who did not expressly relied on violence, were subtly brutal, but never pleasant. The Soviet Leader realised that his old ego was coming back and was now careful not to give him anymore space. Rage, he had recently learnt, nourishes herself and becomes uncontrollable after a while uncontrollable. Such an acrimonious attitude had allowed him not to get distracted by the loss of his brother nor to be discouraged by years of exile. He eventually obtained a power he would have never expected, but that strong hatred devoured his body. By a miracle or the wizardry of a rabbi, he was still alive, or more precisely able to move and to think. He did not want to waste his chance. He was also aware that if he had to obtain the better while facing the President of the Russian Federation, he should not indulge in any kind of disturbance.

The art dealer was far less nervous, he had always wished to have to deal with Russian billionaires, those kind of persons who would have spent hundreds of millions of dollars to consolidate their prestige. They did not care whether the Leonardo they were going to acquire had been reputed a fake by well regarded connoisseurs and classified as an oeuvre from the school by many authoritative experts. If he only had such a contact in the post, he should have never found himself out of the business. However he was perfectly conscious that his goal was to eliminate such a precious contact and not to establish a valuable agreement. After all it was a waste of a unique opportunity against solid ethical values. His father, once in the Red Hand, chose for the latter ones, even when it was evident that the Labour governments would have endorsed a truce with the IRA and a reconsideration on how to interpret the troubles. Remembering his old man provided him with strength and determination, everything that he desired was to make his dad proud. That was the actual chance not to be missed, nothing else. When the party was getting close to the room prepared for the dinner, the bureaucrat mostly addressed his instruction to the young Briton. The latter was expected to lead the team. Under other circumstances, that would have made the father of the Red Revolution, but Lenin was too absorbed to visualise his own next moves, than to take care of a petty imbalance of power.

The former business consultant felt totally lost. She had brought with her Heidi's book, quite unconsciously, and she grabbed her treasure with the right hand. She justified to the mysterious envoy her need to read a novel when busy with very important clients. It relaxed her. The man accepted the excuse and, after having verified the internal pages of the volume, allowed the young lady to keep it with her. He had missed Lenin's writing and the woman was relieved by most of her fears all together. Still she did not really know how to behave and tried to apply all what she had learnt in her previous consultancies. This time, if the partner would have not appreciated the deck, there could have been no way out.

Leni

The leader of the Soviet Revolution felt that the bureaucrat in front of him had been sent out on behalf of someone much higher in the hierarchy, most probably that Putin the Younger who was detaining the power for so long. That name, so ghastly reported on the Western newspapers, described as the primary enemy of the whole humankind, did not scare him. The former communist thinker had never been impressed by symbols and perhaps it is the reason why he also undervalued spiritualism. For sure he had never been affected by the mesmerising power of the military parades organised to celebrate the czar’s birthday, nor by the impressive ceremonies of the Orthodox Church. Even his way to pose, dress and influence people all around him were so discrete, if not through his powerful public speeches and the effective content of his pamphlets. The latter actually influenced the majority of his followers because they did not go beyond the reading of the title. His political opponents and detractors were more likely to have deeply read and better understood his pamphlets. The red thinker was pleased that his trap was working, not just because of the delight of a possible successful plan, but even as a sort of official recognition of his skills as a cook. As an old man he was comforted that his mental capabilities had not degenerated, yet the more time he was spending in such a new modern world, the less he realised to be a revived mummy. He had reacquired the self consciousness of a living man, perhaps with an even more rounded character that his previous ego would have even allowed. He was also facing the chance to dethrone the last of his successors and restitute the Russian people to his own traditions and soul.

The art dealer soon joined the small party, alerted by one of the colleagues working in the hotel. In a few weeks he had managed to create quite a good network even among those who were more cautious to welcome a foreigner in their own inner circle. He politely introduced himself to the unknown bureaucrat sent out by the Kremlin and began to agree about the possible services provided by the hotel. The mysterious man behaved as if the hotel was free to decide whether to deliver one of their best cooks to some client who desired to be anonymous. The young Briton patiently maintained his role, although those negotiations sounded as artificial as the meat of an American fast food. The art dealer took advantage of the situation to suggest that one of their sommeliers would have also served at the table of the unknown client. He thus obtained that the former business consultant could have followed Lenin's mummy in the dragon’s lair. It was important that the trio stayed united, to more easily get access to an escape route. It could also have been possible that some of them should have distracted the bodyguards around Putin, if they really wanted to succeed in their proposition. The bureaucrat was however so delighted by the nice conversation of the young Briton that he suggested that even the concierge should have visited such an important client. After all, not just a sommelier, but even a sort of table mate was needed to make the dinner more enjoyable.

The former business consultant was somehow surprised that the bureaucrat had been so easily convinced, revealing her feelings through her facial expression. The unknown visitor, trained to read the minds of his interlocutors after having served the Kremlin for decades, understood the uncertainties of the young lady and concluded that she was scared at the idea of leaving the hotel for a secret location. “There is a car waiting for us. In less than one hour you shall know much more about your client. There is nothing that you should fear”, told the man to the whole party, although the soft tone of his voice was clearly addressed primarily to the woman who would have played the role of a sommelier. Like in a spy movie of the 1980s, a black limousine was waiting for Lenin, the former art dealer and business consultant. Only the flags ahd changed, but it was clearly an official vehicle of the government. It was quite comfortable inside, accommodating the four like in a sitting room. One of the two gorillas took the seat of the driver, the other one a place beside him. All of them knew they would have been directed to the Kremlin or some secondary residency of the Russian czar. For sure not the Kremlin, or the bureaucrat would have not mentioned an hour long travel. The mysterious man, who wore a grey suit to distinguish himself from the trolls, began to explain the reason for his mission, confirming the identity of their client: “Mr Putin is fascinated at the idea of tasting the authentic recipe created by his grandfather. He seldom openly reveals such enthusiasm. It is a true privilege for all of us”, concluded the Kremlin’s envoy.

Lenin

One evening two men dressed like bodyguards, that means dark suits still keeping inelegant and menacing manners, reached the concierge desk of the hotel. It was not unusual tha oligarchs anticipated their coming, or even reserved a table by sending out their minions. The art dealer received them with a smart smile and some courteous greetings that were not exchanged. The two men asked whether it was possible to order a complete selection of Lenin’s special dishes as a take away. As food delivery couriers, they were already carrying with them a thermic container and explained that they did not care how long it could have taken to prepare the food. It was important that the chef de cuisine worked at his best and kept focused on his task. The art collector found the whole conversation humorously paradoxical. Many others had advanced similar requests without such a strange mix of arrogance, anxiety and rudeness. He had however been properly trained, in the art gallery in London, to cope with the most improbable buyers, to contain his facial expression and proceed with the order without disappointing the two gorillas. On the contrary he even spent some effort on how the food was prepared, mentioning the qualities of the ingredients. Since he was totally ignorant of such details, he relied on his inventiveness to put together a mesmerising and plausible monologue. As he had expected, the two trolls did  not show any interest in his words, but he enjoyed making fun of them while waiting for the order to be ready.

Two days later the same men who had played the role of food delivered in a black suit, came back to the hotel. This time they were accompanied by a more distinguished person who introduced himself as a high rank employee of the Kremlin. The former business consultant served him a cocktail because he wanted to linger in the bar before proceeding with his business. The man felt apparently no hurry and scrutinised any angle of the room in which he was sitting. He even began a short conversation with the former business consultant, asking her information about the novelties of the Italian and French vineyards. The young lady, who was reading specialised magazines to better play her part, successfully found enough answers to convince the anonymous guest to rely on her advice. He wanted to know the best combination of wines, to be enjoyed with one of those dishes that had recently appeared on the menu of the restaurant. Eventually he asked if they could be delivered to his office by the following day. He however did not proceed to the Restaurant, even trying to justify himself that he had already dined. The business consultant was surprised by such a long ceremony and began to wonder whether there was nothing more that such a mysterious bureaucrat could desire. She wished that the art dealer could appear beside her, sustaining her discussion. It was like to hold an important presentation in front of a large public of C-Levels, for a project that should have not been lost.

The concierge, or better to say, the art dealer, had however not missed the intriguing comedy taking place in the bar and had alerted his good comrade Lenin. A long trained intuition had suggested to him that a main deal would have been quickly sealed. The leader of the Red Revolution, dressed like a cook, approached the man in the bar, supported by the concierge for the first introduction. The Kremlin bureaucrat stood up and congratulated himself with the chef de cuisine as if he were meeting a celebrated artist. “Whoever you are, your name shall be the most popular one at the Kremlin. Beside that of our President”, said Putin's emissary. “Of course”, replied Lenin who found the sentence irresistibly funny. The thinker of the Soviet Union did not need the praise of a petty bureaucrat, whatever his rank could be. Moreover his name had been celebrated long enough in the Red Square. “How could I help you, Mr..” The man gave him a business card and showed him at the same time the identifier of the intelligence. He was at the same time a distinguished intermediary and, if occurred, a dangerous policeman. Lenin understood him quite well. The communist leader had personally conceived that way to operate, around one hundred years before. He was even proud of his achievements and proved that the czarist regime could have never done better. “You are invited to follow me. You cannot refuse, an important appraiser of your culinary creations is waiting for you”. Lenin found the explanation unnecessarily long, but contracting his lisps, followed the man and the two bodyguards with the complacency of a cat.

The former leader of the Russian Revolution was patiently waiting for his prey, but he also enjoyed his new job. He thought that if it had ever occurred to him to work in the kitchen more than one hundred years before, the course of history would have changed. Or perhaps the Red October would have been led by another capable leader, yet devoid of interest for spirituality. The mummy of Lenin learnt fast from his colleagues, adding to the recipes the contribution of his memory. The older Putin was a real fine man, able to understand the tasks of the people he was serving. Karl Marx would have approved, since that cook managed to give everyone according to their needs. He only missed that evil desire to take full advantage of his skills and take the power over the minds of his masters. Perhaps such a skill was just sleeping in his DNA and was activated by the marriage of his son. Putin the younger appeared indeed to be quite a talented manipulator of the human mind, able to extend his influence much beyond his physical presence. Lenin doubted if, by direct confrontation, he would have been the winner. Only by experimenting with the original specimen could he have found out. However that peculiar laboratory rat, the autocrat of modern Moscow, was delayed to come. The Soviet thinker expected the statesman to invite him to the Kremlin, to officially cook for him. He had already received some take-away orders that suggested him the appreciation of an oligarch or a high ranking officer, for sure a member of the apparatchik who could have expressed his appreciation to the ears of the Russian czar.

The art dealer recommended patience. It was through several years of experience, behind a virtual desk, that he learnt how an interested customer, sooner or later comes back and seals the purchase agreement. Even if sometimes it takes long and sometimes the client will never be able to save enough money to afford the object of his desire. The young Briton had always been wise enough not to disdain the questions of an unknown visitor. Even those who appear to be not in the condition to hand anything more than the cover of a magazine. That could have resulted in a finely acceptable patchwork, perhaps even worth being sold on the market. It was the poor advantage, destitute people needed to create on their own and sometimes they even managed to achieve a creativity level not inferior to those of the most prominent artists. It was also the way he had started to practise collecting art. With his limited savings he bought the posters of the exhibitions he attended and fixed them on the wall. After a while he also decided to take advantage of the magazines left unattended in the student’s common rooms and deprive them of the most interesting pictures. Within a few years, and some personal effort, his room and, afterwards his studio, had become as much interesting as the workshop of a professional artist. It was a pity he had never been really clever to attract young ladies, but the few who spent a night with him had been delighted by his aesthetic feeling. He would have shown his own environment to the owner of the online gallery as well, but he was aware that the jury was interested in a few things that were not directly monetizable.

 Perhaps the business consultant could have found the view of those walls interesting, but at the time she was fully focused on reading Heidi’s book and optimising her time to network with the hotel's usual guests. Thanks to her previous job she had developed a good understanding of the quality of most alcoholic beverages and she was thus able to suggest the most appropriate drink to the bar’s attendees. She paid attention not to speak too much, fearing to betray her purpose, but a Westerner who, by her own choice, worked in a Moscow hotel was largely appreciated by Putin's supporters. As if they could perceive, through her presence, the soundness of the regime and its superiority over the NATO democracies. Sometimes it was one of the oligarchs, or minions pretending to be quite high in the hierarchy, who did not restrain their words and boasted about their roles in the state bureaucracy. If their career path hinted in the direction of the Kremlin, the business consultant suggested they try the new dishes from the restaurant, prepared according to the same recipes served one hundred years before on Lenin’s table. She had to do some marketing and pre-sales before reaching her goal. It was less stressful and dull than filling RfPs for her partner, when she was still in the consultancy.

Lenin was surprised how he had so fast achieved the role of chef in the kitchen of the Hotel Metropol. The former business consultant explained that a partner of one of the companies she had worked for was actually a good friend of the owner. Or better to say of the man who financed his wife the maintenance of the building. The latter was a former Italian pop singer, who made quite a fortune during the 1990s with a couple of hits performed in English, and further consolidated her wealth by getting married with a prominent Russian businessman. Lenin did not want to go too much into the details. He had indulged too long on gossip once in Zurich and during his exile in the previous life. The Russian revolutionary leader was now ready for action and there was nothing more than he desired. Like a child waiting for Christmas, he tried to figure out, even during his dreams, how the encounter with Putin would have taken place. Both of them were called with the same Christian name. Lenin considered himself the master who inspired the lost Soviet autocrat, but he was not sure that Putin would have agreed. Since the mummy was aware that a good amount of sleep hours were required before entering into action, the Russian thinker tried to divert his attention by inviting the business consultant and the art dealer in his room, thirty minutes before going to bed. They exchanged stories about the day and the little expectations about tomorrow. Since there was not a lot to be done, if not waiting for the prey to take the bait, each of them focused on what was required from their current roles in the hôtellerie.

The art dealer was still finding himself extremely at ease and he conjectured that his hotel was the ideal place to secure some exchanges. He did not have a gallery anymore, but he could still rely on a network of collectors, most of them dismayed by the negative trend of the market. After all, he had come back to his usual life, just in another city and beyond the new iron curtain. That was not necessarily a disadvantage, because the high taxation to which even a small and average income, in the former prosperous Western world, was subjected, annihilated the purchase power and the quality of life of the middle class. Thanks to the anarchy reigning in Russia, despite the tight control of the public opinion that was irrelevant to his daily existence, the young Briton realised that he could afford himself a decent time. He was missing home, but not necessarily the way in which Britain, and many other countries, were reforming the mindset of the common man. It was too radical for his traditional views and he did not feel able to express himself anymore. That politically correctness, pervading even the slightest detail of the routines of a modern British citizen, was becoming suffocating. For sure no employer would have forced him to attend a street parade or wear a rainbow t-shirt while on the job, in Russia. However he also felt himself a traitor whenever the idea to stay even longer, after the mission was completed, occurred to his mind. After all, Russia was the immediate threat to what was left of European freedom and prosperity. He was also smart enough to understand that the woke movement had not already wiped out the democratic process and there was still a hope to come back to the proclaimed independence of thought of the 1980s.

The former business consultant was perhaps the one who found herself most unsecure. The Russian society reminded her too much of the American organisations she had learnt to detest. Instead of a bossy and irrational partner, there were the oligarchs and their wives. Perhaps it was the reason why main consultancies looked so similar to socialist institutions and, more recently, behaved on the same principles. Assuming to be the brilliant and intellectual ones, while on the contrary, these companies prospered only thanks to good marketing, superficial slogans, networking and self conscious adepts. Every evening, or night, she went to bed without forgetting to read Heidi's book. In the beginning she thought about her grandfather and the never ending stories somehow connected to WWI. After a while, she began to go through Spyri’s text, trying to imagine how life on the Alps should have been. She grew up in Milan, a city that in the time in which the novel was written could be considered far from the mountains as much as Hamburg could be distanced, from the skiing slopes, in the XXI century perspective. After all, with modern transports even Frankfurt had an active skiclub organising a weekend in the most fashionable European resorts. The former business consultant would have desired to forget the big agglomeration and move in the country side.

The whole team spent an entire week without leaving the hotel if not for a short time. Lenin recommended his companions not to lose any minute in tourism, but collecting as much information as possible about the usual guests. Among them, they should have found for sure more than one member of Putin’s entourage. It was while messing up in the kitchen, trying to remember some good receipt to offer as a traditional novelty, that the Russian leader recollected the name of the chef de cuisine who worked for him until 1924. He was a Putin as well. For some strange reason, Leanin had forgotten so far a relevant detail of his life. Perhaps the surgeons who prepared his body for the mausoleum had not carefully manipulated his brain. It was however easy for him , now accustomed to the latest technologies, to find out that the man who cooked for him for so many years, was indeed Vladimir Putin’s grandfather. An odd coincidence that allowed him to elaborate a plan on how to best approach the current Russian autocrat and thus determine his fate. For a while, Lenin cultivated the sweet illusion to reveal himself and convert Stalin's heir to democracy and capitalism. The Soviet thinker was so well acquainted with the secrets of political plots that he dropped the idea after a few seconds. He was aware that someone who is skillful enough to get the supreme power in a country such as Russia did not care, and had always been, about the great characters of the past. On the contrary, those kinds of people tend to despise those who preceded them and, in the best case, consider them rivals. Putin would have probably claimed Lenin's mummy to be an impostor, a creature of Trotsky or a judaic plot. The father of the Red Revolution would have thus experienced that sort of treatment that he reserved to his political opponents one hundred years before.

The art dealer was trying to secure some contacts. He was aware, from his father’s experience in the Red Hand, that once you had made a decision, there was no way back. At the best he could hope to rely on a plan B, a ticket to guarantee that he could once again the green fields of Ireland. For some strange reason he did not think of Britain anymore, the London art galleries and museums were so far from his mind. He felt the need to speak once again with his mother. Perhaps he was sure that he had pushed his perspectives too far and that he would have encountered only a scarce chance of success. He however knew someone in Putin's entourage who had acquired a couple of paintings from his previous art gallery. Nothing extremely valuable, but kitschy enough to be shown off with friends and colleagues. After all, his contact was the kind of person who hardly accepted his role in human history. An army officer with the ambitions to become a general, but who would have hardly achieved even the rank of major. He was also a bad chess player and even worse at poker. The art dealer doubled his commission by having befriended him while in London, where the Russian officer was serving as bodyguard at the local Embassy. It had been enough to invite him a couple of evenings out, allowing the wannabe Kotusov to lose three months of his wage by playing cards. The art dealer kept the friendship by having sent him, the next day, an expensive set published by Purling, a limited edition usually reserved for the members of the collector club. The Russian officer appreciated such attention, although he never tried his luck again by competing against authentic London gentlemen. Or at least a group of Britons who introduced themselves in such a way.

The former business consultant followed the lead of the art dealer, with whom she had found to be closer than expected. She was aware of the risk and her instinct hinted that the team must work as a sole person. Although it was pretty hard, if not impossible, to include in the group a strong individual as Lenin. Leftist usually boast their own, and their leaders, intellectual skills much more than they deserve. Most of them are just mediocre brains who need a strong organisation behind their minds and their words. Lenin perhaps was one of the few being exceptionally clever, even if most of his writings could appear laughable to a critical reader. His cultural level was nevertheless higher than the average of which a communist bureaucrat is capable of achieving. The business consultant was still shocked from her experience in Zurich, and ended up with an excess of politically correctness and conformism. She thought that if the leftist had never taken over the power in the Swiss economical capital, perhaps she would have kept her job and could have also gotten promoted up to the rank of a senior manager or director. A big bounty for anybody genuinely attracted by the consulting world, but the former apprentice manager was now th eHeidi’s bookkeeper and she felt a much stronger motivation thant by doing nice slides. She was also relying on some good connections, to whom she had been able to communicate how excellent the menu had become. They now had a chef de cuisine who recreated the recipe’s so dear to Vladimir Lenin.

The former business consultant was thinking about the Swiss landscape, how far it was especially if compared with the cold horizon offered by contemporary Russia. Even those few buildings that have survived the Revolution, the war and the Soviet Regime, not to forget the reconstruction that occurred since the 1990s, did not transpire any feeling of authenticity. For sure they had been restored without sparing any cent, not even million of US dollars, but the place in front of the Hotel Metropol looked no more original than the Disneyland Castle. Her last reminiscence of the Zurich Lake was on the contrary the eternal sundown that the inhabitants of the Albis and the Zimmerberg have enjoyed for centuries. On a day with a clear sky, it is possible to view the Villain, far away in the Graubunden, and dream to be an affluent British Alpinist who sustained the birth of hiking in the Swiss valleys. Russian tourists on the contrary only contributed to the growth of shopping malls and luxury centres in the main cities of Western Europe and Middle East. Their only taste of adventure was at the poker table of a casino not so different from the airport lounges and the flagship stores that they so enthusiastically attended. The young lady had developed a terrible opinion of Russians, based on awkward experiences in the workplace and a few cultural institutions she visited from time to time. Once she had a colleague, belonging to her team, sponsored by a St. Petersburg billionaire who wanted to let his sweetheart taste some weeks of business management consulting. The professional appeared on the first day with no luggage, but with a credit card in her hands. She spent a whole week purchasing expensive goods, charging a substantial sum in cab bills on the project beside a few other extravagances. The Cresus’ lover eventually resigned because she found the colleagues dull and boring, perhaps even poor.

The art dealer was on the contrary in his own environment. He had to deal with Russian upstarts quite often in the past. They were not always affluent as they pretended, or wished, to be, but once convinced of the cleverness of their interlocutor, usually became loyal and generous clients. If it had not been for successful IT entrepreneurs, or bankers, or commodities traders from Moscow and St. Petersburg, the Briton should have terminated his own career much earlier. Working in the art market was one of the few things he had always really valued during his whole existence. He would have given his life for the King and the Country, perhaps muchmore to honour the memory of his father than by any nationalistic creed. He never liked the commies and the leftists, whom he considered accomplices of the massacres perpetrated by the IRA, but beside that he always considered himself politically neutral. Thus he never felt any repulsion to trade with Russians and Chinese. Yet, to keep a compass within the Oceans of ethical values offered by the XXI century, he chose to believe in the Union Jack and whoever was considered to be an enemy of His Majesty, that person or nation was also his personal opponent. Moreover he was perfectly aware that Soros and Putin were two sides of the same coin, and that their power derived from the treasure of the Soviet Union. At least that part of gold that was saved from the illusions of the socialist economy. The Briton chose not to spend too much time on cheap philosophy, but preferred a line of direct action. The day after they had arrived, he was already trading the favours of his new clientele with a not authorised room upgrade or a free bottle of cremant d’Alsace, actually charged on the room of some less affluent and attentive guest. He enjoyed the most devilish aspects of these trucks and behaved like a pestiferous elf who wanted at any cost to gain the favour of a powerful wizard. After all, Ulster still belonged to the island called Ireland.

The one who should have struggled more with his own role was Lenin.  He revealed himself on this occasion to be a master of disguise and even an excellent cook. A skill he had to learn during his long years abroad. Partially because he often had to rely on a limited budget. The idea of mixing ingredients and understanding the correct timing of preparation was to him an analogy of a Revolution. When he met the people assembled in a square and wanted to ignite in their mind the dream of a new world, he also put together a calculated amount of human emotions, of truths, half truths and lies. The latter so well hidden to appear so well sounded to constitute a natural law. Once all the elements had been combined, the last decision left to him was at which point to switch  from the appearance of a bonhomme to that of an infernal creature.  The communist thinker followed the usual approach even with the employees of the Hotel. The chef de cuisine mastered indeed the recipes on the menu as well the human souls. Within a short time, Lenin was able to determine how to influence most of the employees with whom he worked. After all, in the kitchen, most people were enthusiastic about their job and even those whose professional choice had been determined by desperate necessity of money, were somehow proud of their duty. It was thus easy to circumvent the mind of honest men who were not acquainted with the tricks of politics. On his side Lenin generously helped all those in need and under stress. He had matured such a strong endurance along the years, to impress even the most apathetic of his mates. Such a familiarity with his new comrades, awarded him with the key for his next move.

Lenin

From the small windows of the airplane, the art dealer, who had almost poured the coffee on his trousers, noticed at first that they had already reached Moscow. He had already seen the skyline with the buildings that until a couple of years before had hosted the local headquarters of the main international consultancies. He had more than one customer who was working for a big name of strategy and C-level advisory. This kind of individual with whom the lady of the group had shared the desk for a good part of her life. The worst part of it, considering her feelings and ambitions. She had never been on a project in Russia, nor in the Middle East, partially because of her choice, partially because she was considered far too well skilled for countries with low margins on middle-low rates. Although not as low as those on the Italian market, that was also a country she had learnt it was wise to avoid, for anybody in her own profession. Lenin was the one who was mostly surprised by the view of the city where he had been buried for so long. The modern structures, the lights of the offices, still on during the night, diverted the attention from the Red Square and the Kremlin. He managed to locate the spot of the mausoleum where he actually spent the last nine decades only with a certain effort. Only at that point in time he could feel relieved and close his eyes. While landing he did not look outside, but recollected the most important steps of his life as a Revolutionary leader. The death of his brother, of his colleagues, eventually of his political opponents at his own behest. Including the Holy Family of the Czar. He had since several years realised how cruel his ideology had destroyed the best attitudes of humankind, and also how the sprouts of socialism were poisoning the minds of far too many men. Vladimir Putin, the son of Stalin's cook, the autocrat who would have never existed without the Soviet Union, but who tried to revive the highest achievements of the Czars, was the last of a long series of failures of the Red Revolution. If he had managed to stop him then Lenin would have believed to be able to be forgiven for his own huge sins and be allowed to depart for a better world. Actually the eternal Monarchy led by the Supreme Entity, whose existence he had unsuccessfully tried to deny. The aeroplane touched the ground and the three companions had to pay attention not to add any coffee stains on their dresses. None of them had emptied their drinks, distracted by multiple thoughts, plans and expectations. They were not the only ones worried for their future. Also some of the other passengers were not able to hide their worries. Some of them had just abandoned the perspective of a brilliant career in the West, others were facing the idea of a long permanence in the army. Perhaps the war would have even ended quite soon, and with such astonishing success to guarantee the regime some investments to improve the quality of life of the whole population. It was hard to say, even for those better connected with the C-Room of the autocrat. Lenin looked once again into the eyes of his friends, he had to be sure that they would not panic if confronted by the Russian police. They were not like the Finnish officer, trustful and showing the highest understanding even for the worst criminals. Maybe they would have been happy to find a banknote of twenty francs in the passport. He had recommended the others not to exaggerate, not to show off that they were terribly afraid not to get through the border controls. Lenin realised he had to better confide in his companions, because he had no alternatives and under these circumstances only God, in whom he had not believed for a long time, could help. It could have been awkward if the Almighty had helped the Red Army to annihilate the loyal White chevaliers of the Czar, as much the defeat of the Trozky’s hordes in Poland was attributed to divine intervention. The art dealer, who had been accustomed to any kind of agreement with the customs all around the world, revealed in this case all his best qualities. Once picked up the luggage, he approached the agents of the Russian police straightforwardly and in the most mannerly manner. He gave his passport to the agents, letting a couple of hundred Francs fall into the hat of one of the officers. The Briton even took care to cover the landing zone of the bribe from the view of the cameras and smiled in such a gentle, affable way that the others greeted him as an old acquaintance. It was obviously not the first time the son of Ulster handled with the Russian authorities and he was even more at ease than in Finland. Indeed more integer officers made him nervous, but the art dealer was well aware that the former Soviet militia  was paid quite badly and irregularly. Despite most tourists denied any sort of blackmail, Russia had never changed since the time of Gogol and Chichikov. The trio was invited to open their luggage, that was not actually checked, and to go further without lingering too long in the area beyond the border control. They were now free to take a cab and direct themselves to the Hotel Metropol. The place had been for years the selected resort of the socialist delegations, selected from the most loyal activists of the capitalist world. It was now the gathering of the Putin’s acolytes and it would have become the best operating quarter and it would have become the best operating quarter for a small group of conspirators. Ironically the former business consultant could even rely on a free upgrade thanks to a fidelity card she had subscribed a few years before.  They were however supposed to overnight in the Hotel facilities as servants, not as guests.

Lenin 

While sitting on the plane, the three companions did not speak a lot. The other passengers appeared frantic or extremely cold. Some spoke loudly about their families, who had seldom met after the sanctions and the Western involvement in the Ukrainian campaign. Nobody complained about financial losses, perhaps because the most affluent Russians, those targeted by the International authorities, did not use a common airline to travel. Lenin eavesdropped on some of the conversations, feeling to be for the first time after years among fellow comrades whose doom and faith had been decided during the days of the Red Revolution. He doubted that any of them had read Marx, nor even his leaflets, but he was sure that their mindset had been influenced by his writings and decisions. Even, or especially, those, who had never nourished an interest for politics and international diplomacy. The passengers were most probably middle-class professionals, even middle-upper class. The kitchen aides and common workers preferred to save all of their money to be spent once together with the family and avoided luxury solutions such as a direct flight. He closed his eyes and imagined buses and trucks delivering dissatisfied Russian immigrants back beyond their borders. Only those who had the privilege, or had been clever enough, to resettle with the whole family, had no intention to come back. The others must comply with the call of the new autocrat who was ruling the country. They had no choice than to come back, perhaps after having been already legally robbed by the Western sanctions.  Lenin had met in Zurich the founder of a successful IT company, one of the few who really boomed during the Internet Revolution of late 1990s and early 2000s. Due to the sanctions, it was almost impossible for such a business genius even to open a book account and had to move to the Middle East, in a country more complacent to the new lepers of the financial world. The art dealer had fallen asleep. He was dreaming of fighting back to Ulser, wearing a balaclava with the Red Hand embroidered on the front, holding an AK-47 in his hands. That was the booty obtained from the corpse of an IRA soldier he had valiantly defeated on the battlefield. The image of the clash covered a long range of hills and plains. Unionists and Roman Catholics were facing each other in formations that resemble the fights of the classical age. The confrontation was now made of Romans against an Hellenistic Army. Elephants appeared on the battlefield and General Montgomery was leading the Roman Legions. He held firm in his right hand the baton of a field marshal and directed the movement of his army from the top of a hill. Around him there was nobody, the art dealer was alone. He began to move up the hill, now carrying on his back a huge framed printing executed by an anonymous portraitist a few months after the French Revolution had been ignited. The piece was heavy, but valuable and he was sure that General Montgomery would have rewarded him with a generous purse of gold and silver. The Briton however obtained only a reproach for having distracted the general from the most urgent duties. The art dealer was so dissatisfied that abandoned the portrait on the top of the hill. The painting depicted an old and unpleasant Lady, not even related to the general. The art dealer went back on the battlefield and fired with the AK-47 in the direction of the Roman legions, which quickly retreated and eventually rooted. Before the Greeks could take advantage of his exploit, the Briton quickly grabbed the golden treasure of the Romans and woke up while a stewardess served him a cup of coffee. Also the former business manager had fallen asleep, but she was not able to remember her dreams. She just felt relaxed, sustained by the structure of the airplane that was so fast moving in the direction of Moscow. The voices of the other passengers accompanied her relaxation, as the sounds of the words pronounced by her parents while driving to the Riviera, during the summer. She also felt asleep quite after and she had thus developed a confused idea of what connected Milan to Genoa. A few miles after Genoa she was woken up, because her dad wanted to stop for a break and have lunch in a restaurant he had attended since he was a child. The world had changed meanwhile so quickly that it would have been a wonder if the restaurant had survived even a decade. The young lady was also alone in the world, since both her parents passed away a few years before and she had no further siblings. Suddenly she felt lonely, as much as she did while working on a project by the main consultancies. Whenever she had to work in a team, she hardly connected with her colleagues who were able to sit in front of a laptop for twelve hours a day, waiting for the evening standard menu by Hilton and a gin tonic to conclude the day. Sometimes she had a good feeling for the employees working with the client, but after a few months of working experience, the business consultant had begun to learn that she could not trust them either. She now hoped to be able to trust a former, or failed, art dealer and Lenin. It sounded to her mind at least awkward and extremely unwise, but at that point there was no option to come back. She was aware that no failure was admitted and she would have survived only by recording a last success in her career. After which she could have got married and definitely retired from business.

Lenin 

The small group thus did not reach Russia by train, as originally planned, but on a special flight arranged to bring home diplomats and a few others who dared to travel in the hands of the evil. The waiting time had been long for all of them. They had to spend the whole day, switching from a lounge to another one, before getting onboarded. Lenin experienced much worse, by travelling from place to place during his long exile of his previous life. The art dealer and the former business consultant were also accosted to unexpected events while on the road to a fair or a meeting with the client. Yet they all felt the tension, spread between the local Finnish authorities, who stared at them like potential threats to the national security, and the other passengers, who were substantially worried to be able to leave the country without any unpleasant surprise. Some of them had lost their job because of the sanctions, others, who usually would have chosen a private flight, risked a severe financial loss and tried to secure what was left of their properties in the West. The small group experienced none of such problems, their main troubles would have been raised only once in Russia. The weather was not favourable either and contributed to the journey’s delay much more than the bureaucracy and the ideological clash of nations. It was raining quite heavily and the sun had decided to stay under the cover of a thick group of dark clouds. At least the catering was good, even if Lenin observed how far too much alcohol and sweets were provided to the visitors of the business lounges. Both the business consultant and the art dealer noticed for the first time in their life how they were accustomed to the nourishment delivered by the airports. A kind of food that, along the years, had become more and more standardised, as much as it was increasingly sold as local. Lenin, who during his last years in Switzerland, never left the country before, nor took an internal flight, was able to more precisely detect the lies of the marketing. After all, he had been a master mind of propaganda and, had he not chosen to work in a museum, he could have accomplished great things if employed for an advertisement agency. The same agency that publishes the magazines distributed for free in the halls of the supposed to be luxury hotels and also in the business lounges of the airports. Sometimes the content is interesting and the trio, who wanted to avoid discussing any serious matter under the surveillance of cameras and microphones, had the chance not to get bored. After several hours, the names of the three companions were called by a friendly female voice through the loudspeakers. Lenin looked into the eyes of the former business consultant and art dealer. They were missing the self confidence they had shown so far. It was the time to recover his charisma and spur the young women and the Briton into the right direction. All of them hesitated to move until their names had been repeated. This time they were asked to urgently reach the passport control and the small group did not linger further. Sometimes the success of an insurrection depends on pure chance and the cold blood proved with unexpected events. They did not know what to expect, but in full possession of their emotions they  stepped forward in the direction of the frontier police box. Quite a simple structure that could have been stormed by any organised group of persons. There were only two officers, a man and a woman, quietly sitting on a chair waiting for the few people they had to check. As the three companions introduced themselves, the policemen asked for their passports and carefully looked at the face of each of the travellers, as if they wanted to study any smallest irregularity of their skin and produce a portrait. “Thank you so much. We need the reason for your departure, please fill the module hereby. Just a couple of lives will be sufficient”. The three had to try to explain the reason for the trip, identifying themselves in the roles they had carefully selected. They had to pay attention not to mess up with the traits usually associated with their cover jobs. The policemen did not react by reading the elaborated description of the motivation brought by a false sommelier, concierge and chef de cuisine. Lenin did not like the idea to portrait himself as a simple aid, he thought that after so many years of clandestine identities and several decades spent in a mausoleum, he deserved some recognition for his seniority. A female sommelier was more than welcome by the female police officer, who during her free time was an activist in a feminist organisation. The art dealer had moreover already the manners of an experienced concierge, given the common aspects of his business with someone who tries to sell to the visitors of an hotel the expensive services of a third party agency. Also with someone who needs to be extremely discrete about the extravagances of a selected clientele. Their demands and reasons appeared well sounded for the screening and all the three got a stamp on a white piece of paper. They were allowed to board on the plane.

Lenin 

The trio checked out the hotel after a week. Lenin felt impressed by the commitment of his two companions, but he preferred to linger in Helsinki a little more. As the heir of Graf von Pazze has promised his generous financial support, the Russian political leader decided that it was once again the chance to exploit the benevolence of a socialist capitalist. The Briton did not object, because during the previous weeks, after having lost his job, he had started to avoid even drinking a cup of coffee, while he was not at home, to reduce his expenses. It was not so pleasant, on the contrary definitely stressful, to pay attention to every penny for too long. Although it should have been what thriving low income households regularly do. Including the one where he grew up, with all the extra money needed to finance the Red Hand activities or to be safe against any possible retaliation of the Catholics. Only the former business consultant did not care about money because she felt solid enough, with a piggy bank that appeared to her as a really rich one. For most investment banks, her net worth was just interesting enough not to sell her any kind of those low quality products, with no risk, but also no gain and high management costs. She was however unworthy of any experienced asset manager and a family office would have regarded her two million Swiss francs as irrelevant. The young woman was however happy to spend some time both with Lenin, whose conversation had lost most of the hatred of his previous life, and the art dealer, who was happy to share with his new friends a good introduction about Finnish art. The heroes of the Kalevala, so finely portrayed by Akseli Gallen-Kallela, filled the days of the three adventurers before their departure. If in the beginning the myth of ancient Finland had just been the pretext to spend an afternoon at the Kansallisgalleria, the National Gallery, with time the group began to meditate about the symbolism conveyed through those stories and to forget the purpose of their encounter. It was only on one evening, while enjoying a typical Finnish receipt, made of moose meat and a selection of local herbs, that they turned the conversation again on their original purpose. “So, you say you have got some friends in the hotellerie, how is it? You're an art dealer, aren’t you?”, asked the business consultant to the young Briton, who waited before providing an answer. “It is very snobbish of you”, intervened Lenin, “Perhaps you are unaware of the number of successful revolutionaries, afterwards established as powerful autocrats, who for a while worked in disguise in the kitchen”.  He smiled softly, but his eyes penetrated the young lady's mind. “Nothing like that”, the Ulster gentleman replied, apparently unperturbed. “While at the University I played poker or delivered some small packages without asking too many questions when I was short of money. I could have been served by the Maharaja’s on Pizza Hut at Parker’s Piece, but it would have been far less profitable. You don’t know the art market and perhaps you have never approached an art gallery as a recurrent customer”. It was now the Briton to adopt unpleasant tones to an inconvenient consideration, but he had no intention to provoke a fracture in the team, thus he explained further. “Some affluent, or less affluent, art collectors are above forty. Perhaps most of them. They could happily be married or linked to a relationship for a good amount of years. However, while attending international fairs, they are looking for something they cannot regularly enjoy while at home. Not necessarily the pleasure of a new picture to hang in their apartment. Quite often it is a flirt and, while men usually rely on the service of an escort, or a party girl attending the fair with that specific purpose, women like to spend evenings and nights in a temporary affair with a fellow art enthusiast. That is when I join the comedy. My boss, being the owner of a respectable art gallery, cannot put the name in the transaction. It is me who allows the customer to use my credit card and references to pay the hotel, or the restaurant. That anonymous transaction however works only with the agreement with a concierge or a maitre d’hotel. They are usually more than happy to help”. Lenin laughed again with his amiable smile that in the past seduced so many countesses and heiresses in the best socialist clubs. It allowed the tension to dissipate. “That is really clever”, said the Russian, “But how are you going to exploit your contacts? I was quite clever to escape the police, but the frontiers look to me quite tightly close”. “While I was enchanting the two of you with the nordic sagas, blessed by Freya and Odin, I managed to reach someone who used to live in London and now moved to Moscow. He will hire us to join his team. To forge some fake identities it has become quite easy, after proper payment. I will thus be an experienced concierge, you, my young dame, a sommelier. Russians will love the idea of a young lady serving them the wine. About you, Comrade Lenin, there is a place in the kitchen”.

Lenin

In wartime, it could have been not so easy for the whole team to penetrate the Russian borders and reach out the current Father of the Nation, moreover in person. They should have encountered so many opponents along the journey, in most cases those good citizens who, for one cause or the other, felt themselves particularly engaged. Most of them, when still in the West, are supporters of the United Nations and sympathisers of the global liberal faction. They could have been concerned to meet someone willing to travel in the most desecrated country of the time, but they must have been also worried for the carbon emission due to the travel of the trio. If someone wanted to conduct a revolution, it would have been better to sit in a small apartment in a big city centre and initiate a petition on social networks. It would have also been cheaper because, once the manifesto had circulated enough to catch the attention of the liberal community, some boring journalist would have started to praise the model citizens. Who, at the expense of the European Union, would have been invited to attend the most expensive, and at the same time irrelevant, conferences all around the planet. The other faction, not so popular on the Western official mass media, but with its own public on some “secret” digital group, well renowned to the police and any kind of hooligan at the same time, was sponsored by the Soviet Block. That, by the standards of the early XXI century, was constituted by China and its puppet states, including Russia. The clique was far less fashionable than the chic eco-friendly liberals, but had still not to be underestimated. The trio looked all around, they then inspected each other's expressions as at a poker table. “I would bet everything in my pockets that we shall go through. Should we just assume we are for or against Putin? It will be necessary to get some support”, said the former managing consultant. “You are the former Father of the Revolution, anybody nostalgic of this kind of old good times should love you and follow your indications”, added the art dealer. “Once again all depends on me”, replied Lenin with a soft smile, “At first they should believe that my mummy has found new energy and is living again”, replied Lenin. “Not necessary. When a main organisation sets up a new campaign, the most effective ones are conveyed with an adventurous travel. From Venice to China the journey would appear impressive, in our case from Helsinki to Moscow. We just need to find a good excuse. I suppose the environment and the documentation of the route of some rare species of birds would suffice”, hinted the young woman. “You should be a good chess player. Your idea is simple, effective, and goes straight to the point”, Lenin expressed his compliment with the whole of his heart. During his whole stay in Zurich, he got bored, if not annoyed, by attending all those amateur communists who lived off status symbols and slogans read here and there in the liberal press. This snobbish scum scarcely generated original ideas and Lenin required a good stimulus to keep his brain working. Otherwise he should have gone back to his eternal sleep, this time forever. “I love both of you, you are reviving my mind. Really I resorted to spending a couple of hours a day playing chess with the homeless and the drunkyards, on the big boards displaced around the town. I could not really tolerate all those reds surrounding me. The worst feeling was to be aware of being the culprit for their existence”, concluded the Russian leader. The former business consultant genuinely laughed, thinking at all her bad experiences with the business world in Zurich, dominated by the ESG illusions and hypocrisies. “Don’t feel guilty, women appreciate that, but be sure that any sort of dogma produces a good number of idiots ready to follow. Nowaday pauperism and democrats constitute the mainstream, but I read enough about past history that I can show you that a similar phenomenon took place in any country and time”. At least, none of those self proclaimed intellectuals ever managed to create anything for which they are worth to be remembered”, also the art dealer wanted to play his own monologue. Lenin found the speech not so brilliant, and did not pronounce a word for a while. Eventually he also laughed, recognising some esprit in the Briton’s conclusion. “About the budget do not worry. I have got my savings, but if you allow me to make a call, I am pretty sure there is someone in Zurich, or nearby, ready to support us”, said the former business consultant. “Can we afford to stay here for a couple of days then? Just the time to find three tickets on the railways directed to St. Petersburg. Or would you prefer to call it Leningrad?”, the Briton reacted quite quickly. “No, don’t worry my young man. St Petersbourg sounds nice. I am much more accustomed to that name. I however thought they severed any direct route between Helsinki and Russia”, answered Lenin. “Take it easy, comrade, I do not have a lot of contacts in the business world, besides some small collectors, but I can rely on a good network in the hotellerie”, added the art dealer.

Lenin 

“He is not the czar of Russia, he is only a policeman who made a career in the middle of chaos and moved over by leading a band of gangsters”, asserted the Briton with such a vehemence to upset the others. “You should keep full control of your emotions, if you want to grasp the power”, said Lenin placidly, as if he were only thinking loudly. “Can we do something against him? I mean Putin, not our fellow Art Dealer”, asked the former business consultant coming back to the point. “Are you so concerned about Russia? I lived through so many horrors, murders and plots that I can hardly estimate whether a political leader has gone too far. My conscience is blind, powerless, kept in chains by my memories, in the remotest and least accessible part of my brain. Or of my heart. Provided that it had not been damaged by the Soviet surgeons one hundred years ago”, Lenin made a point. He needed to rely on others’ feelings to give his life a meaning once again, at least a short term purpose. “Assassinations of political leaders are out of the question. It is a practice that has been constantly avoided, both by my government and the American one. We let dethroned leader to by lynched by the mob. It is quite practical to avoid them to write their memoirs and publish some embarrassing information, but, as I said, the Western Powers exclude assassination and I think we must also respect that point”, proclaimed the Briton. This time he was calm, but his eyes were looking deep into Lenin's. “Do you want to hypnotize me, or are you trying to steal a piece of my magical mind?”,asked the Father of the Revolution to the Art Dealer, without hiding a smile. “That’s a good point”, commented cheerfully the young woman, “Even if we managed to kill Putin, some of his gangsters will take his place. Their mafia will not collapse, but we become more savage, perhaps even stronger in the short term even stronger. We should avoid any repercussions on the population. They do not deserve further cruelty, just freedom, if possible. I would be happy with a relaxation of the current restrictions”. The business consultant revealed some of that idealism proper of the modern generations, under every circumstance and in any historical period. The activism of the XXI century youth was not less inconsiderate than the extremism of the previous times. Nor less dangerous. “I often defeated my enemy by undermining his credibility. By the way I also often asked my minions to get physically rid of them, just in case. However I am far too cruel and cynical to constitute an example for the average man. Or woman, in your case. I think that the arts of my age were far superior to those of the current times. You have totally lost the taste for good literature, doped by those stupid and concise messages you write everywhere. Or advertisements, or social networks. I have sometimes seen the slides of your presentations”, Lenin looked in the direction of the former business consultant”, I have never seen such superficial thoughts getting the reputation of the output of a brilliant mind. You consultants are such jokers”, concluded the communist leader with a wide and loud laugh. He enjoyed what he said and perhaps he was even kidnapped by a mix of rage and pleasure for the intellectual degeneration of the last decades. “Your ideology began it all. They were your peers who undermined at first the spiritual force of the West, systematically undervalued the worth of XIX century literature, of Latin and Greek classics”, the Briton replied to Lenin even more convinced of what he was saying. He also felt himself free from the charisma that the Russian born leader exercised on his mind at the beginning of their encounter. “Sorry, I did not want to offend or be arrogant. The strange circumstance of our encounter has altered my imagination, or perhaps I cannot properly express myself”, added the Briton. “Don’t worry. It is my presence that, in good or bad, altered your mind. Be assumed that what you said is coherent with logic and I cannot disagree. It is my brain that, more than one hundred years ago, decided to follow a dark path. I had to attend my brother’s execution. Just try to figure out what it meant to me”, Lenin tried to calm down his new companion. Perhaps he liked him as much as the former business consultant. “Have you got any ideas?”; asked the young lady, exhausted of the confrontation among the two men “I don’t have a clue”, said the father of the Revolution, “but I think that this young man could inspire us”, and suddenly looked over in the direction of the art dealer “I also witnessed to violence in my youth. I grew up in Ulster, during the troubles and my good old man was with the Red Hand. I don’t want to annoy you with stories from the four countries, but this lady perhaps pronounced the magic world. What if you, your body, your face, would suddenly appear in front of Putin and force him to confront you. I cannot imagine the outcomes. There is also the risk that your old nature would prevail and the both of you would become accomplices. But there is still a chance”, said th eBriton. “You are right my boy. Some evil genius still persecutes me, but I am not totally a fool. While Putin, despite his apparent success, is not such a genius. Your idea could work. Let’s sketch a plan”, commented, with the most serious tone, the father of the Revolution.

Lenin

“I would pay a fortune to have been present at that assembly, when my death was announced, to look at the single expressions of the participants. Someone has tried to hide his happiness for sure. Others should have tried to spot the most discreet smile, to get ridden of an enemy. Few would have reacted to the news with the proper sadness expected by a loyal member of the party. Perhaps there was still, at the time, someone who truly believed in the Revolution. I was too busy to take care of such details, as long as the power was in my hands. My acolytes had to pay attention to their backs and did not care to trade with traitors. That book guaranteed my survival, but I could have never imagined to be revived one hundred years later. I suppose because you, my dear friend”, said Lenin directing his eyes toward the former business consultant, “you took care of reading the whole book at least one time from the beginning to the end”. “That is the truth”, replied the young woman, “It was because of the Covid blockade I found myself in Zurich, without knowing anybody who could confort me. About my colleagues, I could trust them as much as your comrades. None of them was sincere and they only cared to exploit each other's weakness or repeat a lie as many times as to make it a lie”. The two men at the table made a loud laugh, as if directed by a conductor, well coordinated and in total harmony. “That was Goebbels”, commented the Art Dealer. “It is not so relevant”, added Lenin in a quiet tone. “Have you not already understood that we are just bands of gangsters? Whether we depict ourselves as leftist, fascists or introduce ourselves with the elegant business card of a main American or European consultancy”. It was the woman who laughed now, as an instrument replying to the orchestra in a concerto. “You are better than that”, said the lady loudly, surprising herself for the clearly convincing statement and at the same time frustrated for having relied on such a cheap catchphrase. “Perhaps, but I need to find a better purpose in my life”, thought the Father of the Revolution, loud enough to get heard by his two new fellows. “You don’t need to search for too long”, said the Art Dealer “There are already the two of us ready to follow you. For what concerns me, I am currently out of the job and, given my poor qualifications, I doubt I will be able to obtain a good position too. Only my entrepreneurship supports me, perhaps also some determination”. “Those are the three qualities of a successful revolutionary”, added Lenin, who began to genuinely enjoy the company. “I do not need to work anymore, thanks to the Heidi’s book, that I still hold with me, but does not belong to me anymore*, confirmed the former consultant, surprising herself to have so quickly agreed with the Briton. “It is like watching for the first time at a work, created by Andy Warhol. Just imagine having lived in the 1960s. Let’s assume the year is 1965 and you are an engineer called to the Leo Castelli’s gallery to fix the heating. You watch around you and observe on a wall one of his flowers, I mean one of Warhol’s. One is painted in a monochrome blue, the other red. In the background a black and green photograph representing some grass. Let’s also make the hypothesis that you are an immigrant from a small, cosy town in Southern Italy and you have grown up accustomed to the chiaroscuro of a local Renaissance Master. Perhaps your wife or even yourself keep with you a small reproduction of Raphael’s Madonna. You keep it for protection, you observe it because of your hocus-pocus hail Marys”, the loyal son of the Royalist Ulster and the Red Hand was now passionately speaking. “After a few years, still shocked by Warhol's flowers, so distant from the aesthetics imprinted in your mind together with your religious beliefs, you come back to the place. It is 1980, you are older and perhaps better acquainted to the traits of pop art. Hanging on the wall there are two black and white portraits of a man wearing a hat. One of the two artworks represents his face from multiple angles, not aligned. The other portrait is sharper. Well, that is our impression. We need to get accustomed to your face. You are like a masterpiece of pop art. When you began your career, you were outrageous, revolutionary, perhaps even criminal. Now you have become an item for a museum, admired by the petit bourgeoisie that feels ashamed of her ignorance. We need to rejuvenate your image and we would like to be your curators”, concluded the art dealer, opening his eyes and gesticulating like an Italian immigrant. Lenin did not get offended and stood up to shake his hand. “You are admirable my friend. And you as well, my gentle Lady”. The former managing consultant blushed. The old communist was aware he had not lost his manipulating charme. “You know much more about the modern world than I do. You are also well opinionated. What is thus the plan? Or the goal of our action? Even to mention the next step would be enough. It is important to move, sooner or later we shall enter the czar’s room”, ask Lenin to encourage his two accomplices. “There is not a czar anymore. You or your comrades massacred his whole family”, said the Briton, his cheeks becoming suddenly red. Such was his loyalty to the Crown. “But there is Putin now, reigning on Russia”, exclaimed the young woman.

Lenin

The whole group kept silent for a while, as if they were poker players, each carefully observing the glance of their opponents. The consultant did not totally trust the art dealer. She had never trusted any. It came from the education received from her father. “Keep your treasures away from the eyes of anybody who does not belong to your household. Experts and dealers are the most dangerous persons with whom to share the pleasure derived from the possession of an unique artwork”, he continuously repeated to her. Most probably referring to Heidi's book. The young lady had the precious volume with her. She had thought that, if something serious should have happened, it would have been better to be in the open space of a hotel hall, where everybody could observe the unexpected scene. The former business consultant had however no bad opinion about Lenin, or his mummy. In the end, he was an old fashioned man, a bonhomme grown up with the petite-bourgeoisie. She sympathised with him and understood his desire of revolt, the passion that brought him to cynically take the power and annihilate one of the most splendid aristocratic traditions the world had ever been able to observe, or admire. Her mother also came from the middle class and it had been hard to tolerate their cultural limitations of those descendents of millers and small landowners. Not to mention the Roman Catholic school she had to attend, where those upstarts reaching the building on a luxury car and wearing a Rolex were kept in high consideration by a good number of the teachers. Those latter, loyal to the Roman Catholic Church as much as to the Christian Democratic Party, also believed to be brilliant and gifted. Their only skill was to promote the most standard mindset and suppress, or denigrate, any original form of expression. The lady realised she was now enjoying a cup of tea in Helsinki and, after all, she was in good company. The British Art Gellerist, or employee of an online gallery, revealed himself to be gifted with a brilliant and earnest conversation. Even Lenin seemed to appreciate his witty sentences. The young man did not always play with the guidelines enforced by the politically correct thought, or antithesis of any kind of logical thought. The former consultant could thus find herself at ease and confident enough to tear down the first level of defence she used to build everytime it was necessary to interact with new people.  “Do you also know about Heidi's book?”asked the young lady, suddenly breaking the silence. The question implied that Lenin was fully aware of it. The art dealer slightly moved the head, leaving a free interpretation to the answer. “I cannot really understand what you mean”, reacted the young land, but let’s assume that all we need is a summary of what it is known to me. Perhaps comrade Lenin can fill the gaps of my story. An adventure that began more than one hundred years ago, while my grandfather was stationed on a Greek island. He was part of the Italian garnison, waiting to be repatriated to Italy and be honourably dismissed after four or more years of service. Under that circumstance, by the hand of a Russian spy, most probably an agent of the just born Soviet Union, my grandad received the book that I am going to show you right now. According to the legend, that looks to be true, such a volume conceals the power to keep the body of the Father of the Revolution alive”. Lenin shaked his hand, “Bravo, my young lady, I knew you could do it!”, complimented the Russian mummy. The Briton smiled, convinced that, if Lenin was still alive, there should have been a well grounded, although whimsical reason. He had worked for so long in a market where nothing is impossible, that his mind was open to anything. Lenin spoke again. “I never believed in Kabbalah, nor in anything like magic. Yet, I am aware that my biggest fault, my most horrible crime, has been my aversion to what concerns the needs of the human soul. By depriving the Russian people of its spiritual traditions, I condemned not only the long term goals of the Revolution to fail, but a whole country to die. If Russia is still nowadays in the hands of a tyrant and few irresponsible gangsters, it is all my fault. I signed that book with my blood, joking about my gesture about the request of an old rabbi. We must also recognise his good sense of humour, like those peculiar of the yiddish short stories. Among all the options available in his rich library, the rabbi chose Johanna Spyri’s novel”. At that point, the former consultant extracted Heidi's book and put it on the table. The Briton opened his eyes, fully admired by what he saw. “However, my comrades rarely understand good jokes, as do most fanatics. To avoid offering the Trotskyists or any other among my enemies the excuse of getting rid of me, I consigned the book to a loyal officer, who on his side was sure to be able to rely on a noble and loyal contact living abroad. A friend of the Revolution who could have never betrayed us, your grandfather. However I was not aware that by signing the book, I consigned my soul to those pages. I consequently felt ill and the sadness caused by my death could not have been better expressed as Majakovsky did.”

Lenin 

“Please feel comfortable”, said the Father of the Revolution to the new guest. The Art Dealer found this encounter unexpected and the unknown lady quite impolite. He had tracked down the authentic Lenin all around Europe and spent what, given his limited means, was an enormous fortune. Now, that woman was stealing the attention of the former red activist and the young man had the feeling of being a loser. A sensation reviving those evenings at Cindies when everybody had found their mates except for a few ones. His only consolation were the frites bought at the angle of Market Place, eaten while sitting on the King’s Parade while hoping for a last fortunate encounter. The art market was totally alien to him ro, better to say, he was far away from any art gallery or auction house. For sure there was no illusion to get into Christie’s or Sotheby's. He already knew, when he neutered the University of East Anglia, that the big names were looking for those who had attended the actual Cambridge, preferably the Old Colleges. He wondered whether the mummy that was sitting in front of him was aware about the snobbism, arrogance and discrimination, mainly at the expense of the lower social classes, systematically practiced by the commies during the previous one hundred years. Given the attention that the mummy of Lenin was now dedicating to a former manager of a top consultancy, that Russian petit-bourgeois and successful autocrat was also behaving in the most disdainful way. The Art Dealer also scarcely tolerated the presence of women, when it involved business. His misogyny had been smoothed along the years, mainly by the need to sell female artists when required. After all Louise Bourgeois, Beatriz Milhazes and Katherine Bernhardt were excellent investments, selling wonderfully and guaranteeing the highest quality. He also managed to get into a couple of long term relationships, both of them for more than three years, but he never accepted to consider a woman on the same level of a man. The former Consultant was now sitting in the group, showing off an expensive suite and an even more exclusive purse. “Do you want to seduce Lenin or impress him with fashion addict grails that did not even exist one hundred years ago?”, mumbled the Art Dealer recognizing that he was risking to express his thoughts loudly. Lenin and the Lady were now formally introducing each other. The woman was smiling, making even her eyes bigger, gesticulating with her hands. Perhaps she was nervous, or embarrassed. Lenin did not betray any emotion, his face was literally mummified, but even his eyes did not shine. The Art Dealer was now relieved, because the Russian master of intrigue had made all his best efforts to charm him. Perhaps the Lady was less interesting. “Unless he believes I am a proletarian to be brainwashed, while that preposterous Lady is one of his social class”. The young Briton was not aware that Lenin came from a middle-class milieu, even if he was already born a privileged in a world not totally extraneous to medieval serfdom. “They told me the chai tea in this Hotel is of the best quality. You should be an expert on the matter”, asked the Art Dealer trying to interrupt the first contact between Lenin and the Lady. “This young Dame has something really important to share with us”, Lenin reproached the Art Dealer, carefully looking into his eyes. The Briton’s face bleached, the man was impressed how coercive could sound the voice of the Father of the Revolution. He grew up with the Red Hand, helping the comrades of his father to fight against the commies and the Republicans. He was too young to fight, but he had the perfect age to deliver letters and other sensible materials without being noticed. Not by the regular army of Her Majesty, nor by the Catholics and their spies. Perhaps his political passion, his hatred had transmuted into a morbid interest and even admiration for the left. The proud and poor son of Ulster decided to obey and follow his new leader’s directions. “After all I obeyed my previous boss as well, who was also a snobbish leftist and not even as much famous as Lenin”, he thought. The Art Dealer thus decided to calm down and accept the presence of the newcomer. He however insisted on asking about the tea. “I really like to know your opinion. I did a lot of research before choosing the place”. He moved his sight all around, reminding the presence of so many leather covered American bike riders, all around, and understood that he had made a faux pas. “Where does this obsession with chai tea come from?”, asked the boy to himself. The Briton was happy that Lenin ignored him and continued the conversation with the former Business Consultant. “The tea is good, but let this young Lady speak. I am pretty sure to know her story. That will be of interest for you as well.”, replied Lenin, showing himself exceptionally calm.

Lenin

Berlin is such a beautiful city, especially after the fall of the communist regime, that I am scarcely inspired to proceed further. Perhaps it is the case that I just found a second job here. Perhaps I will not be paid so well as in Zurich, but the living costs are also definitely cheaper. The streets are full with tourism and the former democratic republic has been so well romanticised that many of them would like the atmosphere of those years. For sure, as a tourist, or as a member of a foreigner delegation, it should have been a pleasant life. As much as that of an aristocracy during the middle ages. Served so well by a swarm of peasants who were kept poor for their own good. The King knew it well, as well as the members of the Politbüro, the only ones who were entitled to interpret Marx and enact his teachings. Even my teaching. Since I am a prophet for them, or the second member of the Holy Socialist Trinity. Marx is the Father, I am his son and the whole of the Politbüro is the Holy Spirit. The KGB are the angels who are coming into the factories punishing those who desire to live in a decadent and capitalist society. I hardly want to call it democracy. Only Germans look to be so strongly emoted by such a word. Even when they want to be a major political party, voted by the people, they claim to protect democracy. Frenchmen prefer to die and strike for the Republic. It makes much more sense. However, my continuous enquiries have allowed me to find out that my magic book is back in Zurich, in a place called Hirzel, in a museum.

The art dealer

The winter has not already reached its borders, the ones with springtime, that flowers and colours are blooming in this art market. Beginning with Heni, his time has released a great series signed by Damien Hirst. Although those are reproductions of actual paintings that the artist produced years ago, the result is worth collecting. As usual for the British publisher, it is a matter of time and orders can be issued till February 5th. Enough to reflect whether to open the wallet or the sake and make a small purchase, or investment. Without a job, it would be daring, but I can still try again to sell them just after the delivery. O keep them in the British vault, waiting for the right time to reverse the property to someone who really wants to enjoy the pleasure of the collection. The subject is a blooming garden and, even more, the colours of the flowers. Taken individually, a couple of pictures are not so original. With trees in the background making the composition so similar to a souvenir taken while visiting a park. Put all together, the series of eight is outstanding and it would be a pity not to indulge in their view. However Gerhard Richter has also released a new series of paintings. This time put on the market by a German gallery based in Berlin. Their cost is beyond my means, at least I think so, but the result is outstanding as for most of his works. Among these, there is also an interesting collage. Perhaps it will not be appreciated by the market, since the style is too different from the usual Richter.

The consultant

I have reached Horgen by train. It is a really gloomy day. Yesterday there was wind, it was raining, today it is foggy. The bus is just outside the railway station and in a few minutes. I should reach the museum in Hirzel. During the voyage, which was much less impressive than the adventurous expeditions of Captain Cook, I gave a look outside, spotting as many cranes in the construction yards as the number of cows hiding in the farms. If I will conclude a good bargain, I can party with an apfelsaft bought directly from one of the small producers. Since they also accept Twint, it should not be an issue if I don't have cash with me. The museum is luckily open and at the entrance a young woman smiles in my direction. She welcomes me in the most polite way, she is perhaps shy. I found out she is a first year student of Visual Cultures and Civilizations. A sort of Art History mixed with elements of ethnography. I am sure she must also be forced to learn how to despise the Western Masters of Renaissance at the advantage of some unknown sculpture from the Fiji Islands. The director of the museum is currently busy with an urgent phone call, but if I will be patient enough there ill be a chance to share with him a few minutes. The girl, since she is also somehow childish in her appearance, asks whether I want to give a look around. I go to the case where Heidi's book with a Lenin dedication is exposed. I realise not to have got a plan beyond getting it back, at any price or at any cost. What I will do with that afterwards is still undecided. According to my cousins in Rho, it should use the book to give life to Lenin's body. 

Lenin

A master of intrigue like me should be able to stand any kind of situation and keep the mind clear, the breath under control and the emotions should not influence any kind of decision. However, the summer heat is something I have never been accustomed to. In the plains of the Great Russia it can happen, during the months of July or August, that the peasants get even burnt by the intense rays of the sun. I am however no peasant and I have never been. On the contrary I have never taken in consideration the lower social classes, the ones who actually belong to the poorest of the poor. It is impossible to impose on this kind of people any kind of ideology. Most are finding themselves in such a condition because they do not tolerate, nor understand, the usual conventions among men, thus it is also impossible to force them in the direction established by a central committee. And yet, burnt by the star of the day, the most beautiful among the stars, my brain, that I respect so much, has become fuzzy and irrational as that of a common slave. I am wondering if I could bathe in the lake, among the mob covered with tattoos, whose aesthetic is hardly comprehensible to me, and dressed with the most informal and individualistic attire. I love my dark dress so much that I am tempted to go into the water without changing myself. The New Testament reminds that Jesus once walked on the water. I hope it is not a sign that I should convert.

The art dealer

Yesterday I declined a really good offer. It is a book, signed, containing a portfolio of Tillmans’ photos. “The new world”. A report conducted around twenty years ago along the streets of globalisation. The same phenomenon that has brought German photographers to be in the lead all around the planet. It is not Tillmans only, whose realism is sometimes disturbing. I am thinking about Boris Becker, not the tennis player, the Bum-Bum Becker so beloved in the Federal Republic. This Boris Becker portraits the urban streets and buildings of Germany. Salon published a splendid book a few years ago including one of his oeuvres. A street in Berlin, on the West side, with an old car, modern for that time, and a piece of a wall on the right side. I thought it was “the Wall” that inspired so many empty speeches by politicians and intellectuals. The most illogical, or despicable, being those long monologues setup by the leftists, who compare the US-Mexico border control to the one created by the geniuses of Moscow and East Berlin. Perhaps because in this mind, the Soviet Bloc had to protect himself against the horde of western refugees fleeing the drama of capitalism. In this case, those clandestine immigrants chose the wrong direction because, with the end of the cold war, it is the West to sustain a wave of socialism. A leftist-thought dictatorship that could become even worse during the years to come. Even if the red hand, and many like those who fought alongside my father, in Europe as well as in Africa, would try to oppose, I doubt that it will bring any tangible result. Only time can repair our society from the damage of politically correct hallucinations.

The consultant

As the training I had to endure did not produce the expected results, I am back on the project supported by a social advisor. She, provided that I could use the feminine pronoun without encountering any disciplinary sanction, should monitor that all my deeds, especially the content of the decks that I produce, are following the guidelines. That means my absolute faith in what the green, LGBT and socialist local cultural committees suggest. It is not so easy because the statements sometimes contradict each other. In the worst case I must totally ignore a subject because there is no possible compromise. Some of these critical and uncomfortable points are unfortunately relevant parts of my project, but it seems that compliance to the official faith of the ruling coalition is the most essential criteria of success. What are the actual goals of the initiative and whether the action suggested are even feasible, constitute a big question mark that persecutes me during my sleep. I was accustomed to producing good value for my well paid consultancy and trying to understand the client’s business to increase such a return of investment. It is not the case in this context. I cannot even speak about user experience, or focus on the needs of the final user, since I doubt that the common man walking around the street would even understand the aim of the city council. And in case he would be able to interpret the cryptical desire of the local government, I doubt he would be happy, unless totally brainwashed by such an extremism.

Lenin 

I entered the hall of the Hotel as if I were either a celebrity waiting for his fans or as a young and enthusiastic bachelor looking for his future wife. The concept of blind date did not exist at the time of the Revolution and the mindset of the Soviet leaders was far beyond the most conservative attitude of the middle class. Although gossip, flirts and even a good level of debauchery survived among the new socialist aristocracy. Putin looks to have preferred to maintain our old approach and he has closed the door to the American way of dating and marriage. That simplifies the lives of many individuals, unless grown up in the messy United States. I am missing the frugal simplicity of the Finnish countryside and I am noticing that a certain taste for luxury has developed here as well. Perhaps it is only my impression, because everytime I tried to approach some of the locals, I only received polite and discrete answers. Nobody even asked me whether I was impersonating a political leader of the past. Even when I entered the hotel, the porter opened the door without even staring at my face. In Zurich it happened much more frequently, sometimes there was also some man, usually aged above forty, who wanted to take a picture with me. The youngest generation does not seem to be informed at all about the 1917, even those who so enthusiastically block the streets and make a big fuss for the most abstract and illogical ideas. I crossed the door one hour ago, it should be now the exact time for my first encounter with the dealer.

The art dealer

I ordered a cup of tea, a good chai from Russia, or china. Perhaps imported before the embargo, or not even considered as an item to be banned from international trade. Meanwhile I notice a slim and tall boy coming into my direction. His head, well rounded, crowned by a few red hair, impresses me. It reminds one of those wartime posters calling the youth to the extreme sacrifice for the British King. He is obviously the fruit of the most standard genetic selection conducted for generations on the British Islands. I like how he smiles, he is a sort of a little Lord welcoming me into his own castle. Although the mansion should belong to some old pervert, showing off so enthusiastically the portraits of leather covered American bikers, with a good enhancement of their muscles and voluptuous lips. I hope he does not follow the moral philosophy of the house. That would make me much more uncomfortable than sustaining the inquisition of a stupid czarist policeman. He however does not look to belong to the most modern parties, his corduroy trousers with his tartan waistcoat makes him appear as a staunch reactionary. It is now the chance and the time to shake our hands. “Comrade Lenin, I have travelled so far only with the intention to meet you. I am almost broken and have no actual plans in mind, but I am sure that you shall inspire me”. From the mouth of a conservative, I have never heard such devotion, not even at the time of the Revolution. I choose to believe that he is telling the truth. A policeman is not able to pronounce such an effective speech. 

The consultant

“Many revolutionaries, the most successful ones, approached the action when they had no alternative. It is good to be broken, for those of our kind”, I said solemnly, looking into his eyes. He should have thought that I was adopting some of Hitler’s tricks, but agitators share a lot of their expertise. They just make it appear to be original by exploiting the mimic of their face. The appearance of political leaders, especially dictators, is so individual that none of them looks like others. None of them even overtly reuse the words and the slogans of others. Mussolini actually reused some of the catchphrases of the French Revolution, but he was clever enough to hide his sources and only a few historians are aware of his tricks. It is now the time to test my fellow student. He did not react to my words, but sat down silently. It is the Finnish school of conversation. I did not expect us to adapt to the local culture so quickly. In Finland even silences have got a meaning. My guest, or host, since it is not already clear who will pay for the tea, is turning his head around. “Yes, I have also got the impression to be observed. Do not agitate. You’ll get used to that once in hiding”, I try to make him feel more comfortable. Yet, I feel spied on. A young lady, waiting unobserved in a corner of the hall, suddenly stands up and comes nearer. “She should be a professional . No civilian can disguise herself so effectively”, I thought. “You should be Comrade Lenin, and you the art dealer. Please let me introduce myself. I am a former business consultant”, she says coldly, but politely. Perhaps she is only hiding a more friendly attitude.

Lenin 

Even by looking like Lenin, it is really hard to cross the borders with Russia. They are moreover celebrating the second year of a civil war, at least from the perspective of the founder of the Soviet Union. Without realising it, Putin has played the international chess game  according to the American and Chinese rules. By the end of the conflict, NATO will be stronger than ever, independently by insignificant local gains in Crimea or on the Ukrainian borders. Russia will be depleted of her own forces and will become a satellite of China, bringing back the clock to the time when Alexander Nevskij was born. I really would like to visit him in his office, just to express my disappointment for his conduct. Perhaps this is the last duty that I must fulfil before disappearing once again. It is however nice to stroll around Helsinki. The city has been developed quite a lot since my last visit at the beginning of the XX century. There are also some curious attractions that could help me to fill my knowledge gap accumulated in decades of eternal sleep. There was not too much to be seen, in my Mausoleum on the Red Square. People who visited always looked the same, the same stupid faces of bureaucracy grown up pretending to learn Marx and Lenin in exchange for a free tour to Moscow. I find much more enlightening the local museum of design and I am fascinated by the captivating glance of those Angry Birds. Perhaps even more than by the Alvar Aalto architecture. In the afternoon I am invited for tea in a design hotel in the city centre. I will enjoy the company of a British art gallerist who, for some reason, clearly understood who I am.

The art dealer

While travelling, the art market is moving as well and Taschen is going to release its frst book dedicated to NFT Art. I am sure it will acquire some value with the time, but my only concern right now is to meet up with Lenin. I have got many questions in mind, so many that I am sure that he will conjure some of his tricks and I will end up answering him whatever he will try to extract from my memories. Hopefully he is not powerful enough to kidnap me and bring me to Lubyanka. According to my informers, he should have not gotten in contact with any major communist organisation. The only sponsor he has received so far, comes from acquaintances in the leftist circles of Zurich. Those are far too busy with the week of the black art or by teaching young women how to abort. Beside the most destructive aspects of the liberal culture, they should be totally unfit to ignite a new revolution. About their understanding of Karl Marx writings, it should not go beyond the title and a brief summary appeared in one of their newspapers full of lies and propaganda. The place I chose for my first encounter with Lenin should be appealing to most of today's leftist and could be disgusting for the most classical communists. It is indeed a cafe quite fully decorated with sketches and drawings signed by Tom of Finland. That means an artist, an excellent one, whose oeuvre is centred on men dressed like American gay motorrider. His aesthetic is fabulous and goes far beyond the subject matter. I am curious about Lenin’s reaction.

The consultant

I am sitting alone in a hotel in the centre of Helsinki. It’s a pity that it is so modern and so excessively decorated by busts and portraits of voluptuous male bikers. The atmosphere is so liberal, that even without looking into the menu, I can imagine one of those boring and stupid vegan only choices. Last time I visited the town, I enjoyed the taste of reindeer, once even of bear meat. Although the latter one was not worth the price. I hope that Lenin has not been brainwashed by some vegetarian leaflet yet, because, if it is the choice of the place, he should have already begun to support the multiple keyboard letters movement. Or perhaps it is the choice of the art dealer that was tracking him. Yet, I would have never expected to reach Helsinki so fast by train. The German Railways worked so well that I did not even feel the need to travel to Copenhagen. That was delightful. Especially when I left the train wagons to find myself on a ferry. That is not my first experience, but I always enjoy the fresh air of the sea in the North. Especially during the summer days, when it is hot enough to have a bath. When I worked in Copenhagen, there were several places in the city centre where it was possible to spring into the channels and refresh myself with a water clear enough to be drinkable. Hopefully Denmark will not register a flop along her green path, as many other European nations are doing. Danish politics has however got solid social-democratic DNA and it should be resistant against the sectarian methodology of communists. It is a pity I could not visit the town this time, although I enjoyed my rest and a private tour through the halls of the art museum. The same I did in Hamburg, Oslo and Stockholm. Overall seven days of paid holidays that I cannot deny I enjoyed.

Lenin 

It is not so easy to reach Russia from Finland. I thought that the presence of a railway could have simplified the passage from the Western World to what has become the Chinese block. Without realising that, Putin has put Russia again under the control of the Mongols. Perhaps it is also my fault. The czars would have never allowed that. They would have never sealed the allegiance with radical muslims either. It is very sad. After all, I was called the Mongol by some of my opponents and my Comrade Stalin also came from a remote area of the Empire, leaning to the East. Hopefully the Russian population will find the boldness to rebel once again and dethrone the current tyrant, who is even an illegitimate one. This is however not my business anymore. I have become the bonhomme Lenin, as tourists began to nickname me after a visit to the museum. I only need to survive these days with the money left to me and reach Moscow, where I will be able to reply to all the questions I conceived in my mind. I received news from my friends who were in Zurich. They told me that an art dealer is tracking me and is approaching faster and faster. It is surprising how so many professions can prepare the right ground to collect information, while the police can hardly organise a network of trustworthy informers. After all, policemen, even when earnest and motivated, are public employees waiting for a salary and dreaming of some action. They are able to conduct the standard job only. Perhaps it is worth waiting for the art gallerist here in Helsinki. He can provide some justification for crossing the borders and help me further. I don’t expect him to be affluent. Art is a place for impostors.

The art dealer

I am getting closer and closer to my targets. Perhaps instead of working in an art gallery I should have chased burglars. Those kinds of aristocratic thieves, romantically exalted by communist authors, who limit their action to paintings and sculptures. After all Lenin was a criminal as well, who stole much more than material belongings to the Russian people: he deprived Russians of their own soul. It can be interesting to stay in front of him, arguing about his political achievements and thoughts without being enchanted. Yet the human mind can be impressed even by the most simple individuals, who conceal behind their mask, the most sophisticated brain. It can be the case of Bill Traylor, whose genius was revealed to the art market only around forty years ago. Perhaps because of the prejudices of the American elites towards their so-called Afro-American minority. An attitude that the foolishness of the whole movement will only worsen. Bill Traylor's works remind me of Shrigley’s creation. With the difference that Bill was the first of his genre, anticipating for decades the superflat style nowadays so much appreciated. His hand was the most genuine and he would have deserved more material comfort than he received. Yet, being the father of fifteen children and having lived for more than ninety years in an era when the average was much lower, made him the most successful man. Not to forget his legacy. Main partners of international consultancies, those who waste their money on Rolex and Porsche, will not leave this world with more, but with much less. Synthesised in a superficial slide, well sold to the client. My train is reaching Helsinki's station. I have never been in the town before. I know I need to look for “keskusta” and “ravintola”.

The consultant

I decided that I need to catch up with Lenin, or whoever he could be, as soon as possible. Alfred von Pazze allowed me to bring Heidi's book with me. He will contact some museums along my path. They will show the book for a day, thus justifying my tour, which will be even sponsored, for what concerns the expenses, by the museum of Hirzel. According to Alfred there would be no better way to promote the institution and he is aware that I will not exaggerate with hols and restaurants. I will also travel by train, to avoid any inconvenience at the check-in with such precious luggage I am carrying with me. I am aware that the other two are proceeding faster, especially that British art gallerist that for some reason has also dedicated to meet the Father of the Soviet Union. Given the effects of Murphy's law on mysterious and international intrigues, I even got a sudden cough, mixed with fever and many other unpleasant symptoms. I am however too excited to stop and Alfred’s support is further motivating me. From Zurich there is a train to Berlin more than once a day. It could take half a day, but it is not too long if I consider that the next steps will be to reach Helsinki. My experience with Scandinavia, matured during a huge business transformation with a group of main Northern European banks, suggests to me instead to avoid the German capital. In the same amount of time, I can travel as far as Copenahgen, by changing my train in Hamburg. From Copenhagen, I can easily reach Oslo, Stockholm and, from there, perhaps by Ferry, Helsinki. It could take a week, but it is worth the risk. I would avoid crossing the Polish borders with a Lenin’s manuscript with me.

Lenin 

I decided to leave Berlin quite suddenly, but I was reached out by a suspicious art gallerist who wanted to meet me. He was enthusiastic at the idea of getting acquainted with the living mummy of me. It is curious that I have been able to live in Zurich four years in a row without receiving any peculiar attention. On the contrary, it has not been an issue to show myself on a regular basis to thousands of visitors in the museum. I even got invited to the masked ball at the Kunsthaus and nobody wondered whether, behind my appearance, was the authentic leader of the Red Revolution. People working with the art market are sometimes able to see beyond the most trivial layer of the real world. Perhaps it is the reason why this totally anonymous art dealer caught my very true being. It is however wiser to move further, towards the borders with Poland. My choice is to overnight in Usedom. It is always a good time to make a stop on the shores of the OstSee. I will be surrounded by tourists whose average age is far above fifty and  I will be able to enjoy the best raw and smoked fish of Germany. Much better than the one served in the most fashionable sushi restaurants in Zurich, Munich or Berlin. I would also not disdain a bath in the local Spa. I have already experienced the touch of hot water in a sauna on the shores of the lake. It is a pleasant feeling. Unfortunately I do not have a handsome budget, but given the season, I managed to find a good offer in a hotel that boasts “travel” and “charme” in its name. From Usedom I could get a boat to Stettin, thus crossing the borders with Poland in incognito, hidden in the flock of all those retirees. I should not forget that I have never been loved in Poland.

The art dealer

I reach Berlin when it is too late and Lenin, or at least the man whom I believe to be the actual Lenin, has already left the town. However, by having so many acquaintances in the art market and spending so much time in middle range hotels while attending international fairs, I have developed a good range of contacts in the hospitality business. Enough to be able to track anybody in most European towns. Last time I was in Berlin, there was an exhibition dedicated to David Hockney. The colours of his landscape were so strong and powerful, to confound my brain while admiring these works. They also reflected the inventive character of the British mind of which I am so proud. There is a totally different exhibition during these days, at the Alte Nationalgalerie. This time the undiscussed protagonist is Caspar David Friedrich, whose name I began to correctly remember only after figuring out that his initials represent an increasing order of three consonants, C, D and F. The E is missing, he could have been called Emil as well. His landscapes are apparently different from those of Hockney, but it is clear that both of the artists want to represent their own internal feeling reflected in the observation of nature. An individual process that I attempted several times as well, but without being able to properly govern it. So many details come to my mind. The work of Outi Pieski is also connected to nature. I hardly forget the Finnish artist during these weeks. Perhaps because her creativity can relax my mind, in a sort of shamanic effect of the tundra traditions. I interpret that as a sign of my fate, since I need to follow my prey, Lenin, to meet him before he reaches Helsinki.

The consultant

Alfted von Pazze was starting in front of me. His smile was gentle, as much as my grandfather described to me the character of his grandfather. Who, beside a skilled trader and a successful agent of the I.G. Farben all around the world, should have been also a wise philosopher, able to enjoy every detail of our existence. The lines of bauhaus furniture as well as fresh strawberries. Alfred invited me out for a walk. Although it was winter, the weather was mild and the sun managed to let some of his rays go through the clouds and the fog. “I knew that something strange was hiding behind Heidi's book. Your grandad and mine left me their correspondence. They really believed in its power”, commented the young gentleman. “I am also sure they were not crazy, nor too imaginative. My cousins in Rho, who are still convinced of the success of the Red Revolution, relied on me to grab the book and resurrect Lenin's body”, replied the former consultant. “I admit I could have even stolen it, if necessary, but at the same time I have no clue what to do with that”, added the young woman. “That book is also giving to our character a new life, but please do not get beguiled by the red propaganda nor be influenced by the strange ideas of your relatives. Lenin is alive, once again, and spent a few years in Zurich without visiting any suspect”, said Alfred, who looked to know much more about the story than the consultant could do. She understood that, through his connection in the art market and an attempted scouting of the social network, Alfred had been able to locate Lenin in Berlin. It was just a couple of days ago. Even when he was on the verge of a political defeat, Lenin never ceased to be powerful, manipulative and dangerous. Nobody had the slightest ideas of his next moves, but if he was the original Lenin, he should have been stopped.

Lenin 

While walking in the park, I got lost and decided to look for the main alley to recover the route. During the last days I chose not to take with me one of those strange mobile phones who could track everybody, whatever they are doing. The only useful feature they offer is a map and a quick view of the timetables of trains and buses. Perhaps even an emergency call in case I get a heart attack while walking in the middle of a forest, but in that case I seriously doubt my chance of surviving. I am a mummy after all, revived thanks to some arcane magic, asu much as socialism has been made fashionable once again. If a medical doctor will remark on the strange nature of my body, for sure I risk ending my existence beside Oetzi. Or even worse in some labs in the hands of an American surgeon. Eventually I managed to recover my position, by approaching the monument to the soviet soldier. I was impressed, genuinely impressed, the first time I saw it. I could have never expected that the effects of the socialist revolution could go so far. I was aware about the fake statistics we issued while I was still alive. The revolution was a total  failure, not only culturally or spiritually. There should be for sure some arcane power, living in the space that is taking care of such an irrational phenomenon. It is not well sounded the idea that I linger here further. I must be determined and take a train to Finland. Perhaps from Helsinki I will get a special permission to reach Petergrad. There was a train, just before the war erupted and sealed that route to Russia. Even during the most daring times, there is always some exception and a speculative mind as mine must be able to grasp it. After all, on the other side I do not have anything other than stupid bureaucrats and policemen.

The art dealer

I landed on the continent to quickly reach Berlin as soon as possible. Someone whispered to me that an actor is interpreting Lenin so cleverly that I must come and watch. I have got currently no job, no income and just a few thousands pounds in my bank account. I will travel all around Europe until there will be money in my wallet, to come back to England, poor and discomfited, but relaxed. After all, Britain is not secluded from the Continent anymore, unless the Government does not want to close the Channel. From a certain point of view, given the number of illegal immigrants reaching our coast through the tunnel, it would be a wise choice. However it would be desirable to take advantage of it at least for the last time. Frankfurt is not so far from Piccadilly Circus, by properly taking the train. It is also a beautiful city if you know where to linger. My first destination is a contemporary museum, the Schirn Halle, located in the heart of the town. There is an exhibition dedicated to Lionel Feininger that I already visited a few weeks ago, while spending some days in Germany because of Art Cologne. What had not occurred to me, was the Raphael Gallery. Last time, I ignored the location because of the abundant number of works signed by Picasso and Mirò in the windows. Everybody mentioned to me that having a multiple signed by Picasso in his collection does not conquer my undivided attention. I would consider him just an upstart. On the contrary, Raphael is hiding three wonderful pieces of Alex Katz. One of them, the profile of his wife on a black paper, made of light colours, is stunning.

The consultant

The apprentice at the entrance of the Museum is after all friendly, much more friendly than the junior consultants with whom I had to work. Those were the most insolent creatures ever conceived by the womb of a woman. Generous with compliments when they were in need, ready to criticise any contribution you could have given to their work. The more genuinely helpful I had been, the more I was exposed to their tricks and plots. Those useless peasants, as they are  no more than upstarts, were even quite ignorant. Much more than an actual illiterate peasant, who lived in ignorance during the XVIII century, could have been. I understand from this young woman, so different from those disgusting consultants, that the director could come back within an hour, but if I wanted, I was welcome to look around and observe Heidi's book from the glass case in which it was preserved. I preferred to give a look around, to understand whether there was any window that could have become helpful in case I wanted to steal the piece and get away as soon as possible. It was not allowed for me to begin my criminal career in such a way, because the director came and recognized me at first glance. He was really friendly and happy that I decided to come back to admire my family heirloom once again. After a while, drinking a cup of tea in his office, I offered to buy him back the book. He was astounded and did not find totally wise what I wanted to propose to him. However, he behaved as if he knew much more about Heidi's book. His name was Alfred von Pazze and was a descendant of Heinrich von Pazze. He also shared with me a piece of critical information. Someone looking like Lenin appeared in Zurich four years ago. He has now departed and is currently spending a few days in Berlin.

Lenin

While sitting in the hotel room, I switched on the TV. It is also a tool I have never got acquainted with. When I was still living, it still did not exist. Even if the scientists of the time were still arguing about the chance to develop a solution for transmitting signals that could have been interpreted as images and animated pictures. I was still shocked by the power of the cinema and enjoyed the masterpieces of Sergeij Eisenstein. He depicted so well the vibrant moments of th eRevolution and he was such a powerful instrument of propaganda. Even after my strange resurrection,, I went to a cineclub, quite well renowned in Zurich for screening old movies. Hollywood movies did not produce the same effects on me. Perhaps I lack the cultural background, perhaps my frequent travels outside Russia have not made me a man of the world, because such voyages were aimed to convince me further of the marxist leninist doctrine. I am not even satisfied with what I watch on the television. Most of the programs are so stupid that perhaps only a poor soul as Stalin could enjoy them. However there was a nice concert, broadcasted by a White Russian channel, with the Red Army Choir singing Christmas Carols. There is a lot of paradox in that. Beginning with the fact that the country called White Russia is now the strongest fortress of Marxism-Leninism in the whole of Europe and the Western world. The other point is that, while my political successors are defending Christian traditions, their opponents are doing their own best to destroy the legacy of the Bible. Perhaps they have just become blind to prosperity and they now believe to be so powerful to be able to remove any moral constraint from their life. I wish they will not accomplish their goal, or they will end up like me.

The art dealer

The business is not going so well. I have missed some good purchases and invested in the wrong artists. Yet, it is a similar situation to gamble in a casino, in Vegas for instance. You begin with some good bets, then you lose all the final and decisive games. At the end you find yourself without money and you need to leave. It is what is going to happen to me. I have been left with two sets of artworks. With one I should cover some of the effects of my erratic taste. The other one that will provide me no profit at all, but condemn me to failure instead. I need some relaxation and it would be better to pay a visit to the Tate Modern. It is the place where I had my first contact with David Hockney. It happened years ago and I was just disgusted, because of a gay love portrayed by the great artist. I now recognise his value despite his private life, but I hope that artists will respect my personal values as well. Once I have given a stop to my current activity or written THE END on the Internet Site, I would like to take part in the political debate. My boss on the contrary, while mentoring me about the failure of the business, forgiving me for all my mistakes, will retire. He says he is affluent and old enough to do that. I was walking about the museum to look for some new inspiration and suddenly I got introduced to a certain Outi Pieski. The name is unknown to me and perhaps I am also misspelling it. However her art is inspired by the traditions of the Suomi people. The colours that she adopts are those of the tundra or that mostly contrast with the white landscape of the polar circle. Perhaps she needs some representative in London and I could become the chosen one.

The consultant

It is now clear the reason for my strange inheritance. Vladimir Ilitch Lenin had somehow trusted my grandad and my family with the key to his survival along the century. My uncles, whom I have always reputed to be fanatical leftists, sometimes mentioned to me a mission that my family should accomplish. They also repeated that I had been selected to bring further the glory of the Red Army, of the Soviet Union, of the Communist Party wherever the current odds could make it similar to a desperate task assigned to a kamikaze. I preferred to study economics instead and dedicate myself to the glory of capitalism. Even my father never believed too much about their strange prophecy; however on the point of passing away, he consigned me the book underlying his enormous power. I now understand I need to get it back, whatever it could cost. If I am not able to purchase it, then I will steal it. However I used the money from the sale to open a bank account in cryptocurrencies. Thanks to the increase of over 70% of the whole value of my portfolio, I suppose I could still make a good offer and secure a good budget for any expense that I will sustain by travelling to Moscow. At that point of time, perhaps, I will ot even need to have  any valuable asset at my advantage. On the verge of a new Red Revolution, private property shall be confiscated and I will find myself with reasonable means to satisfy my needs. My former colleagues in the consultancy will contribute to my needs according to their possibilities. I will take the train to Zurich tomorrow and will be back to Hirzel at the latest in the afternoon.

Lenin 

I cannot move further because Germany has embraced the revolutionary flag. There is no actual violence in this kind of protest. Despite the actual blockades of the roads that remind me of Europe during my latest years of life, I do not notice any clash between different factions. At least along the streets. What happens on social media does not concern me. I am too old, my mindset is too old to get busy with the complexity of multiple digital platforms. The applied principles should not differ from my strategies to take over the power, to manipulate the mob before getting the highest position to rule the country. The technique used to master the on-line communication is however more similar to the one of the German National Socialists, and to the one of the Soviet Union after my death. In my case I managed to conduct a coup d’etat by manipulating a minority, not the majority of the population. Who, perhaps, was still not so enthusiastic to elect a plebeian, or a petit bourgeois, moreover a self professed atheist, to replace the holy czar. I am recognising it is foolish of me. Dictators are perhaps political leaders stupid enough to develop the ambition to rule a country on the verge of ruins. Clever lobbyists prefer to focus themselves where they could find easy money and a rich goldmine to be exploited. I however despised the rich tycoons, I was not able to understand their point. That was my limitation and the origin of the ruin of russia. I do not like the idea of the Soviet Union anymore.

The art dealer

With the New Year's Eve, it is ending a sort of financial year. There are no new characters emerging with the new one. The most well renowned names have not changed their position and I do not see any addition to the catalogue of emerging artists either. What I am mostly waiting for is a release signed by Thomas Ruff taking place by the end of the month. The curators call his creation a link to psychedelic culture. I have never been abstracted by booze or any strong effect on the human mind. Of course that is something popular and I have noticed a lot of strange behaviours among my colleagues. The colours, as well as the visual effects of teh Ruff’s oeuvre I am coveting so much are however highly captivating. They recreate fractals, they are fractals, but with such a complexity that they avoid trivialities. There is also a good equilibrium between rounds and squares in the composition. Not to mention the colours, particularly vivid. Perhaps even too much, reminding me of the Indian chromatic tastes. Ai Wei Wei is also back. This time by CIRCA, the whole Internet site is however not reachable. Perhaps because of the low budget, they have reserved it for IT, a hacker attack conducted by the Chinese friends, or the huge number of Ai Wei Wei’s fans contending for the prize. It could be a combination of the three, or just I am speculating too much. There should also be some cocktail parties taking place during the next week.

The consultant

Shops and offices are open once again and I can go around to collect all the information that I need. In the end I located a shop with my family name and contacted the manager. He is following the activity on behalf of my distant cousins. They seldom come back to the town, having preferred for a long time to spend most of their time on the Riviera. Luckily the coasts of Northern Italy are quite gloomy during this period of the year and they preferred to come back nearby Milan, although just for the weekend. They look to be nice people, quite wealthy, but with an idiosyncratic obsession for Lenin. The last heir of the family is called Valdimir, after him. They knew about Heidi's book and frequently spoke about Lenin's autograph with my grandad. They considered it a relic. The story was thus also clearer. As Lenin suddenly died, one of his assistants hid the book in the archives of general von S., my Russian ancestor or distant relative. It would have been better to avoid any reference to magic during the meetings of the politbüro. Some of the members of the central committee could have also nourished some interest to destroy the volume, just to be sure that Lenin will not resuscitate. The bolsheviks had already contacted my grandad’s family, which at the time was switching to the left. A loyal revolutionary, disguised as a white officer to be able to act undisturbed once outside the Soviet Union, found out where my grandad was quartered and let him have the book through the Graf von Pazze. It was necessary to complicate the operations in case the pretending white officer had been followed. It was not the case and everything went well. So far at least, since I do not own the book anymore.

Lenin 

I would like to stay a few extra days in Berlin, to enjoy the strikes along the streets. The mob is not guilty this time, the initiative comes from respectable farmers whose hard work should provide the food on the tables of the aristocracy. Since we do not have an aristocracy anymore, but a bunch of upstarts who managed to get power in the most unethical ways, the so-called aristocrats of the XXI century do not care about what they are going to eat tomorrow. They prefer to follow the latest fashions, aimed to make the human body weaker and weaker, alongside the mind. The farmers, the honest farmers, whose only ritual is to observe the shape of the moon to decide in which precise week they shall drop the seeds, are constantly reproached for what they are doing. With the stigma of polluting the environment, they are forced to retire at the advantage of some new global players producing their food in the labs. That is perhaps the magic of alchemists, of modern Rasputins who, before having learnt how to manipulate the genetics, they have been perfectly instructed to play with the minds. I should not feel too much involved, but it reminds me of what I, and my successors, did in Russia. It was not Holy Russia anymore, but the Soviet Union. A land so far blessed by the Almighty, transmuted into hell. Germany has not received the favour of God since decades, perhaps the Reunification was a small sign of benevolence, but the majority of the population does not take care anymore. Atheism is spreading silently.

The art dealer

Celebrating New Year’s Eve as expected, I took a flight to New York. Of course I avoided compensating my CO2 emissions by paying a bribe to an unknown company. An anonymous organisation that shall plant a tree somewhere in the world. If I had a large house with a garden, I would plant a tree for sure, but it is not the case right now. Even the Moma is concerned with ecology and architecture, claiming that around forty per cent of CO2 emissions are coming from architecture. It could also be the truth, but I am wondering if, without housing, human beings can decently survive. Yet the pictures of the exhibition are appealing and the so-called artists exhibited are somehow interesting. They are not actually artists, but architects and one of them is Buckminster Fuller. That is a name not totally unknown to me. I think it is on the New Yorker that I have heard perchance, for the first time, about his accomplishments. He should have been an original, envisaging structure where it is possible to dwell, made of hexagonal and triangular geometries. That makes sense. One of the most interesting creations is the Dymaxion Dwelling Machine. More similar to a spaceship, like those in the 1950s SciFi movies. Perhaps it can also be comfortable. It is also a distraction from my usual tours, from Alex Katz who has once again released yellow flowers on a black background. The style is still brilliant and the American artist has not lost his flair despite age and repetitiveness. However, I am beginning to get bored.

The consultant

It is a week since I have reached the town of Rho. A location that always sounded exotic to my ears. For the New Year’s Eve everything was closed and my only possible choice was to go along the mediaeval streets of the city centre and look at the buildings from the outside. I thus located the house where my grandfather lived, just in the years after WWII, when he came back from Greece. As people are coming back from holidays, I managed to gather some information about my family. Even the Graf von Pazze moved here, bringing with him his diaries. The local association gathering the surviving partisans and their sympathisers, allowed me to access their databases. That was the only institution still open during the holidays. Perhaps because, being a leftist organisation, they wanted to avoid celebrating Christmas. According to some rumours I gathered while walking, and by small talk in the bars, those so called partisans have made a reason for living out of their engagement. For some, most of them, it is also a valuable source of income. Perhaps they should pay a tribute to Mussolini, without whom they would be just ageing retirees, nostalgic of a past that has not survived the cold war. The Graf von Pazze incurred the risk of being executed by the partisans, for the only reason that he was German and an aristocrat. My grandad however managed to intermediate and set him free. As a consequence, the Pazze’s descendants, who are still living in the town, enthusiastically welcome me. They also shared his diaries, where I could quickly have a look at the story of Heidi's book. The gift was intended for my grandad, because of a member of my family who, in the past, was the commanding general of the Moscow garnison. After Lenin's death, Heidi's book ended up in the archive of the general. Apparently because of the mistake of an illiterate servant, perhaps the choice was intentional. There is no better hiding place than the archives of an unknown prominent. The book caught the attention of a white officer, who, to escape a patrol of the red army, hid himself in the same building where the archives were kept. When the loyal soldier of the czar recognized Lenin's autograph, the brave officer secured his discovery and began to look for a surviving relative of the general. He eventually reached my grandfather, in Greece. There is no logic in that, but there is no logic in Lenin's mummy that will come back to life either.

Lenin

I am now back in Berlin, after more than a century. I am sitting in the large suite of a five star hotel along the Kudamm, not so far from the destroyed church. The memorial of WWII, but, with the insight of our modern society, it also looks like the monorail of a time when religion was still respected. Communism was apparently the main driver for the annihilation of spirituality in the common man of the West. Perhaps only apparently, because the red revolution was a flame ignited by a then marginalised sphere of intellectuals, clever enough to create a dominating lobby. However, how many have really read Marx or my even shorter books, my essays so carefully sketched after a shocking event along the streets of St Petersburg? The city that for so long brought my name. I would like to visit it, once I have solved this open question about Heidi's book. About the beliefs of the West, a clearer answer comes from the dresses, the behaviour, the appearance and the words of the persons I meet along the street. They are not subjects nor voters of a communist party anymore. Perhaps some of the youngest have been brainwashed by these green and gay lobbies, whose principles would have however collided with those of the Soviet Union. They speak English, perhaps so good as German. I am getting more and more the impression that the decline of the West has begun when Europe decided to trust the American ally. Because of us, they had no serious alternative, but they played a really silky game, with apparently no winning way out.

The art dealer

Nothing appears to happen during the last days of the year. It would be lovely to organise a flamboyant art fair, on the New Year’s Eve, perhaps on the Fiji Islands. To get profit at the same time of the local time zone and the profitable tax conditions. I can imagine the participation of the best living blue chip artists, and the release of their recent works. Gold diggers can be sure to enjoy the end of the party with an affluent collector. Perhaps I need to find a way to certify the good status of their income and wealth. It can be a service useful for sellers as well. A big question mark would raise, on which fiscal year to apply the deal. Perhaps it would be possible to opt for the most convenient choice, but it is not given. Tax collectors have become as clever as gold diggers during the most recent years. Leaving my dreams aside, I need not to forget to publish a statement about my expectations for 2024. Yet, it is difficult to make any certain prediction, but I have got the feeling that some good street artist, perhaps a female one, not necessary a nigger or a member of any so called minority, will jump faster than a bitcoin in its best performing times. Katherine Bernhardt is a certain bet, perhaps too obvious. Chat-GPT is too politically correct and risk adverse to suggest any, thus I will have to browse a lot of catalogues to find a couple of reasonable choices.

The consultant

I find myself celebrating New Years Eve nearby Milan, in Rho, where my grandfather lived and got married. Not with Helen from Corfu. She eventually never left the island, perhaps she got married to a local farmer. I need to read my grandad’s papers more carefully to find any reference to her identity. There are not so many hotels in Rho. I expected a wider selection for the city that hosts the international fair of Milan. It was not so unfortunate, because the only available room in town drove me to the remains of a former cotton mill, “The Muggiani”, or “Il Muggiani”, as Italians call the place. It is named after the previous owner, the founder of the company. An old red brick building that could be the perfect place for a modern company. The city has not found a better employment area if not for temporary visitors and a supermarket. By reading the leaflet given to me by the ever smiling receptionist, who is perhaps dreaming to work in Las Vegas instead, I discovered that the ground originally belonged to my granddad’s family. That is surprising, because I thought, I was always convinced that he was Czech. Perhaps a German speaking one, but Czech. Perhaps a German speaking one, but Czech. I have got these two different mysteries or clues to work about. What if my grandfather was the actual holder of the Heidi’s book and the Graf von Pazze only his assistant?

Lenin 

The train has got further problems. I was directed to Berlin, through Frankfurt, but due to the seasonal flu combined with other strange circumstances, I will be subject to other stops. The Roman Catholic Christmas is approaching and the streets are fully decorated in a way that can be hardly described as Christian. The main chains are substituting the X of XMas with their own logos. The Soviet Revolution had more respect for religion than those capitalist thugs. Even worse, they are trying to eradicate any feeling from most of the human beings, to make them obedient machines. I am aware that communism helped them in a consistent way. At first by depriving the masses of any spirituality, secondly by creating fear among those who did not get infected by the revolutionary ideas. Not to forget the action of atheists, who called themselves liberals, within the Western society. Over the years, with more than a century of earthly experience behind me, I understood that all devilish plans sooner or later will fail. Although this hypothesis provides me with some optimism, there should have been a better way towards technological and economical progress. Or perhaps all those sad aspects are unavoidable and individuals cannot do too much to alleviate the side effects of evolution. What I wish for right now is to celebrate Christmas as many Westerners do, to feel the magic of the best day of the year as proclaimed for decades by American jingles. I have got enough gold and money in my pocket and I can choose.

The art dealer

While XMas is approaching, I have realised I have not already had the time to buy a gift for my dear friends. I usually rely for that on the shops of the Moma, of the Tate or Artware Editions. On the latter I have already shopped for Donald Sultan’s Mimosa napkins for my girlfriend. She looked for something useful, while I would have preferred a more original item. However, it is really hard to change her mind, especially on practical aspects of life. My ideal choice would have been for instance a lamp signed by Yoshitomo Nara. Beside that, I really love that artist, whose potential is not inferior to that of Gerhard Richter, I am also easily impressed by lamps and light games. However my girlfriend finds that the object provides too few business value for the actual price. On the contrary, I believe that such a tool can only increase in value along the years because it is also an expression of Yoshitomo Nara’s art. Some message dedicated to our daily life, that begins and ends by awakening in the morning and going to bed in the evening. Unless it is not the special day when we are destined to leave this world. Thus, the lamp will be beside us at least twice a day, excluding also those periods of the year that we spend away from home, on holidays. It can also be by taking part in an art fair abr4oad or being hospitalised. Or even attending a workshop in some distant location, from where it is not possible to commute. I would exclude prison. I can hardly imagine myself handcuffed and taken as a dangerous person.

The consultant

I am on the train, directed to Southern Italy and the city where I come from. I will have a stop in Lugano, because the idea of being back in Rho and spending a whole week makes me sick. My father loved the town, he exalted the mediaeval architecture that, although carefully hidden, can still be spotted with an attempted eye. He also mentioned to me the villas of the old aristocracy of Milan, including some German names belonging to families who perhaps settled there only because of the proximity to Milan. Rho on the contrary reminds me of the oil refinery, whose smell was still perceivable when I lived there as a child. Not to mention the local cafes, crowded by factory workers, most of them immigrants from Southern Italy, who always welcome me with some unpleasant jokes. I dreamed of sitting down in an elegant café in the city centre of Milan, among the tourists, the affluent ones from Japan or the United States. There were no Russians at the time, since the Iron Curtain confined them properly within their borders. I was trying to imagine how the people from the other side of the block, reasoning in terms of the cold war, could have looked like. Europe lived for several decades without any contact with the Russians, if not the few refugees who managed to escape so bravely. Their achievements were further highlighted in the newspapers as well as the accounts of the hardships suffered in the socialist countries. It is hard to believe that modern first tier consultancies are totally subject to the red propaganda and their employees must, in the worst case, comply or get fired. It is hard to believe how far liberals had gone and got brainwashed. At least the Soviet Union does not exist anymore.

Lenin 

I am sitting on the train, waiting for the next station. I am again in the Restaurant, trying to get myself at ease as the time goes by. It is sometimes hard because I am not accustomed anymore to the sounds of a small bar, surrounded by so many people, one so different from the other. There is a group of four German youngsters. I suppose they are German because they are expressing themselves in the local language. I however got the feeling, listening to their accent, that they are second generation immigrants. There is a huge gap between them and the idealized people imagined by my fellow leftists. The latter are really deprived of a grasp on the real world, they cannot feel what the populace needs and are so different from the skilled intellectuals who managed to subvert the soul of the Russian people. With those youngsters I would hardly manage to establish a dialogue and bring them on my side. Provided that I still want to do that. I think that they have been so deeply deprived of their spirituality, they would obey only to their individual interests and goals. A single page of Marx, of my short books, would be too much for their mind. Not to mention a whole masterpiece such as Das Kapital. Although I have already heard that joke, so well widespread in the former Soviet Bloc, “There are communists all around the world because nobody had the will to read Marx”. I read it and was fascinated by his discussions, but I must admit that I was an impressionable young man without experience, moved much more by personal greed and desire for revenge. I needed only something complex enough to make magic with.

The are dealer

Kenny Schaf with his moodz and faces is hitting the market once again. He is brilliant and I need to pay him a tribute sooner or later. I love the expression on his face, but it is quite hard for me to get totally enthusiastic when I do not feel enough variance in the output. Sometimes his work is repetitive and it makes me sceptical. Perhaps I should focus more on the dynamicity of his colours and shape. Invader is thus an artist of much higher level, as for instance also Katherine Bernhardt is. To get a good understanding of street art, I like to visit from time to time the Internet site of Purling. It is a premium maker of chess boards and other games. The company involved several well established names to give colours to the chess pieces. Among those, Sophie Matisse, granddaughter of the celebrated painter. She created a chess set dedicated to Alice in Wonderland that makes me dream of. Apparently it is not the single chess set that she created. Chess and art had always been strictly connected since the times of Duchamp, but perhaps even before . From the other artists of Purling’s team, I also approve of Sickboy and Lhouette. Both of them began their career with the suburban areas of the great European metropolitan agglomerates, just to end up in the sitting rooms of some awkward petit bourgeois who needs to strengthen his ego by making a purchase.

The consultant

Thinking back about my grandfather, and his friend the Graf von Pazze, they came back from the Island of Corfù in the late 1920s. They did not actually come back, because both of them chose Italian nationality and moved to Rho, just outside of Milan, where I also grew up. I felt ashamed of my birthplace, and over the years I always pretended to have a totally different hometown. Playing on my German surname, I sometimes said I was born in Como, in Vienna, or even in Rome. Imaging to belong to one of those German families, of art dealers and critics who moved from their heimat to Italy with the precise goal to learn more about the Renaissance. On the contrary, the Graf von Pazze and my grandad created a chemical company, conceived with the purpose to create energy from the litter. At their times it sounded like an alchemist's quest and perhaps it was. The Graf von Pazze spent most of his days together with Belle Helene’s father. Who was, as I will also repeat to myself, a mix between an excommunicated priest, a wise man within his community, and an eccentric polymath. My grandad sustained that most of the chemical formulas at the base of their business, had been created during the long conversations between the Austrian aristocrat and the Greek philosopher. The Belle Hélene preferred the company of my granddad, who however kept with him the Heidi’s. I remember that by reading his daily notes, they read together the novels imagining that one day they would have lived on the Alps together, under the same roof. By reasoning around all those circumstances, I understand that I should not travel to Moscow, but to Rho and recover, from my family’s chest, the diaries kept by my grandfather during his whole life.

Lenin

On the road to Berlin, I would have never been inspired that such chaos can be produced also in advanced democracies. I have not been able to penetrate the German borders more than thirty or fifty kilometres. Not with an army behind me, but alone, in a second class wagon. I had to take in consideration that there was no Kaiser anymore sponsoring my travel. My friends in Zurich suggested I take something to drink in the restaurant, thus I could have gotten access to all the pleasures of the first class at a reduced price. That had been a great idea because the train stopped for around an hour before entering the Freiburg Main Station. There was even no clear communication from the Deutsche Bahn and most of my comrades were staring at the screens of their mobile phones lost in some useless news. Only later, I discovered, together with my fellow passengers, that the national strike had been anticipated without a proper warning and that we must get off. My two options were to overnight in the town, waiting for the Deutsche Bahn to find a reasonable agreement with the employees, or try my luck with alternative means of transportation. I had not lived enough in the XXI century to get acquainted with such options. Even during my time working for the Revolution, I seldom relied on the occasional assistance of unknown farmers and common workers. It was too risky and they could have been better paid by the Police of the Czar. I am not escaping the authorities right now, but I am also tired enough that I will enjoy a small room in a comfortable hotel in Freiburg. It is such a nice town.

The art dealer

Glenn Brown is a British artist who has never attracted my attention before. Perhaps because his modern reinterpretation of classical masterpieces look to me, from time to time, disrespectful of our Christian traditions. There is a new series of lithographs, signed by that artist, which are going to be launched on the market by the end of the Year, before the Holy Christmas celebrations. Those ceremonies that all of us must observe to improve our souls and heal us from the suffering inflicted by others. By those who are behaving to be better than many others because they are carefully following the latest radical theories promoted by the leftists. It is laughable that British Universities are recommending at the same time, to their own students, to analyse the texts critically, but also to avoid expressing opinions resulting in them being offensive. It is easy to become offensive, because all of us are living with our own perspective and not all of them are well aligned. It is also a need of survival, otherwise we shall behave like the lemmings in an old video game. The other interesting piece is a print signed by Julian Schnabel. It has been recommended to me by a well renowned publisher, whom I need to keep anonymous. I am so tempted to obey his advice, but at the same time I would prefer to feel like an independent judge. Yet he is someone who knows how to make money and my activity in the art market is primarily aimed to generate my revenue.

The consultant

Back to Zurich, in my small apartment, I try to put together all the information collected in Hirzel. There are not too many, but perhaps there is some hidden hint also in the diaries of my grandfather. It is a pity that they are in some box, in my mother’s apartment in Milan. She keeps all the family memorabilia so jealousy, that I would hardly manage to convince her to let me bring the diaries in Switzerland. The only viable solution is to travel frequently to Italy during the weekends. Or perhaps even during the middle of the week, since I do not have to forget that I am now free from my impediment due to my work. I can go all around the world without asking for any permission. I only check the bank account to avoid going below a certain amount and find myself again in the condition to become an employee of someone. I am not enthusiastic to come back to Italy. I would at first settle some issues with my mother, who had never accepted my idea to leave the family company to try my fortune abroad. Perhaps she was right, but I always thought that my cousins would have been a better fit for the position. I do not like to take hard decisions and it is also the reason why I do not like consultancy either. A woman is a better fit to be a good mother, despite the sabbaths of the feminists who block the city centre of Zurich once every two weeks. Women are however curious human beings and they can so lovely become an effective sleuth. In my case, my first case will be the mystery of Heidi's book.

Lenin 

I have just crossed the German-Swiss borders, for the first time after years. A sort of renewed exile started when my mummy unexpectedly got animated once again. To be honest, it is also a mystery how my body got translated from Moscow to Zurich. I assume that I need to thank some anonymous patron, perhaps a Swiss millionaire who, after having inherited a conspicuous substance from his father, wanted to sustain the socialist cause. Leftist millionaires are however not anymore the standard. It could have been much more fashionable some decades ago, according to my recent studies. It is much more probable that a well renowned consulting company, one of the biggest ones, at the behest of an American lobby, tried to recreate the conditions that one hundred years ago ignited the Red Revolution. Perhaps ignoring the fact that Lenin himself has recognised the lunacy of his movement. During my experience in the museum, I received a taste of the consultancy world as well. A small agency from Ticino wanted to digitalise the collection for a reasonable fee. Despite the fact that I am not acquainted with new technologies, my assumption of “reasonable” is based on the comparison with my monthly salary. The presumption of the owner was remarkable, as much as the emptiness of the dialogues preferred by the youngsters in suit on the public transportation in Yurich. There are some in my train as well, traveling beside me with their eyes fixed on the screen of their laptops. It is perhaps much worse than the effects of opium.

The art dealer

As expected, more than one interesting name has issued new works during the week. Alex Katz is among them, with a series dedicated to Autumn. He is however getting somehow boring and repetitive. What I found great is a series of portraits, women and men, whose character is depicted with a few lines. I particularly like an Afroamerican, by profile, whose value should increase with the time only because of the politically correct subject. All the other personßs in Katz production will be less and less interesting if the woke movement will impose its view on collectors as well. Unexpectedly amazing is on the contrary the new Brian Clark’s drop by Heni. At first sight it looked to be exaggerated. More than three hundred collages created by the old white man, with paper and paint. At five thousand dollars each, they sound like a bargain. I still remember the beautiful works on glass he had issued, also by Heni, a few years ago. They were much more expensive and even for my own gallery they constituted a substantial investment. These works would also perfectly fit with Yinka Shonibare’s series of African Birds. For which I need to thank the wonderful work made along the years by Cristea Roberts gallery in the U.K. They are perhaps the best publishers right now, at the very same level of Mixografia and Gemini G.E.L. , with the exception that they are U.K. based and begin from scratch.

The consultant

I reached the museum at the end and behaved like a perfect stranger. Pretending to be attracted much more by the wooden toys on sale and the Japanese animations of my childhood. I had already visited, a few years ago, an exhibition at the Landesmuseum in Zürich, dedicated to Heidi in Japan. I had been able to admire the original sketches signed by Hayzo Miyazaki and Iso Kakahata, it was a great experience. Of which I took advantage to introduce myself with the museum’s employees. One of them was a sort of a boy scout, a young man coming from Bern. Quite unpleasant as he replied so concisely to any kind of questions I could make him. He was assertive about any possible subject, but his feedback was really useful because it allowed me to prepare my attack to the possible psychological resistance of his boss. In a consultancy the partner is usually the only reasonable person sitting in the open space, when he is allowing some time to be spent with the junior consultants. At least he has made his own career and does not need to mob the subordinates. In this case the director of the museum is a self referencing teacher from a local school, working part time for the institution. After a brief monologue about his Ph.D. work on the Swiss wooden toys, he explained to me that such a book, the Heidi’s and Lenin’s book, disappeared from Moscow after an incursion of a band of white cossacks. It is all that he knew about. I imagined them crossing the borders with Turkey and reaching a Greek Island, where they handed over the volume to the Graf von Pazze.

Lenin 

I would have never expected to leave Zurich so soon, nor the job at the museum. Perhaps I will get it back, when I need it. I am not so sure. The people have been so mean, so driven by tangible goals that they could have already marked me as a betrayer for having resigned. By having published a book, a best seller, by Diogenes, is already my insurance for a lifelong rent and a decent quality apartment. Whatever comes extra, it can be invested in the travels that I need to reconstruct my history and get my identity back. Moreover nobody can forbid me to write and publish further novels. I however like to keep the style and path of my first success, despite the fact that I could not sign Vladimir Lenin. By agreement with the publisher, we opted for V. L. Enin. It is too close to Boris Akhunin and we have stolen the idea from him. When he received my book, with my autograph so close, in the handwriting, to the calligraphy produced by my former self one hundred years ago, he was so enthusiastic. He replied to my letter and claimed himself happy to meet me in person. If I only were able to reach Moscow or St Petersburg under current conditions. The war, by my experience with this kind of matters, will last for another eight years and this implies that I need to find a clever route through the inconvenience of the events. In a few hours I will take the train to Berlin. Once there, the chance will decide the next steps to be done.

The art dealer

Art Miami is approaching and my gallery has decided to send me to the place to make some quick purchases during the preview evening. The point is that it is expected that some of the major publishers will release a new portfolio of some valuable names. My boss is sure that Alex Katz and Jonas Wood will catch the attention with a title that will be sold out within a few hours. I am not sure, but if he has paid me the expenses of a whole week in Miami, I expect it is not with the intention to award my comment with a free trip on the other side of the Ocean. There is always a big uncertainty in the market, as much as the one aroused around Robert Indiana’s works. Up to the point that the foundation protecting the artist’s reputation has recently issued the complete catalogue of his works for free, in digital version. A volume that would come out to be quite useful and, if there will be no big name released by Art Basel Miami, then I will be happy to employ the gallery’s money on an alternative investment. Provided that my boss will trust me. Perhaps he will not believe that I am particularly brilliant for this kind of operations on the secondary market, but Robert Indiana is a trademark that does not fail. I would much prefer Joe Tilson, one of his wooden sculptures with an archaic meaning, paying homage to Venice and the classic Greek Mythology. Alas only very few collectors can appreciate him nowadays.

The consultant

I have to come back to Horgen another time because I reached Hirzel and the Heidi’s museum too late. It was already closed. I however knew my way and, being a returning customer, I could more easily play the role of an abitué. I only had to paid attention not to cross the path of an idiot who has worked with me during the last few months. Not that I can consider him so dangerous - although every low IQ person can be - but I discovered he lives nearby and I want to avoid meeting him along the street. Apparently he well represents the tall, white and rich heterosexual white man, a category he for sure belongs to, but he is also arrogant and a coward at the same time. The most apt person to join the politically correct mob that gets crazy at the sight of a beefsteak, served with potatoes, or by only hearing the Goebbels name in a quote. Although the free world culture has delegated the nazi prominent to a caricatural role, a sort of disgusting Pinocchio, to be despised, but not to be feared anymore. I have however not met my former colleague so far, he could avoid me or perhaps he spends the whole weekend drinking beer in front of a large tv-colour. The museum is not so far, only a few minutes on foot. I take a step by looking into the fridge of a Bauerhof. Perhaps I will buy some cider or local cheese on my way back. It will fit so well to the picture of a foreigner genuinely interested for local culture.

Lenin October

In the end I decided to take a train to Berlin, perhaps a similar route to that followed in 1917, as a special guest of Kaiser Willy. He had never expected what a huge mistake he committed for Germany and the stability of the whole of Europe. Without the Revolution, fascism would have perhaps never had the power to materialize. It would have been left behind, at the stage of a ghost, popular in the old veteran stories, but nothing more Perhaps we would live in an even more corrupt world, the triumph of liberalism and greed. The dissolution of the roaring twenties could have continued forever, until the Europeans and the Americans, in good company with affluent Chinese, Japanese and Indians, would have suddenly found themselves exhausted. Like at the end of every party where the waiters have got to clear up the mess produced by their masters. The train that I took is far less luxurious than the one of 1917. Mothers with young babies are filling the air with impolite and persuasive noises. I can imagine myself complaining, in front of the Russian workers, about the sounds emitted by tablets playing the adventures of a blond Japanese ninja dressed in orange. Better to try to focus on the books I bought with me to kill the time and prepare myself to face my past.

The art dealer

Ai Wei Wei is striking back and, despite the stop to his London new exhibition at the Lisson Gallery, he has hitten the market with more than one lovely sculpture. One issued by the Downing College in Cambridge, that being a town dominated by the liberal snobbery, does not really care and perhaps appreciates the opinions expressed by the Chinese Artists about Palestine and Israel. I would abstain myself, for the same reason, from purchase. The concept of a “PuZZLE TREE”, a sculpture to be assembled like the pieces of a manga inspired vinyl figurine is however fascinating. It is really tempting, but I decided to restrain myself from any purchase for the next ten years. I need to rearrange my income and assets for a while. Otherwise the other Ai Wei Wei’s purchase would have been issued by Taschen. This time a splendid golden necklace, a wonderful and princely gift for my future spouse. I am unfortunately single at the time, but I like to spend my time imagining what kind of life I could conduct if married, or at least in a relationship with a lovely and loyal fiancée. Right now my ideal are those women produced by Orit Fuchs. She has now donated two of her paintings to an exhibition in Miami, sponsored by Sotheby's. There is a profile of a woman, in one of the pictures, firmly holding a dove. I pray with her for Israel and the glory of King Salomon.

The consultant

I spent a couple of hours at the local museum in Horgen. I would have never expected to find it so interesting and I almost forgot the primary goal of my visit. I discovered the whole story of a town that became rich thanks to the textile industry. The small city is now reshaping herself as a comfortable place to spend the evenings and the weekend while working in Zug or Zurich. The new inhabitants are perhaps people like my previous self, hoping to strive while keeping their precarious employment by the major banks and consultancies. It is the hope of a child, playing football and aiming to get admitted to the premier league. With the additional constraint that success comes only once too old, after having acquitted far too many chronic diseases do the useless stress on the job. I am realizing right now how happy I should consider myself to be definitely free from the political problems I had to cope with on a daily basis. Also smiling at the idea of the multiple contradictions caused by the conflict in the Middle East among the politically correct priests. Perhaps they are now accusing each other for supporting one of the two parties involved, claiming themselves to be ready for total war without having in their limited minds that they are making a quote from a Goebbels’ speech. If I am ready with the museum visit, I can now take a schnitzel by the restaurant nearby, with a direct view on the lake. Despite all the protests of green fanatics and ideological vegetarians. I am wondering whether Hitler could be accounted among them.

Lenin 

I try to reconstruct my past, the one between the Revolution and my death. Unfortunately, besides my memory, I cannot find anything other than propaganda material. The fog about my biographical data has been further increased since when the American Universities have fallen in love with socialism or prey to the lobbies of the liberals. All apparently well structured studies about my life are thus biased and if I want to trace a clue about Heidi's book I should certainly avoid looking in the texts of a well reputed scholar. It would perhaps be easier to check the leaflet published by my opponents, those who had taken advantage from such an awkward story, portraying me as the puppet of a jewish magician. Those were the years when antisemitism flourished and any kind of hint that the politburo was ruled by a semitic sect was welcome by many of my political enemies. Especially those comrades who fought beside me and now wanted to get power on their own. I need to make a plan. The easiest way would be to spare enough money to travel to Moscow. Given the current war with the Western powers, it will not be easy, but I suppose that any Russian expat could show me the way. At the worst I will have to take a car and follow a long route through Poland and Belarus. The pretext could be given to me by the Museum itself, I think they will support my enterprise.

The art dealer

My coffin is still empty, while the world is not stopping to publish lovely material to get collected or be put on the market. In France the revue Portfolio is going to invade art bookshops and galleries thanks to the contribution of Invader himself. It is always difficult to find on the market any artwork of his, if not at an exorbitant price after a drop that has been carefully concealed. The only exception being the four works released by Heni this year and not meeting at all my expectations, nor those of many other dealers. Including those so prone to accept even artists able to attract the interest of wannabe collectors, but with a lack of actual taste. Beside Invader, whom I really love, David Shrigley has released two further prints. One being a frog, like those in the fairy tales. The picture reminds me of the effort of a friend of mine. A brilliant computer scientist, now unemployed. To kill the time he has begun to write down a fairy tale for each of the typologies of the official classification. I think the name is ATU and there should be at least two thousand and five hundred different possible stories to be drawn on the basis of such studies. The last pearl of the moment is Ed Ruscha, who coined further combinations of words and shapes. Six new etchings curated by Crown Point Press. My favorite is “Ship Ahoy”, reminding me of the coasts of Ireland and the workers in the shipyard. Another interesting one is “Zot so”, perhaps because of the yellow background.

The consultant

I should spend the weekend outside the city of Zurich, to explore the town of Horgen and from there to reach Hirzel. The place where Johanna Spyri was born and grew up. I know that the book is in the museum now, and I am aware that I would be welcome if I revealed my identity to the curators. Nevertheless I want to be cautious, because my feeling is that there is much more behind the history of that book that I could imagine. I think about my grandad. He told me how one day the Graf von Pazze, Elena and himself decided to spend a whole day at home, by Elena’s father. The man, who was widowed and quite old, had dedicated most of his life to the studies of theology. Not only the ones approved by the Greek Orthodox Church, nor that of the Roman Catholic Church. He cultivated a particular love for the Kabbalah and the less renowned studies of the islamic sects. Although not so rich, he managed to amass an outstanding private library and get fluent in all of the languages of the post or of the Middle East. My grandad's account describes Elena’s father being fascinated by Lenin’s signature and calligraphy. “It is written with blood, I would have never guessed that the Black Prince of Atheism believes in the Supernatural”. My grandad reported the episode also everytime that he wanted to point out the hypocrisy of the commies. I think about further anecdotes while visiting the city museum of Horgen. IT is small, but interesting and fits my purpose. 

Lenin 

Italians are probably celebrating the end of their war, according to their school books the accomplishment of their fight for national unity and independence. That is quite an outstanding event, about which really few are aware. Russia has not been conquered for centuries, but the Russian people, the individuals who all together compose such a colourful world, have seldom experienced any feeling of freedom. The same that I am feeling since I get away from the ideology that I have created by myself. I should not forget to credit Karl Marx as well, but there is a good component of mine in what has later become the Soviet Union and international socialism. Something so far away that I hardly believe that what I am reading in the history books has never taken place. What is als worrying me is to find out the story of Heidi's book. If in all this chaos, I should find a clue, I must at first get back to Moscow and visit the museum dedicated to my character. According to the museum where I am working now, the one in Zurich, the reconstruction of my room, at the time of my death, should be available for a visit somewhere in Russia. Or at least an attempt of a reconstruction, according to the official truth, in a similar way to what the Irregulars of Baker Street accomplished in Meiringen. The scene should be based on some reliable documentation, although Stalin and the police made all the best to play with what is the truth and what is a lie. Anticipating Goebbels and his laughable propaganda by a good decade. However, nobody should have had any interest in covering Heidi's book story, a secret jealousy kept within the innermost  circle of Stalin and me. It would have been wiser not to point it out.

The art dealer

The London Original Print Fair will take place in March, but a preview is already available online. I still regret having the wallet without a cent to be spent. Or perhaps I am happy not to be drown in such a vortex of sparing money to bet all together or something whose value should fast double, at least with a pace of once every seven years. That is what art galleries are promising and also what I propose. I am delighted by the offer of Durham Press. As usual they come from the U.S., perhaps the most promising country right now, when it comes to prints and multiples. A series of colourful hearts, reminding me of similar combinations proposed by Tilson around forty years ago, has caught my attention. The artist is Polly Apfelbaum, and it does not come for cheap. The tones remind me of Robert Indiana as well, whose numbers and letters have now become the decoration of some new merchandising of the MOMA shop. Beside Polly’s, I have also discovered a Jacob Hashimoto. The name was totally unknown to me so far, but I see that Mixografia, who usually works with names such as Jonas Wood and Ed Rusha, dedicated some attention to him. His geometries and colours are so gentle, circles crossed by a few lines and filled with clouds and other patterns. “Chance Encounters in the Dream”, is the title of the series and it points out to me how my very same existence, my current profession, can be just an illusion.

The consultant

Elena, the Princess of Corfu, as the people nicknamed her, had never been told about the book. It must have been a secret signing of allegiance between the Graf von Pazze, who also had a first name, Heinrich, and my grandad. She was however a clever woman and found out the way to discover what the two men tried to conceal. Although she did not know a word of German, she insisted on looking at the pictures inside the volume. It was, still, richly decorated and those images, carefully engraved by a master of the art, accompanied my childhood dreams. Perhaps Elena felt similar emotions, but my grandad stated that she also analysed Lenin's dedication and signature. None of the three ever sympathised for the Red Revolution, perhaps it was the fascination of the name. Elena’s father was also a sort of a local priest, a preacher, or someone who lived by the Church. That is also an open point of my grandad’s story-telling. I cannot figure out how on an island in the middle of the Balkans, there was such a freedom of mind to allow an unmarried religious man to be the father of a splendid woman, almost universally admired. The other open point was how Graf von Pazze managed to get his hands on that book and how he kept with him after having surrendered to the Italian army. I find it more probable that he had received it after the end of the war, but then the question is still “Where did he get that book for?”. I think I need to investigate, starting from Heidi's museum. An alternative path would be to go back to the origin of the story and take a plane to Moscow, to look around the Lenin’s museum.

Lenin 

I was too busy with the events of the Revolution, the creation of a new World. There was no time to remember that book. Magic was also a concept I should be ashamed of. Rasputin was believed to have caused the ruin of the monarchy, of the illustrious dynasty of the czars. It was not my intention to spread, within the institutions of the new order, the cancer of superstition. Also there was no time to worry about details. Beside the white soldiers who had managed to survive the battles, the civil war and the action of my police, Moscow was not the most pleasant city to live in either. I doubt that Stalin ever tried anything villainous against my person, but too many were interested to get ridden of me. On top of that my health problems had begun to emerge and I preferred to rely on modern medicine. Thus the book got forgotten. Perhaps I could trace its history if I were able to look in the inventory of the objects left in my possession at the time of my mummification. Given the current stand of things, I cannot properly use the word “death”, because I am feeling very well alive. With the additional feature of having acquired the respectable attitude of the petit bourgeoisie. I only hope not to become a bigot, but bigotry is in the XXI century a prerogative of green, inclusive and islamic leftists. Old grannies aren’t bigots anymore.

The art dealer

Once again Damien Hirst and once again Heni. Such a couple sounds in my mind like the devil, or at least a really clever alchemist who can transmute lead into gold. This time they are proposing nine hundred, nive-zero-zero, unique paintings, all of them signed by the hand of Damien Hirst. I can hardly understand how, thanks to his quick technique, he had managed to produce so many canvases in a few months, to cover them with a pattern of random colours and gestures coherent enough to be sold as flowers. Not to forget that flowers are valued as much as portraits, if not even more, by contemporary collectors. Damien Hirst managed to accomplish the miracle so well that I would even be tempted to spend some money on it. It's a pity that during the last months the art market has been so poor that I can now spare enough money only to pay the medical insurance by the end of the year. I have also received, during these days, the picture of the idealised portrait that Orit Fuchs has made of Vivid, her imaginary creature. A young lady that is daring enough to appear under a large pink hat, dressed with a hot red robe. The painting hangs in an attica somewhere in London, surrounded by expensive furniture and a fine art collection. I wish I were the owner.

The consultant

While walking around Zurich, my mind travels back to the time when my grandfather was serving in the Italian army, during the Great War. I met my granddad only a few times. I was a kid and he was really old, suffering the worst possible health conditions. He fought against asthma, but nothing stopped him to enthusiastically speak about his youth adventures. Especially those dating between the years 1918 and 1922, when he stayed in Greece with a contingent of the occupation forces, at the behest of the King of Rome. Had it not been for Ataturk, perhaps he would have stayed there, even longer; he could have even settled there. The main characters of his story were the Graf von Pazze, who gave him that copy of Heidi's book under mysterious circumstances, and the beautiful Elena, a Greek from Corfu. Their lingua franca was that of Dante and they were quite welcome in the small cafes all around the island. One evening, theGraf von Pazze came home totally drunk. Perhaps he had underestimated the power of the ouzo or was particularly anxious to receive the undivided attention of the beautiful Elena. The latter was actually much more similar to Penelope and, despite being at ease both with my Grandad and the Graf von Pazze, she never conceded her love to any of them. That evening, or night, the Austrian aristocrat knocked at my grandad door and gave him the book. It was so necessary that he would have taken care of it.

Lenin  

I am awakening under the shock of what I did in the past and what I have become. A mummy that can survive only thanks to the resemblance with an autocrat of the past. My admirers regard me as a genial thinker, but I see myself as a fraudster, who has sold for good the venom of a horrible ideology. Yet, it is as a mummy that I begin to understand the beauty of the world surrounding me, that I can activate my emotions by looking at the flowers who, in this warm Autumn, are still blossoming and giving their colours for free, to all those souls who can appreciate them. I wish I were able to locate Heidi's book and its new owner. While alive, I thought it would have been a legend. It was a member of the politburo, one whose names have been forgotten because he did not encounter the favour of my brother-in-crime Stalin. He approached me one evening and suggested that, if I had ever to die, to allow some physicians to mummify my body. When I replied that it was a brilliant idea, that the propaganda would have been made even more effective, after my death, the comrade revealed to me a deeper secret. A story made of magic, quite similar to the one of the golem. Perhaps that was the reason he was condemned to the capital punishment and his name erased from the history’s books. He gave me Heidi's book and asked me to  sign it with my blood. That I did, without, without telling anyone and hiding the book in my cabinet.

The art dealer

One of my acquaintances has proposed to me the purchase of a splendid etching signed by David Hockney. It is a view of Paris, “Rue de Seine”, published in 1972. A delicate composition with a fishbowl, flowers and a window, from which it is slightly possible to perceive that outside lies the Vielle Lumiere, with its complex network of underground lines and the microcosmos of each arrondissement. There are similar works, also signed by Hockney, on the market, all of them quite pricey. During these days I find myself perchance in the French capital due to Paris plus, now under the universal brand of Art Basel. I hope that the large organisation will not be taken over by a woke CEO and become a new Disney. A channel to deny freedom of expression through the apparent effort of art professionals. The hypocrisy of the art world has been put nicely on evidence by one of the online marketplace. Indeed, while Israel is under the bombs of a criminal organisation and my artists in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv need to leave their ateliers to take shelter in the bunker, no Ai Wei Wei has pronounced a word to express his solidarity. The same geniuses that by Documenta take so much effort to undermine the reputation of the Israel democracy, cannot express themselves against Hamas, not a better organisation than the Bobby Sands’ one.

The consultant

I think it is the time to track in detail the history of my grandfather, who was a humble mechanic, or car driver, or truck driver, in his youth. He was born in Prague, in the ghetto, from a jewish family who had nothing more of their ancient traditions beside the name. To the best of my knowledge my grandfather never attended the synagogue, nor his parents. Under pretence of modernism, they perhaps did not believe in the Almighty anymore. PErhaps it was the way in which religion was taught to them, or the spirit of the time. My great-grandfather worked for the railways, I do not know anything about my great-grandmother or their ancestors. Coming back to the grandfather, I am aware that he was passionate about opera, he was an avid reader of any kind of newspaper and magazine, as well as of Encyclopedias. Those that the lower-middle class bought on a weekly basis because it was hard to afford the major editions, which were as expensive as an apartment in the workers' area. He was also a good mechanic and, when WWI disrupted the European frontiers, he was enrolled in the KK army. I forgot to explain that my grandfather’s mother was Italian, and for some reason he identified himself with the Mediterranean nation. He always said that he came from Milan and was born in Prague only because of a strange joke of his destiny. As many other Czech soldiers, he managed to disengage from the Central Powers to join a volunteer corps constituted mainly by Czech exiles, this time at the behest of the Italian King

Lenin

I begin to doubt the need of fanatisch. Some political opponents of mine, but still in the milieu of utopians and enemies of democracy, even openly exalted a mind totally hijacked by the ideology. I lived long enough to understand it is a mere illusion. The only outcome is a plan that does not consider the complexity of our world, of human nature, nor the will of the Almighty. I surprise myself to justify the failure of absolutism quoting even the God that I so long, and vainly, fought. Plans supported by ideologies, by extremism are doomed to fail, whatever huge the effort behind them could appear. Such an enthusiasm will only reveal to the healthy part of the population how horrible can be the deed of a fanatic. There are so many extremist groups right now, there are as many as there were during my most glorious decade.  Humankind has taken a long time before finding its own stability and I hope it will not take a century, once again, before breathing the pleasant mind of common sense. The same that is pervading me, perhaps because Heidi's book has now fallen into good hands, linked to a mind strong enough to dominate my ambition. It is quite strange, but the new owner of the book is aware of his  control and still leaves me able to reason by myself.

The art dealer

The news in London is quite funny. The Serpentine Gallery, whose names have always reminded me of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, is proposing a jewel signed by Baselitz and created by a former apprentice of his. I should not denigrate jewels, since most of the Italian Renaissance masters worked as apprentices in a goldsmith shop. It is however a kind of merchandise that is at the same time expensive and difficult to be sold. Ai Wei Wei and Gabriel Orozco also produced rings. Quite pricey specimens of their art, but I have never been able to make a certain estimation about how they have been received by the market. The Serpentine Gallery looks to sell quite fast. Thus also despite the crisis that is hitting the financial market for at least one year right now. The Serpentine is however not the only one, in my area, that is betting on jewelry. Also Kettle‘s Yard is joining the game with an extraordinary series of buttons. The best one being signed once again by Ai Wei Wei and reproducing the button on the uniforms of the Chinese People Army. A bunch of brainwashed criminals, at least in my humble opinion, who contributed to the unrightful jailing of the great artist. While detained he was not authorized to book into the eyes of his jailers, thus he was able to stare at them only by pointing his view on the buttons. What a terrible feeling that such a little object can communicate, but also a feeling of hope to escape even the most efficient prison.

The consultant

I felt poor when I reached Zurich for the first time, getting lost into the sight of the Baur au Lac and the mastodonic cars parked all around the hotel. Not to mention the small watches, sometimes valuable much more than those luxury automobiles. I had no idea that my book was worth much more, enough to allow me to settle down and get inspired by my natural dispositions. That has never been attracted by consultancy or banking. I just needed money to feel free, one day. Now that I am definitely free from the pragmatic constraints of the world, I need to look around or perhaps much better inside myself and try to understand my deepest feelings. What do I want to do with my life? Whom am I expecting to become, or what I am expecting to give to the world surrounding me? I also need to find out more about the story behind Heidi's book. The museum in Hirzel pretended to be the purchaser, but such a small museum can hardly afford to invest so much money on a single item. They need to have a sponsor and if my conjecture is right, there is a collector of African art behind that. The suspicion occurred to me when invited by the museum to see how the book is now a central part of their collection. Apparently there was a paper, glued under the cover, with the joint signature of Johanna Spyri and Vladimir Lenin. Such news astonished me because I cannot understand how my grandfather ever took possession of such a manuscript. Perhaps he totally ignored the story, and the legend behind it.

Lenin

While the anniversary of the Revolution is getting closer and in Munich they are celebrating the Oktoberfest, I am wondering about some parallel destinies. My October Revolution takes place in November, while the Oktoberfest begins in September. The riots I ignited are still remembered all around the world and more than a billion people are still living under the flag of socialism. The putsch of Munich, organised by my rival and at the same time comrade, is on the contrary widely despised and nobody, at least by official statements, is living anymore under the national socialist emblem. Fascism is to me something else. I could have been inspired by the same forces perhaps, but it is still too much influenced by the Roman Catholic aura that hardly degenerates into fanaticism. Even the Spanish Inquisition had hardly ever reached the systematic approach of my police, or of Hitler’s police. At the same time, now that I live in Zurich and I enjoy walking around and sneaking into the local churches, I feel more and more alien to the cruelty of my past and I get more easily moved by the view of the wooden sculptures dedicated to the Holy Mary and other saints. I have grown up with the menacing ghost of the Orthodox Church of Moscow, and the embracing warmth of the Roman Catholic missionaries is touching by heart. As if someone has taken control of that Heidi’s book and consecrated it to a better good.

The art dealer

While the market is going down and the socialist attitude of the woke lobbies is destroying our economy, there are more and more good opportunities to buy at an affordable price. Heni has just released a new series signed by Peter Doig. The works are excellent, Per Doing seldom fails to surprise and find new combinations of colours and geometries. It looks as if I were describing the style of an abstract painter, but in a certain way I consider Peter quite abstract. I like to sit in front of his art, slightly close my eyes and allow my imagination to delude my mind, my sight. At that point I do not see anymore the shadows, the nuance of colours he has selected and only at that point of time I believe to have understood his poetry. Yet, he is a main name in the circus and some catalogues of his previous exhibitions reach outrageous prices only for having his signature on the first page. Such a phenomenon appears to be common for Gerhard Richter only. Even Hockney or Andy Warhol’s signatures are not contributing so much to the value of a single book. Far away from the market, a friend of mine visited Niko Pirosmani’s exhibition in Basel, by the Fondation Beyeler. He had been impressed how much simple traits can communicate the feeling of a whole nation The one that even Stalin had not been able to destroy, due to the staunch resistance to any fast change of the wise and conservative rural world.

The consultant

Instead of sitting on the bench of my company, I am sitting on a comfortable bench designed by Marc Newson. To have a good amount of money available, enough to survive until a reasonable age, provides as much comfort as sitting between your parents, while you were still young. To have got rid of the nuisance of consultancy is to me the greatest prize I could have ever won. I still remember the reproaching look of colleagues who were not able to communicate if not in the most aggressive way. They sometimes tend to be nice and friendly, just to allow you to feel at ease and commit some fatal mistake. Enough to blame you in front of others and acquire some ethical advantage. The whole world of consultancy has become closer and closer to a bigot congregation. The very same dresses they are wearing are so similar to the ones of the hamish or the quakers, at least because of the colours. I cannot however consider myself retired yet, because the people who bought Heidi's book are now willing to meet up. Everything looks so strange, but I am also feeling at ease with myself to accept their invitation. It is fixed in my agenda for Thursday next week and I am so curious to find out what is going to happen.

Lenin

In Germany they are preparing for a big national party, to remember the importance, the value of the privilege to stay together. Somehow it is me, and the strains of my ideology, who has provoked Berlin to be split in two parts. Without my Revolution, perhaps even the other players around the subversive table, widespread in Italy and Germany, would have kept themselves quiet. For sure the Soviet Union would have not been created and no organized power would have been able to smash Germany. Or perhaps what my comrade Stalin achieved to do, it is due to their capitalist friends only. After all, even nowadays it seems that socialism can survive thanks to the moves of good people coming out from the American business schools or living in Hollywood’s mansions. My adepts strive for years to get their hands on the US movie industry. I now realize that the most evident effect is to make secondary film productions much more brilliant than those controlled by my admirers. Provided that they really know something about me and their attitude is nothing else than common bigotry, due much more to the mindset of the German peasants, such as Luther was. I am feeling strange these days, as if someone else has managed to get his hands on that well known Heidi edition that should be linked to my vital energies.

The art dealer

The art market is going down and I have got scarce funds for my own provisioning. However, my feeling is that only online auctions, those that have surged during the pandemic years, are becoming less and less profitable for the sellers. Perhaps someone has manipulated the market in the past and is not able to do it anymore. My feeling is that in private sales the market is going towards a totally different direction. Perhaps also due to the skills of gallerists, who are doing their own best to locate the artworks at the most intrinsic value for the collectors. Auction houses are on the contrary calling the wide public without a precise direction, relying on the chance that two or more quarreling parties will contend the very same object. The highest results get published on the main page, to attract further collectors and motivate them to put their most precious objects back to the market. There are indeed some beautiful pieces that I have never been able to admire in a museum. Others are nothing more than good works with a renowned name on them. That kind of triumph that brings some real beauty in every house of the petit-bourgeoisie and provides pride to a whole family. As well as

 the hope that in the future, it will value a fortune.

The consultant

Thus my career has reached an end thanks to an old book I always brought with me. It came into my family after the years of WWI. My grandfather served in Greece, fighting alongside the Serbian army and living among the local population. He was enlisted as a volunteer in the Italian forces, they were operating together with the French expedition. Sometimes British officers were also involved with his duties, but he had also frequent contacts with Austrian-Hungarian soldiers fallen into the hands of the Allies. There was enough chaos and international flair to make the circumstances similar to a contemporary consultancy. With the difference that people were forced to join the army, with the exception of a few volunteers. Employees by main consultancies are on the contrary there on a voluntary basis, beguiled by the prospect of a millionaire life. They are much more similar to privateers, at the behest of her Majesty the Queen, or his Majesty the King. But coming back to the history of the book, that came to me through the hands of my father. That would be a wondrous tale to which few would really believe. Everything began with my granddad's encounter with Heinrich Pazze, a K&K officer from Trieste. SInce he also spoke Italian, although with a few grammar mistakes, they immediately connected and my grandad made a lot to alleviate his sufferings.

Lenin 

Such a powerful magician has summoned me back to the world of above. I forgot how it could come out to be so colourful and varied. Each time I speak with someone about my writings, I discover that they could evoke the most different reaction. Only few try to quote me and few others, well brainwashed by the propaganda of my followers, prefer to rely on few satisfied sentences propagated among the usual conferences and public speeches. I cannot understand when the point of not returning begins, when men start to lose their individuality and become a mob. Not generally speaking about the mob, but about the members of a larger structure that looks to behave in a much more different way. That is the mass that can be governed by superior and clever political minds, not necessarily honest, but with a precise goal in mind. Since, when the mobs perceive that there is no clear plan in the intentions of their leader, if not perhaps to satisfy their ego, the men come back to their status of independent individuals. Until a new leader does not come out from the darkness and provides new instructions. I am not a leader anymore, if not the ghost of my past. As in the Dickens’ Carroll, I need to look for the ghost of my current present if I want to find a purpose once again.

The art dealer

Today I have suffered a further defeat because of David Hockney. That is a name that I love, but that has caused me two severe curses within six months. In the middle of march of this year, I had been so scolded, by my boss, due to the failed sale of a copy of the Bigger Book, Art Edition C, that I feared for my job. Now that I secured my position once again, I had the bad idea to suggest to my boss to buy the complete edition of the Bigger Books, all four of them, and to try the chance by Phillips Hockney’s day. I cannot understand whether there is a general interest to cool down the market, but today I saw a drop of more than one hundred percent in the realised prices. That is the first time that I experienced a loss in the art market with the exception of a loss in terms of a missed deal. Such an unknown situation makes me feel unsure about my fortune. Yet, when I look all around me, I am noticing that art galleries are not performing so badly, nor that their owners are starving. I am imagining myself in front of Mr Norner, my boss, who loves to make his statements so loud that he could be heard from the street. He should have been a wonderful left wing agitator during his freshman year. He is now the owner of a medium size enterprise and I do not want him as an enemy of mine. I will find a way to balance the loss.

The consultant

I should have joined a project one week ago, but suddenly I decided to resign and to look for a different life. My boss went crazy when he received the news, as did many other colleagues who were relying on me for the new initiatives. Especially the business managers, who had worked for so long to sustain my profile and they are now feeling betrayed by my irrational decision. That is apparently so, but if they only knew what happened to me during the last weekend, they would judge me from a different point of view. At first, just to be concise, I received an expected huge amount of money, enough to sustain my whole existence in a decent way from the most extraordinary encounter. I indeed decided to spend the weekend walking around Lake Zurich. There are wonderful hiking paths that everybody would enjoy. It is hard to choose, but I eventually decided for Horgen and Hirzel. Horgen is a nice former industrial town on the lake, reachable by boat from Bürkliplatz. Hirzel is a former municipality now aggregated to Horgen and it is already in the mountains. From the piers in Horgen, it is reachable within two hours by foot. Hirzel also hosts a museum dedicated to Johanna Spyri, Heidi’s author, who was born there. I have loved Heidi since my childhood, and I brought with me a copy of the novel, that one I always kept with me wherever I relocated. It was a gift of my granny, who always told me it was precious. I did not expect what she really meant, because an old man, nicknamed the Wizard, paid me five millions to get it.

Lenin 

The circumstances that have brought me to Zurich are the most strange. There was a man, a magician, who accompanied my burial, or, better to say, the deposition of my mummy in the mausoleum of the Red Square. The wizard, who perhaps really possessed the gift of magic, had also the obsession for Johanna Spyri‘s book, Heidi. He should have applied some hocus pocus on one of his copies, predicting that, if read aloud under the full moon, the text would have resurrected my body and brought me back to Switzerland. The legend of Heidi‘s edition was kept secret for decades within the most inner members of the Politbüro, a sort of not verified gossip for the most boring evenings. Those when Stalin drew his well renowned proscription lists and the others had to silently consent, hoping not to see their names on the paper. The search for the enchanted text went further for years, commandeering any copy of the novel that transited on the holy soil of the Soviet Union. The justification was trivial, since the text is extremely reactionary and even gives a good portrait of the Frankfurt upper class of the time. Their descendants, the contemporary bourgeoisie of the Banking capital, have widely adopted a light version of my ideology and would agree with the socialist bureaucrats. In the end someone should have been able to track the artifact and summoned me here, back in the middle of the Alps, by the power of the spell.

The art dealer

Sometimes it is difficult to set the right priorities, because so many opportunities are coming out, all at the same time, that it gets really difficult to make the correct choice. This week I was browsing what was going on at the Armory Show in New York, just to find out that Taschen has published, and is going to release soon, a new book focused on Tadao Ando‘s works. Sometimes I wonder whether Architecture sketches should come into my collection, or catalog. The risk is to get misunderstood for someone without clear ideas or who buys and sells everything that is available on the market. However art has always been linked with sculpture and architecture. There are wonderful examples from the Italian Renaissance, at least for those who do not believe that the Art Market was born with Kaws or the French Impressionists. A huge architecture is also the structure of the Mae West monument in Munich. Rita Mc Bride, who is the genius behind that, has developed a series of seven unique pieces representing in small size the mastodonic Meisterwerk. I wish to have the budget to acquire it in my collection as well, that would be a great shot since the artist has not already achieved the market potential that she could deserve. Her records are impressive, as well as her footprint in main museums and international fairs. She is also a woman, that could make her more attractive in the politically correct exchange.

The consultant

A new team, a new project. My life has changed along the perspectives linked to the missions I am involved with. Sometimes I see myself as a member of the board of a main organization, sometimes as a solitary business analyst secluded to an obsolescent unknown application. In that case, that kind of role can be covered until retirement because nobody else wants to take over and there is no expertise left on the market, not anymore. With my mind I look at the new hires. Among these, there is someone older, someone younger than me. All of them with their parallel stories that I can hardly imagine. There is the drummer of a rock band, the former priest, who is also a dangerous mate because so skilled at playing with others‘ souls, there is also the former teacher, who is usually the most difficult one to convince about a good business solution. It is a microcosm that magically disappears once the project is over and whose dynamics could develop in the most inexperienced way. Sometimes the team is made by a huge number of freelancers, who survive only for a short time and suddenly disappear, without even greeting. Some get internalized and feel like they are the owner of a company, others are counting the days till the end of the eproject. Forgetting that there is always another one, unless you do not definitely quit.

Lenin

In the building where I live and there is also a museum dedicated to my glorious life, and exile, an Ukrainian flag has appeared today. I cannot really understand whether it has been intentional or not, but in the continuous discussion born after the beginning of the current war, someone blamed me for having created the Ukrainian nation. I do not have the slightest idea about this fact, perhaps I have just forgotten as so many others related to my personal history. During the last twenty years a new generation of absolute rulers have emerged in this world and the exact reminiscence of my achievements is fading away. That is perhaps what is causing my more and more frequent loss of memory. People like me need to be venerated as a demigod to understand his role in this universe. Without an adoring mob, we are nothing. It would be enough to switch off the radio, the television, not to read the newspapers anymore and sometimes even not to attend the Sunday service, to let us disappear. I am disappearing and, instead of a mummy, getting a ghost of myself. I am not able to enjoy anything else than a delicious ice cream on an omelet aux cepes. That Ukrainian flag, on the contrary, so provoking, hanging on the plaque remembering the dates of my exile, is providing my body with new life, with the ancient greed of power that made me strong.

The art dealer

It is relaxing to have a view on the British countryside, here in Northern Ireland. I went back last week, for a visit to my family and my childhood friends. All of them are loyal to our good King Charles. With all the chaos ongoing and the attention of the press for the war in Ukraine, Ulster seems a quiet place. The time of the troubles is getting easily forgotten, when the BBC continuously points out the evil and the intrigues of the Russian court and the divide is between an old white man enjoying his days and a quarrelling queer minority. I actually wish I were in New York during these days, not to miss the Ed Rusha’s exhibition. I am also regretting not having invested my money in his paintings and works. They are quite expensive, but their value can only increase. That is the power of the words once transmuted into image. Yet, if any other artist would put together some letters on a piece of paper, he will not obtain the same result. If not perhaps Baldessari, who can also nicely joke with other shapes and colours. Less renowned, perhaps just to me, is Marcel Broodthaers. A Belgian who even managed to question, in a succinct and effective way, the relationship between the recognition of art, museums and the market. I invest for money, indeed.

The consultant

I did not have to wait too long to get assigned to another project. To have been blamed by the green.red-left whatever component of the city hall, has improved my acceptance by my bosses. For some reason they believed I was a feminist or an activist as well. Perhaps because I am a woman. If discrimination belongs to the past, contemporary leftist ideology obtains the only result to produce a huge wall between the categories they assume to patronise. I have really got enough of such an atmosphere, that does not allow me to work proficiently with a good part of my colleagues. The new course could bring me some advantages because I really want to show all my best skills in a challenging task. If I had to compare my life with that of a common man, working behind a laptop, following the same process for his whole life, then I could consider myself lucky and my life interesting. However, if I look at the existence of an artist, a writer, an art dealer, or a politician, perhaps an extremist one, well renowned for his idiosyncrasies and peculiarities, then my profile would just be a boring one. As much as my apartment, adorned Ikea furniture and a couple of cheap paintings bought at the fair of affordable art, in London St Pancras or some other Railways Station.

Lenin

Many wonder if a dictator can be a nice and decent person while engaged in a personal conversation. I would wonder the contrary, otherwise instead of followers, the tyrant would just collect hatred and enemies. It is the truth that people of my kind are used to adopting exceptionally virulent speeches while trying to enchant the big audience. It is the most effective way to awaken all the possible emotions in the mob, including those that will chain a large portion of the population to a well defined ideology. Unfortunately those kinds of topics that better work to animate the mass, are also the most dangerous ones. If an individual needs understanding, caring and to be assured about his fears, large masses can be moved only by arousing a desire of vengeance and destruction. There are some kinds of individuals also prone to get manipulated in an easy waz, and driven to crime if necessary, but they constitute a minority. The common man is a nice person and for this reason a leader who wants to get him caught in an ideological cobweb must also behave according to the rules of politeness and well recognizable conventions. It is also an element that buffles historians, while trying to depict as a monster the previous celebrated leader of a political party. Or an absolute ruler who has driven his own country to disaster and the most horrible deeds. I however prefer to enjoy the sunshine.

The art dealer

Orit Fuchs, she is the artist who has managed to magically enchant me and let my wallet open. Her track is quite poor in comparison with Jonas Wood or Julian Opie or Alex Katz. All artists she is referring to through her works. At first sight I thought she was only imitating them, thus establishing herself among so many characters of secondary importance in the art world. After a while I have however started to consider Orit Fuchs the next step, the one after Alex Katz’​ realistic portraits have conquered the hearts of so many collectors. Her pictures are quite different since she does not represent others, women or men, but an idealized vision of the woman, or of the human being within the context of our society. Perhaps the women she is having shape, and colors, to, are the ones who would at the best express her wishes, or reveal the secrets of her souls. There is however a further step beyond the point reached by the more established names she could be confused with. Moreover, sometimes the colors and the geometries are the elements that have mostly caught my eyes. She can use intense colors without the fear to become kitsch, or indecent. About the monetary aspect, I invested a lot in her, and I need to wait two and a half years before recovering from the expenses, perhaps even three years, but we shall see whether it is worth it. It is a risk I have taken.

The consultant

In the end I was removed by the project with the local authorities. The internal supervisors complained about my lack of commitment during the social activities planned outside the business hours. Particularly irritating has been my refusal to join a feminist strike that would have lasted a whole day. The client would have even paid my full consulting fee for the whole day. I did not feel comfortable with the idea to use tax money to join a political event and being handsomely paid to shout slogans in the middle of a mob of angry women. With whom I have got nothing to share, because all I want is a man who could love me and take care of my children. I feel no hatred for men and in the workplace I have always been respected. On the contrary I find much less respectful of this idea of the local authorities to push me to join a strike against my will. The client even googled me and, thanks to a fake account, they befriended me on Facebook to be able to take a couple of screenshots of my posts. They highlighted a couple that did not agree with a far too politically oriented set up of a theatrical piece in Zurich. I limited myself to asserting that I hardly recognised the character of William Tell, that he looked to me like a junkie squatting in an apartment in the banlieues of Paris. That was enough to accuse me of being a right extremist and being sent out of the project.

Lenin 

Finally the Kunsthaus plays my game, assuming a role of central propaganda agency. As usual the pretext is to loudly complain about the damages, the ruins and the miseries of the war. Only the less sensible souls are not affected by the engravings of Kaethe-Kollwitz. She depicts the desperate grief of mothers who lost their children in the conflicts. The innocent sorrow of children who had lost their fathers. The new gender language demands to add “and mothers” in the small captions beside the paintings, even if no woman was enrolled in the Kaiser's army during WWI. A woke historian can however still claim the contrary, surpassing any level of political lie that my office, back in 1917, ever created. A poster with a raised hand stretched, with the fingers closed in a fist, reminds me of the glorious time of the Revolution. As well as another composition, according to the curator, dating to 1920-21. The wording asks the reader to provide help to Russia, where a famine is decimating the population. The commentary asserts that it was the Soviet government to have raised an international appeal of solidarity and mentions that the scarcity of food provoked the death of a figure between twenty and thirty millions of men, women and children. I cannot remember whether I authorised such a communication, that could have revealed the weaknesses of socialism. The interest of my regime was on the contrary to hide such a drama. The curator however clearly attributes the root cause of the tragedy to a generic “war”. A term that could usually point the finger in the direction of fascism. Although fascism had still to take power. Perhaps blaming capitalism would have been more consistent with the historical truth. What a genius, the curator, should be.

The art dealer

The major problem is now given by my limit on the credit card. I was going to secure, for my own private advantage, an awesome deal, but, at the time of pressing the confirm button, I discovered that the only possible payment method was by credit card. That is usually not a big issue, but in that case the amount is 5400000 yens, plus the shipping costs. That makes more than thirty thousand pounds, or even more. I am not really sure about the exchange rate since I seldom buy from Japan, even if it would be worth the effort. Coming back to the subject of the incredible offer, it is a set of one hundred and eight flowers created by Takashi Murakami. His style is quite a different one than the works I usually collect. As he loves to call his movement, the composition is indeed superflat, like that of the first Nintendo Video Game, of the anime of the 1970s and 1980s or the most traditional Japanese art. That is what makes the artist so fascinating, interesting and, I would say, so cool. Together with many other Japanese contemporary artists, he is doing really well on the art market and perhaps he will perform so well also in the future. I expect that we shall notice soon a radical change in taste, following intense depreciation and appreciation in most of the art sector. I only do not know when it is going to happen, but a first wave of such a Revolution has already hitten the impressionists, following the decline of European cultural power.

The consultant

Summertime also implies roof-top parties to take nice pictures and get impressed by such events. Being myself in the middle level of the career, I  am not really impressed anymore, but it allows me to spare those few money that I allocate to my daily expenses for food and beverages. Being allocated to a project based in Zurich, a few hundred metres from the office I belong to, implies quite a good number of disadvantages. For instance I do not stay overnight, thus I cannot collect the points to stay in the hotels, without additional costs, during my holidays. I do not get any expenses for the transportation either, so I need to say goodbye to any general subscription of the train. During the holidays I thus need to pay for the railway tickets as well and, since I do not stay overnight during the working week, I cannot either take advantage of the bonus points on my fidelity card. I cannot either take advantage of the breakfast that I usually consume so generously, in such a systematic way that I do not need to eat anymore during the whole day. That is the best way to spare a meaningful sum on my monthly expenses as well. The only advantage is that I can take care of my apartment in the best way. I can clean the floor on a daily basis, as a sort of a zhen exercise, and can take care of my plants as well. It is also a pleasure to use the scissor on them, observing their shape taking the form I mostly like. It is time to drink the last Aperol Spritz and go home.

Lenin

A Revolution can be ignited also by a sect, as it was mine, but such a sect must receive widespread support to overcome the established institutions. The adherents must begin to evangelize outside the frames of their own well regulated existence. The best way is by publishing or to gain a main impact on the art market. Or just in the art world overall. Because the Revolution can be really successful only once the movement aiming to get the power has efficiently infiltrated the institutions to be subverted. Thus it is when museum curators and eminent professors, or journalists in the newspapers, those trusted by the wide middle class, or even by the upper class, take your side, that is the exact turning point when you can perceive the imminent success of the riot. However some tension must be perceived by the masses and the role of the agitators is critical, a further key to obtain what you really need, that is the brainwash of the mob. At that point of time, the enthusiastic mass of the workers will begin to offer soldiers to be sacrificed to the cause. Those who stay behind, not totally affected by the propaganda, or just because cautious by nature, will provide the most efficient support to the first line of activists. Once overwhelming, most of the cautious men, who constitute the majority of the population, will be convinced of the good of the Revolution and join the growing mass of activists. It will be the turning point, when the institutions will be unable to react anymore and shall be forced to adapt to the new course. That is happening right now.

The art dealer

It is difficult to say no to a good bargain, at least for what it could look like on the market. My boss has recommended me to pay attention to the quality, whatever the circumstances could be. The deal of the week would be a series of prints signed by Damien Hirst and published by Heni. Many have followed Heni, that is a premium British publisher, during the past years because of it aggressive politics on multiples as investment. They have unfortunately fallen into far too high numbers to be able to keep quality and professional credibility. A brilliant publisher should never be so greedy. Also Taschen is perhaps greedy, but at the same time inventive. In a such a way that the house, the one of Taschen, can constantly surprise the public and even positively contribute to the art world far beyond the market perspectives. It is though Taschen that I discovered many artists previously unknown to me, but internationally recognised. It was the way, much more than the university that I attended, to prepare myself for my job. Of course my boss, with whom I so often disagree and discuss, has also been a valuable mentor and it is perhaps thanks to him that I could gain enough experience to make myself independent. If I only had enough money, I could make the jump tomorrow, but perhaps I will have saved enough when also my knowledge will be sufficient strong to be able to face the waves of the free market without invoking for socialist protection.

The consultant

My company, together with the city hall of Zurich, has offered me a tour to Davos. I love the city and I was excited, in the beginning, when they delivered me such a communication. However I have been soon dismayed by discovering that the trip will include several hours a day of feminist education. Apparently I am not educated enough to work together with the social services, especially in a leading position, unless I do not awaken my social consciousness. Or, in this case, my gender self/representation and self esteem, or some similar concept that I still try to grasp and visualise in my mind. Luckily in the tour there is also some free time, that I only hope I will not have to voluntarily devolve to some additional initiatives. Luckily I have discovered that on the same weekend a cleaning-the-forests group will patrol the area. I have already contacted them to fill the so-called free hours left to me. The organiser was in the beginning disappointed, because, as I expected, she has planned some additional activities to get together and consolidate what was learned during the brainwashing. After a while she however accepted my desire to detach myself from the rest of the group, provided that I will take the chance to evangelise and convey the message among the friends of the woods. I am forgetting what consulting means, but I am learning the art of propaganda.

Lenin 

The club of the Leesesaal has found me and once again lost me. Just temporarily, since my presence has been distracted by the generosity of a wealthy young woman who wanted my presence beside her, during her holidays. What for an idea could be, the one that brings a lady to make a tour with a mummy besider her. I cannot imagine the actual reasons. After all there are so many maidens in this world who are dating, for the sake of money mainly, men who are much older. In my case, several decades older, if not a whole century. I however see that such an old girl enjoys outfashioned atmospheres, almost decaying into ruin. She has brought me to spend a whole week at the Scahtzalp in Davos. A place that has not bee renovated for more than one hundred years, if not for the minimal interventions required by safety reason, to avoid that the whole building will fall apart. The view is however so wid and, partially, even wild. A sight that can reflect my highest revolutionary ambitions, to see the world from above, in its pristine condition. Yet it is evident the strong attachment to the past, although I must recogniye that non everything in the modern world is so congenial to the life of human beings. Perhaps ohere above, I will be able to avoid all that obsession for trends and technology by which I am surrounded in Zurich. Since I am not on duty, I can avoid even to touch my mobile phone, friendly provided by the museum to be reachable at any time of the day or night in case an emergency should occur. If the cyar had at his disposals such magical tools, he could have easily controlled the rebellious desires of the population. He was however alien to the art of propaganda, the key to seduce and control the masses.

The art dealer

Perhaps I can close the deal with the Ly’s painting because the gallerist representing her in the U.S. will not continue his activity. His statement is that Ly will be represented in Japan only, from now on. My feeling is that his gallery is not doing so well, because after having put me under pressure for a fast answer, he now agrees about an offer, any that I could make. Perhaps even with a twenty percent discount, that is far beyond any form of gentlemen agreement. In that case I should not be too stingy, or greed, and limit myself to a ten percent discount. That is what more or less I will pay for custom duties. My boss avoids to pay for import taxes, relying on a fraport in Luxembourg and reselling the artworks without having even ever looked at athe. He deserves his attention only to the documentation needed to assure that no fraud has taken palace. We have so far received no complains, thus I assume that the process is well sounded.In my case, on the contrary, I cannot afford to rely on a fraport because my volumes will be so limited that I will have to pay the complete fee Moreover there is a collector compulsion in my blood, a passion that urges me to admire and enjoy in first person what I purchase. On one side it is an advantage, because in this way I tend to acquire only valuable items, resellable on the market. On the other side, this makes my trading more difficult, since it becomes very hard to separate myself from what I really love. Yet, it is a solid principle followed by my father during the troubles. He never betrayed his party nor his believe, fighting for only what he really thought was a good cause. May the Lord bless the King!

The consultant

It is a whole week, since I have started to work for the local administration, in the downtown of Zurich. I would have expected to invest more time on the actual project and have in the end much less free time. On the contrary I am feeling compelled, under strong and indirect psychological pressure, to dedicate to myself several hours a day. The days so far have indeed been included a special schedule of training on meditation, because according to a research sponsored by ruling coalition parties, fifteen minutes of deep breathing are more powerful than a power nap. By my previous clients, the only power nap allowed was that after the regular office hours, if we were compelled to work extra time. In this case, public employees received strong recommendations to take care about their mental health and somehow pushed to take half an hour sleep after the lunch break. Meditation hours are thus a way to take advantage of the most advance managerial theories and increase the productivity in the public service. Another not avoidable facultative course concerns sustainbility and healthy food. It is a way to explain why the canteen offers only vegan and vegetables, while meat is officially banned. I do not consider the matter a special issue. It is easier to accept the decisions taken above, than to openly put in discussion the woke regime. I silently comply to what is reasonable and indulge on the secret pleasure of venison during my evenings out. The most engaged employees acting as mhy counterparty by the client, are so fanatically brainwashed that they will avoid any Ristorante Valtellinese or Grotto Ticinese. Hopefully they will not organise violent sustainibility raides.

Lenin

I rediscovered the Lesesaal of the Literaturhaus after more than one hundred years. I left it behind me at the end of my exile and the beginning of my triumph. On those tables, looking on the outside, I sat when I was still myself, or my well renowned character. Someone who wanted to propagate the nihilism of pure materialism and, on the basis of that, establish his own absolute power with the help of the proletarians. If any man from the middle class, one chosen by a sorting hat, from my own era, would find himself in the present time, he would describe most of the people as Lumpenproletariat. The t-shirts and the tattoos being predominant according to the current fashion, were at his time reserved to the most disgraced part of the population.I would have hardly selected such thugs for my very own army. I looked indeed for the aristocrats among the working class, those few who were able to write and read. Thus who could at least read my pamphlets and publications pretending to understand them. To truly understand my writing, it is necessary a much more refined level of thinking, a critical one. Indeed most of the contemporary American students from the Ivy League Universities profess themselves to be my followers. It is only possible because their intellectual independence and their ability to critically examine a text are not much more evolved than those of the carpenters and blacksmiths I was relying on. The number of individuals who are brave enough to challenge the ideas conveyed by a book is really limited. Perhaps because, thanks to the Christian Churches that I so vehemently fought, when we think about a book, we are spurred to recollect the respect owed to the Bible.

The art dealer

Another good investment right now is a certain Ly, quite a young artist living in Japan. She is actually not such a teenager. Despite so many legends, there is currently no internationally renowned artist born after 1989. Pace Gallery claims to have a promising 27 year old in her portfolio, but it would be risky to invest on her name. It can be a clever marketing campaign doomed to fail in a few years. Perhaps it is the effect of the cold war, a conflict between two strong paradigms able to generate some creative character in those who lived it personally. One of the two paradigms was well grounded only apparently., we are able to state such a perspective because it suddenly crumbled down. Although not openly, since marxism is still well appreciated by a good component of the ruling class. Perhaps because of its clear distinction between wealthy privileged people and miserable poor. I was born proletarian, according to the socialist framework. If I had lived under a communist regime, I could have been praised for that. The party would have also expected me to act as a good working class member who attends public parades against fascist, happy to live in the assigned apartment, a smallish one, and to follow the thoughts of the red elites. I could have not claimed, proudly, to come from the Oxbridge corral,  even if West Anglia is not part of Cambridge University, and my wish to get rich thanks to the art market would have been shunned as a bad influence of mercantilist culture. Luckily the U.K. has not fallen too long under Labour. Coming back to Ly, her prediction is so linear and effective. Her communication is as strong as Reagan capitalism. Still, I have got no money to invest unless I cannot sell something of my own.

The consultant

In the end a project landed on my desk. It was not what I was expecting, or that any other consultant had ever expected, but I need to keep it as soon as nothing better comes out. The way it was communicated to me already sounded quite strange, because it resulted in a big headache. Like those experienced while people suddenly begin to speak in Swiss German, or any other dialect of a known language, and the audience believes to understand one word every three, or a little bit more. The request was similarly confusing because it was not expressed in the business language, but in the informal and politically correct expressions of a young startup. It was per se a wonder, because I did not imagine that such a small group of enthusiastic youth could have ever afforded to hire a consultancy like mine. I underestimated the huge amount of money pouring into the coffer of the city hall, apparently the main sponsors of the initiative. They also added explicitly that no white cis-man, that means no white man with a clear sexual orientation, should be in the lead of the project. Thus I have not been selected for my skills, but only for being a woman. It is just a piety that I really can’t force my feelings, or I could start to go around the office wearing a rainbow foulard around my neck. On eBay I should also fine some green party stickers to be applied to my ebike. I am realising how so many words have acquired the prefix i- or e-, mostly quite uselessly. 

Lenin

I definitely built my castle. It is well grounded and solid. IT has required a lot of effort to be assembled, the superstructure and the substructure had to collimate perfectly. To work on the towers, it has been the most different task; not to forget the roofs, because it is the point when you can recognize the quality of what lies below. There are even some bells in the towers. The very same sound that I wanted to forbid, decades ago, while leading the Revolution. It was the music of the clerical reaction, as my propaganda depicted it. In my second age, or century, or era, bells were hated by so many other groups, all of them without a clear understanding of the implication of their statements. I like the sound of the bells right now, because it reminds me of a past far less chaotic than the so-called modern times. My times were modern even one hundred years ago, for those who were living them for the first time. These modern times of which I have started to complain, where social monsters are those few who blame alcoholism and drug consumption as a vice or disagree about the subversion of moral values, are too awful to me. By buying a paper kit of a castle in a bargain shop, choosing such a hobby because it is the cheapest I found, it is a way to escape reality. The building lies on my desk and I should complain to myself that I do not expect it could have occupied such a lot of space in my tiny apartment. Perhaps I will destroy it thus still appearing to be the leader of the Revolution.

The art dealer

Another good opportunity comes out from the Zurich market. It is a c-print, a chromographic print this time. A sort of a print, but suitable to reproduce photographs in an artistic format. The result provides such a strength that it is hard not to get captive by the projected images and start to believe to live inside them. To me it is a sort of virtual reality, although with a dedicated screen for each trip. This time the supposed to be a bargain involves Thomas Ruff, whose works have already been on my target for a long time. Germany looks to have created quite a good number of artists during the most recent years. Perhaps because they do not have an army anymore where to practice the kind of art they are most renowned for. If I had to invest my money, then the choice for Thomas Ruff would be a good one. Meanwhile a neighbor of mine has approached me with the idea to invest in bitcoins. He is a professional wealth manager and introduced himself as a dedicated one for HNWI clientele only. I do not belong to such a category, but apparently the lack of a sufficient number of believers has made him far less selective. I have got a double choice. Whether to put my money in artworks and resell them at double the price, or I invest into cryptocurrencies hoping that they will triple the value quite soo and allow me to buy that kind of art that I mostly enjoy. Both of them are risky paths.

The consultant

I have not already spoken with the partner, since I want to make him clear the rage I am feeling because of the treatment I have received. Several other colleagues have however tried to persuade me to keep calm and reasonable. For the position I demanded, I should also bring with me enough revenues to cover a couple of millions a year with new opportunities. A goal that would be judged by many as unrealistic. I am however convinced of my skills, also of my network and I could bring on the desk much more than many believe. I am so angry and at the same time I feel so motivated that I do not want to give up. I have even forgotten about my quest to find the right soulmate. Perhaps I will meet someone while acquiring a new client. Although I do not believe it is compliant to flirt with a prospective client or a C-level met during an offering phase. However, forgetting about my career level, it is also summertime and I must enjoy most of my time afterwork. Perhaps in a Badi I could find what I am looking for and at the same time get the opportunity to relax, that is the most important one. The weather during the weekend is not the best for this kind of entertainment, but there is more than one suitable alternative. Including an open air kino, with titles not really recent, but at least decent. My energy must be so low if I am resorting to these kinds of jokes. It is the hint to forget about my career and repeat myself until I will not get out of this state of mind.

Lenin 

I was the leader of the Revolution, a master of intrigue whose deeds are really known only to a few ones. Those few ones are not living anymore and I would wonder to myself on the contrary, since everything happened around one hundred years ago. I am now a useless actor, interpreting myself in a museum set up by fanatics and nostalgics of the ideology that partially bears my name. I do not know whether to be proud to read my name beside that of a stranded German philosopher, but I suppose that my background cannot be judged much better. To feel my free time, that is abundant, I lost any passion for reading political newspapers or writing letters to politicians, intellectuals and philosophers who would consider my writings the fruit of a chronic mental disease. Or perhaps I could get the attention of the media and be broadcasted as in the movie of that Hitler who comes back again. It could work in Germany, but really few would find an interest in Lenin speaking again in Schwyzer-Dutch. The state television would be further accused to lean too much to the left and to waste further money on a show followed by few. I experimented the social media, but you can find there such a perverse mechanism that only the simplest and trivial concept can prevail. Taking care of my own small apartment is the best way to express myself, in front of the greatest public, me.

The art dealer

I have lost a great deal today. A piece of David Shrigley that could have really been sold for nothing if my fingers had been only faster. The Internet site did not allow any lottery. The faster you are, the cheaper you could have acquired the piece. In the best case paying less than one thousand pounds for a print worth at least three thousand. That is a small sum if compared with the above thirty millions dollars spider sold two years ago at Art Basel, on the very first day of the preview of the previews. Anyway one thousand pounds is an amount within my budget and it is useless to dream for higher figures if I live with such a constraint. I met someone who, even without realizing that, found himself with a painting collection enviable by any museum. If I persist, I could take advantage of my knowledge of the art market to make some good points and grow up to the next career level.. Meanwhile I should be happy with my work, as a Japanese Colonel continuously said in an old war movie I have forgotten the title. My dad loved these war movies. Most of the stories have focused on something to explode, destroy or keep against an overwhelming number of Germans or Japanese. I found that boring. Propaganda cliche as much as that pro-vietcong poster “And Babies?... and babies”. The artist chose to ignore how many babies, and dads, and mums had been killed, or starved to death, because of the viet congs. And how many families lost their houses and had to flee to the West. Perhaps the war movies were based on better principles.

The consultant

I thought I had been hired as a senior manager, but when I looked at the organization chart I found myself placed as a plain manager. I cannot understand the quid pro quo, since the HR, at the time of having hired me, clearly spoke about a senior manager position. Also at the time of the contract, when I asked what that code meant. I now find myself downgraded, with the only fault to have trusted an hr manager at the time of signing the contract. For someone alien to the mechanisms and not written rules of consultancy, it is just a formality. For someone obsessed with consultancy rules it is extremely important, because after a certain age it can hinder the chance to get promoted to partner level. That is actually the primary goal of any consultant. In the beginning it is just a dream, because many do not survive the first couple of years. Not to mention those who resign after three months or less. But, when after many years of humiliation, you are getting close to the goal and only because of the wicked, or stupid, arts of a hr manager, you miss it, that is despicable. It is irritating and makes me crazy because I cannot resign, but if I stay longer my career will be ruined as well. A solution can be to create my own company. I will exploit the time by working on the idea. After all, I am on the bench. An Italian Prince would have put some poison in the golden goblet of the HR manager, but I am not interpreting a tragedy. At the best, I am playing the fool in a brilliant comedy.

Lenin 

I am wasting my time decorating my home. What a pity it is to have been one of the finest troublemakers all around Europe and now finding myself to cope with everyday problems as a quiet housewife. A neighbor of mine is called Jenny, she is quite attractive and manages a high end boutique near the museum where I work and live. She must be affluent as well, given the price of the housing in the area. When I compared her to Jenny Marx, she however did not understand and replied she has never heard about that name. During the glorious days of the Socialist Revolution, the name of Jenny Marx was praised almost as much as one of the great fathers of Ideology. Nowadays it is a lot if someone sustains that he has heard about a similar character from his grandfather storytelling. Switzerland is not the U.S. and the country is not subject to the socialist fashion. Leftist here are usually those who are living on social welfare. With some flexible interpretation, this category includes public employees as well. Sometimes even intellectuals. However there is a good number of well established writers, journalists and even actors who can still make good earnings without subjugating their mind, or at least their words, to the red thought. Beside those, high-end consultants and employees in the financial services have also not already been infected by the so-called woke virus. If I had to come back to the ideological fight, I should have moved to the U.S. Old Europe looks to have lost its power and independence, but also any kind of appetite for socialist lies. Despite the fact that I created it, I have also got enough of marxist-leninist philosophy.

The art dealer

I am still in Zurich and I cannot manage to escape right now. Another affluent client from the area justifies my presence. This time, it is a woman living in the Zug area. Zug, in German, means train, with my amusement for some plain puns. The Lady from the train, as I call him, is so cautious about each purchase that I need, everytime I offer her an artwork, to provide all the relevant data about the market for that object. The point is that she is expecting forecasts as well and, in the art market, nothing is so uncertain as value predictions. I could assume any figure she would like, clearly stating what is a good return of investment, after taxes, framing, transport costs and insurances. That makes the job quite hard, unless you are not so brilliant, or lucky, to have bought a Van Gogh while the artist was in need. Beside the fact that his brother was a skilled art dealer, working for one of the major houses in the Netherlands, and that I doubt he did not want to launch the great painter on the market while still alive. It was a matter of convenience. Theo Van Gogh created at first the myth and made a profit afterwards. He also created false expectations for people such as my client, who hopes, with her meager savings, to one day become a millionaire. With the assumption that the state, or a not-institutional thief, i.e. a professional burglar, will not deprive her of the lolly. In the end, you cannot hang on the wall the tickets of the national lottery that you purchased and enjoy their view. Stocks are not even printed anymore. A good picture is always enjoyable, despite its worth will not increase as high as expected. Let’s go and enjoy a trip on the boat, perhaps I will celebrate a deal.

The consultant

In Zurich there is a big party during the weekend, that means more and more people from all around Switzerland and more mess than usual all around the dustbins. It is a clear nuisance since I cannot stand the crowd and even in the case that I could mingle with the folk, it is only with a specific purpose. Perhaps I need to take a deep breath and join the follies of the town. Pictures of the NZZ portrait ladies comfortably drinking a glass of white wine surrounded by a good amount of young men in boxers and white t-shirts. Not all of them have their arms fully covered by tattoos. I still cannot convince myself especially if I do not want to mate with a junior consultant who could declare to me his love for a whole night and disappear after a few weeks because he has found a more attractive kindergarten teacher far less busy and younger than me. I would prefer to limit myself to spending the afternoon or the whole day at home, reading comics and the last issue of the HBR. From my terrace with a full lake view, for which I am paying quite a lot of money extra, I will look at the fireworks and cheer up thinking not to be alone in this world. Women like me usually have a pet to take care of, but I think it is pathetic. I prefer to be misunderstood as a feminist who has only her own career in focus. That is not, but in such a leftist town perhaps it will help. Or perhaps not, if my boss has got enough of all the noise produced by any kind of activists, from Fridays to Sundays. Sometimes even during the middle of the week. I suppose it is not a problem for them to take a day off from their jobs, since most of those greenish socialists believe that income should only originate from state redistribution.

Lenin

Once again I think I have committed many mistakes in my life. The most relevant one having developed the illusion that by depriving people of spiritualism, I could have better driven them towards fanaticism. The whole of France is rioting, but the uprising is born in one of the few environments of the country under the strong influence of religion. Not that Islam is far away from socialism and its adepts. It was so popular among black Americans who wanted to get rid of capitalism, with the awkward illusion that they could have been thus freed from racism and prejudices. On the contrary their race is now blamed, by its enemies, for strongly relying on social welfare. Islam was also beloved by those German intellectuals, or wannabes, who also sustained the national socialist mysticism. Their deal with the Mufti of Jerusalem was quite a remarkable one, however doomed to fail as much as most of their plans. This kind of Islam, that inspires the banlieues of France, is however a different one. It is made of the same rage ignited by the spirit of Versailles. Germans had been humiliated by the peace conditions. The Arab youth feels humiliated by the conditions required by social peace. Although I doubt that the French mod knows more about Islam than many nazi officers and slave descendants in the suburbs of any American Town. Perhaps Uncle Tom’s descendants are the best suited, among these three groups of people, to receive the word of God. Perhaps they are not so different from the Russian slaves whose souls were traded by Chichikov. After such a lot of reasoning, I understand that spiritualism and the understanding of the Book of the Lord would avoid rage and violence. I fI want to preserve this world, I thus need to give up my crusade against believers and become one of them.

The art dealer

I am still in Zurich, walking around the town. I am not totally enthusiastic about the current exhibitions, if not the permanent ones. The Kunsthaus offers a retrospective on the Islamic world and its influence on European culture. The subject has upset me, still remembering when Switzerland rejected the building concession of mosques, thus establishing a stop to the islamic conquest of Europe. Once again I need to restrain my blood and most intimate feelings, but act as a pragmatic gentleman. Most of my clients have got islamic background, yet they are good buyers. I cannot afford either to be too selective with my clientele. That is in the end the same spirit that drove the decision of the European ruling class, when it decided to give up the idea of war in the name of religion. Especially given the fact that our faith is fading away and the temple of the Lord is empty. If not in the four counties, where we still need to fight with the weapons in our hands for the sake of our ancestors. I do not know how long the truce will last. I can only trust in the leadership skills of the Government in London and in the division among Roman Catholics and Celts. However, politics is not my job, art is. Or actually the art market and the exhibition at the Kunsthaus could give me some good ideas to exploit while trying to convince my islamic best clients to make a purchase. My boss had already sealed a good component of his current fortune decades ago, when he managed to buy a portfolio of several drawings signed by Delacroix and executed during his travels in North Africa. I should not forget to give a look at the Baldessari’s exhibition as well. It is organized by a private gallery, perhaps a competitor, but I should recognize it is a brilliant coup. John Baldessari was a genius by himself, but also the gallerist who chose the subject “Food” should be gifted with a great IQ:

The consultant

My company event had the only result to make me feel even more lonely than I actually am. I moved around the groups of drinks and standards without a proper purpose. In the best of cases, the point of conversation was how to be a woman in a business consultancy, how hardly I have been discriminated against and how bravely I gained my manager's medals. Others, far less caring about being politically correct, inquired about my marital status, but even in that case I doubt they were really interested. Without a project to work on I could only ask about others’ activities. Per se an excellent idea, that could have shown me a wide insight of the company opportunities. I am however so dissatisfied with myself that I was not in the mood to hunt for information either. I preferred to quit earlier, while my colleagues were at their fourth or even sixth Bierli and stroll around central Zurich at night. I went to the lakeside, paying attention to the ghost bicycles driving fast on the lanes shared with pedestrians. The Baur au Lac, with its beautiful park, was on my left side. The green was empty and the lights of the summer restaurant were already switched off. Not so far, on the square in front of the UBP and the ZKB, I am not sure whether it is still Burkliplatz, several people were dancing to the tunes of Astor Piazzolla. I decided to join them, keeping myself at enough distance not to get noticed and being at risk of getting invited. Observing their rhythmic movements relaxed me and almost gave me further courage. At a certain point I was even inspired to move back and rejoin the party, but I suppose that most of the consultants were wild enough to have already moved in the direction of the Langstrasse. I never entered a disco club in that area, I am too old for that and too clean as well. It was time to take the tram and reach for my door.

Lenin 

I am not wondering that I have lost all the enjoyment to draw and design plots for the Revolution. The XXI century is nothing more than a mix of the worst failures of my age. People are so nostalgic of the past that they are trying to re-act the most remarkable deeds of one hundred years ago, although without proper results. The flag of failure is the most common one, even when it is so evident that a different route is needed. I am still attending the bar de l’Odéon, mostly to keep an eye on the news from Russia. Only yesterday someone tried to overthrow the government, at least according to the summary for the common people. I have noticed so many quarrels like these, during my previous life, that I cannot stop laughing when I read about the ghosts of 1917. Nowadays players hardly understand the commitment and the ambition that we employed one hundred years  ago. As if soldiers could complain that, by fighting, they put their life at peril. Even politicians, at least under my leadership, and Stalin's, had to constantly cope with a light chance to be sentenced to the capital punishment. Nowadays, if not with the exception of the most violent and less developed countries, the worst that a public servant could fear is to become unpopular on social networks. Yet, in Russia people continue to die for real, despite the fact that political leaders have preferred to act as clowns. I chose not to get involved with the public administration anymore, nor even by developing and spreading the socialist ideology. Back in the museum, I must behave as the original Lenin, and nobody else could do better. Since I am the only one who knows my writings so well.  Here, on the lakeside, I would recommend any young boy approaching me to stay away from orthodoxy and fanaticism. He would perhaps not understand, because he has not experienced the consequences.

The art dealer

I am sorting out all the business cards collected by Art Basel, waiting for a deal to be closed. That is a quite unusual one, since it is the daughter of an affluent client who will take the decision. She is just a teenager, grown up with the Lego bricks and Disney classics, toys and movies that once belonged to her father. The latter has decided to reduce to the minimum all the expenses in his household, with the goal to save as much money as possible and invest the lolly in his homely museum. That, I should admit, is already something. The daughter now wants for her birthday to start with her own collection and she has designated, as a first piece, a whole series. The artworks consist of an extremely fine edition, published by Gemini G.E.L., who are artists by their own. It is made, the portfolio, of ten collages on paper signed by Frank Gehry. He is an architect, he designed something for Disney and got inspired to create a collage dedicated to Alice in Wonderland. Now comes the particular taste and choice of the young daughter of my prominent client. Nobody could have been better provided a son, or a daughter, with a better imprint. In this case I would congratulate the father as much as his issue. I am only wondering whether such a piece could be of any value in the long term. However there are so many children all around the world, all of them grown up with Lego bricks and Disney, that a similar taste should be quite popular thus making the artwork, or the artworks, a really desirable one. From my side I prefer to invest in the blue chips of the art market and stay away from the unusual path. It could make me rich, but I cannot afford the risk.

The consultant

The summer has just begun and it is a good time for company events. My organization is really generous under this perspective and everybody is looking forward to next Friday’s party. Not just those who are single, but even the most senior members, those successful enough to afford to have a family in the most traditional sense. Such as one I am dreaming of. ”I would not accept to stay at home and take care of the house only”, that is what I had to tell every time I was questioned about the subject. Even feminists, or the feminist movement, tries to coerce women to think how it is expected. I would prefer to be free enough to decide on my own and I am sure that I could enjoy the role of the angel of the domestic environment. On the contrary, I am the angel of Powerpoint. Unless I do not manage to get onboarded soon on a new project. So far I am lying in the middle of the open space, with colleagues staring at me like vultures at a carcass. They should not laugh too openly, because within a week, or a month, the balance of power can be exactly the opposite one. I am right now in charge of the training of the newbees who hardly know how to write a proper presentation. I could work on some research on the latest trends, during my spare time, but I am not sure whether I am not trying to step into someone else's shoes. For sure they will warn me that I am not working for Forrester, or Gartner either. Another option, not to fall asleep or lose my skills either, is to conduct the research anyway, but to keep the result on my own. I could also publish the results as an article on LinkedIn, but it would just confirm to the world that I am sitting on the bench.

Lenin

I almost forgot why I am living here and what I am aiming at. Intellectuals are moved by different ambitions than most of the common people. We like to enjoy our dreams, being able to live on them, catch the attention of as many people as possible and being remembered for eternity. Such ambition can be explained by an exceptional ego only and I wonder whether common men are not better gifted than intellectuals. Perhaps their understanding is also quite a good one, their IQ could be as high as mine, but ofr some reasons they lack ambition and determination. That is the point, I cannot find this determination anymore because I have lost my goals. One hundred years ago there was a czar to be overthrown. I hated him and his family because he represented everything. I could not obtain nor by birth nor through my skills. After one hundred years everything has changed. For some reason I do not wish anymore to live in a large castle surrounded by hundreds of servants nor to sit on a golden chair. I kept some taste for champagne and beautiful women, not necessarily with strong moral principles, but nothing more. By strolling along the lake and looking at the rays of the sun reflecting on the stones, or the bricks of the roofs of the japanese garden, I do not catch anymore the need of improving my condition. I do not know whether by reading Karl Marx, or looking into my own past writings - they are indeed too many - I would be able to find any reasonable explanation. I am beginning to even confuse the correct wording. Perhaps a good dish of knusperli with a beer will clear my mind.

The art dealer

Once again on the road to Basel. Basel Art Basel or Art Basel Basel. I need to attend the fair every year, a great vanity circus where just few can afford to buy and many pretend to be potential buyers. Of course there is someone who can really afford to make a good investment, but you can never know who it is. The adventure starts on the train, sometimes from Zurich, sometimes from Stuttgart. Planes are fully booked and you need to find a suitable alternative on land routes. This year I collected an aged photographer, a woman who says to have attended the art school in Duesseldorf, or in Hamburg, and been invited for some ceremony. Beside her a Hungarian performance artist who has got to take a train connection to Budapest and relies on the precision of the Swiss railways. Forgetting the effects of soft socialism or the country's efficiency. The best character is however a tall man, in his late fifties or early sixties, whose accent is not clear, trying to justify some mismanagement in a transaction while speaking on the phone. On the other side, somewhere, perhaps in the US, given the accent, a certain Sara is complaining that nobody is recognizing her role in the deal. Most probably it is a matter of fees to be divided.The man mentioned a party at the Beyeler Foundation, he does not look really affluent. Perhaps he is one of the many who makes a living from some occasional deal, while also living from state support and free food and drinks offered at these parties. His nose is red, perhaps some effect of the burning sun of these days. Or perhaps even an affection for alcohol. I hope to never look like these people, but be able to earn enough to sustain all my expenses without begging around or playing like a clown. I am too proud for that kind of life.

The consultant

Without a project in my hands, I am wasting my time in the office without a clear purpose. The senior manager is teasing me. He is well aware that, due to inclusivity management and other quota criteria, I have got more chances to rise up in the company hierarchy than he has. Without a project I am like a warrior in a circus who has lost his weapons. Or her weapons, in my case, with the extra need to adopt inclusivity in my words. Anybody can take advantage of me and the best solution is to avoid my fiercest enemies. I doubt that trying to make a pact with them could help. Just the idea to propose a truce would highlight my weakness and some colleagues would enjoy throwing at me the arrows of their frustration. Luckily, it is summer time and I could enjoy a rest all around Zurich. I have got the choice, perhaps driven by the less crowded areas. Along the lake it is indeed quite impossible to find a place that is free. Even by paying the entrance in one of the most expensive Badi. They are actually all very affordable, especially given the average Zurich prices. The only swimming pool not being overcrowded, if not for children, is the one nearby the zoo. Perhaps because most people want to stay around their home or tell their friends that they could take a refreshing bath just by crossing the road. What I am really missing is however the comfort of someone I could thrust and who could stay by me. That would be much more important than feeling on my skin the waves of the lake, or on my face the gentle wind coming from the surrounding mountains, or hills. Right now I am just waiting for the end of the regular bank hours and planning for an afterwork at the Fischerstube.

Lenin

I have been invited to a party at the Kunsthaus just to point out how capitalist socialism is the most recent love of cultural elites. Perhaps even monetary ones. My presence would have not been really needed, because there was no time for a public speech. On the stage a good number of artists and technology experts had been aligned as the members of the Ramovs in front of their execution plot. After a few minutes of taking pictures for the social networks, it was my turn to stand up in the middle of the theater. From all around a parody of the soviet anthem was executed by a rock band inspired by some sort of crypto punk monster. They clarified to me they were not strange creatures, but apes and that the digital portraits of these primates could reach the value of several apartments, even given the latest Zurich prices. I could have expected the artists to read some joint proclamation. Nothing like that, if not the clear statement of a multiple number of businessmen to be the first to have conceived a not well clarified way to make money. I felt so useless, that I preferred to go home trying to avoid the guests who wanted to stop by and ask me for a selfie. At least they have been really polite, with no exceptions. They were as polite as Russian aristocrats before the Revolution while communicating with each other. With ordinary people they adopted a different tone, the one that helped me to ignite the troubles. I am quite curious to know how these modern aristocrats would handle their servants, if they had any. Capitalism has transferred the money in the hands of those usually mistreated, with the only exception of the highest upper class. Under such conditions, the Revolution will hardly occur once again.

The art dealer

What a frustrating weekend, catching up with pretending art collectors on behalf of my boss. I had to travel back to Zurich, a city that I can hardly stand because of the far too high expenses. While on a mission, I usually manage to save some of the extra budget on small expenses such as an art book or a collection of high quality tee cans. It is not the case when I work in Switzerland, especially in the German speaking one. I have always questioned my boss that he is doing his calculations on the basis of some old report when the Point was exchanged to three or four Swiss Francs. Now that the Pound is just below the parity, my daily allowance does hardly cover a lunch in the Migros Restaurant. He even advised me to eat at an Indian Restaurant, because such places are usually cheap in continental Europe. He ignores the few Indians within the Swiss borders who are working for the main IT companies and belong to the highest percentile. That actually happens in the U.S. and the British Islands also, but when it comes to being stingy my boss can find out the most creative and anachronistic excuses. Working in Switzerland brings however some advantages, since even the average art lover has got a decent budget to invest and is moved by an uncommon desire to make money on his bet on the art market. Not this time. I found myself attending a meeting of crypto artists, trading their pieces for a few Tezos with the hope to hit the jackpot within a few years. There was nothing for me to do, if not to try to be polite and take part in the lottery with the few Pounds left out of the common expenses.

The consultant

Back in Zurich, I am feeling so sad. That man that I met in Dresden was so decent, that I could fall in love. The project has however received a sudden stop. We were using only a part of the whole budget and someone directing the portfolio managers decided that the company money should be diverted to those who could take the full advantage of the investments. The golden cross of the Frauenkirche, to which I got so accustomed that it now belongs to my most familiar impressions, is now only a sad memory. I would have liked to spend even the weekends there in the East, on a boat along the Elbe, embarking and disembarking from the small ports in the Sächsischen Schweiz. I am however back in the heart of Switzerland, the original one, far away from the Ossie accent. Perhaps a Volksfest could help me, at least to recover the authentic atmosphere of a Beergarten. I am now feeling in Zurich like Heidi in Frankfurt. I am not away from the mountains, but I would like to walk along the banks of the German rivers, listen to the hits of the 1980s, those still so popular at the Oktoberfest. Last year, at the company Summer Party, I dared to ask one of these hits to the band playing for us. The reaction was so harsh, that I preferred to take the path of the gin tonics. Alcohol did not help me to understand Swiss German, nor the musical taste of the 2020s Swiss Youth. It is quite Midnight and tomorrow is going to start a new working week. I hope it will bring some good news, from Zurich or from Dresden.

Lenin

I cannot believe that I do not understand the most recent developments of the Revolution. The concept, I must admit, has always been related to some long established political equilibrium that is not tenable anymore. The younger generation is not happy with what was provided by the previous one and begins to subvert the institutions. However they also need some more experienced leaders to highlight the road to be followed. Some mature head who could take profit from his leadership and at the same time enjoy the advantages of the status quo. It is due to these wise heads that some of the most dangerous viruses have never infected the mob at such a level to destroy our civilization. Only the power of mass production and technology has enabled the red and the brown front to take over the power more than one hundred years ago. Even if just temporarily. The Revolution as intended nowadays somehow puzzles me. It is clear that it affects more women than men and it is a must for the gay community. Even if I am not so sure that sexual orientation can influence the political thoughts of individuals, nor the masses. There could also be some racial component, but much more due to the greedy and snobbish attitude of Franchmen and Britons. Perhaps it is the French component of the Britons, the blood of those landed from Normandy, that made British colonialism hatred as much as the French one. But even in this case, the cause and effects of colonialism are just transient for the sake of the Revolution. As soon as Africa will have a well established middle-class, or African immigrants will thrive with their own businesses, the Revolution will not be able to rely on them anymore. The middle class is however like the cholesterol, there is a bad and a good one. I need to rely on the bad one, the one that is ambitious enough to be unsatisfied of its own condition, to be envious of the upper class and at the same time disdains the common workers and poor, the ones that easily gets bored as spoiled children and wants to dream about an epic fight for good ideals. These people shall be mine.

The art dealer

You recognise a valuable piece when it is a well and accurate representation of the time. For instance a blue human skull with some black ink to define the eyes, accompanied by an optimistic slogan. During the last epidemic, it was fashionable to assert that everything would have gone well thanks to the state effort. It was a time when the market abruptly stopped, red brick galleries were on the verge to fail, but after a while the complete show suddenly recovered. It was the moment when I tried to go online with my posters collection and I got contacted by the major aggregator, the one I am currently working for. It is sad to have given up the idea to become an independent player, but under such circumstances I cannot do better. My niche is not so different from many others and, if even the sean of the greatest families have to fight to score a successful career path by McKinsey or Boston Consulting, I doubt that independent art galleries should satisfy themselves with unsustainable reduced margins. That means, by being independent the earnings are so small that the business can be justified only for bored persons in retirement. Those kinds of former successful managers or art lovers who are actually the lovers of someone affluent. Since I need to live on my earnings, and accumulate enough to do some meaningful investment on my own, I have got no other choice than to accept a low profile employment for one of the biggest players. More or less, we are making only forty millions a year of total revenues and actual big players are others than my company. We have however reached some public recognition and, beside the Hockneys I failed to place, most of our sales do not average more than three thousand pounds. That is anyway a good salary, especially outside London, for anybody living on the British Islands. A commuter to the City perhaps cannot afford to spend such an amount on art, but people living far away from the capital should have no problems to book for a distinguished trophy to be exhibited at home.

The consultant

My date went well, up in the jazz bar. He is a kind man. I thought he was a colleague, but he is not. He has not revealed to me his job yet, I did not ask. For a while I do not want to judge people by ranking, tenure and revenues. It was a genuine, happy evening in the middle of Dresden. I would have preferred to find my ideal date in Zurich, perhaps an affluent local doctor, member of a Zunft and co-owner of a profitable clinic. With a subscription at the Spa of the Dolder and his main apartment in Stäfa, where he could have some advantage on taxation. No, my date looks to be a lovely yet unusual man, dressed without following the fashion, but of kind manners. He did not tell me too much about him, if not that he loves to write and collect art. He has not specified whether he is living on that or any other kind of activity. I decided to trust him and let him speak about his job during the next meeting. On the project I am still quite busy, and sometimes even enthusiastic. On the contrary, I like life in Zurich less and less. The colleagues in Switzerland look to have just come out from the most renowned international business schools, thus expecting a good return of investment on their own careers. If only they had some actual need of money, as I do. Being their families definitely rich, having grown up in a cultural environment that tried to be as polite as possible, they seem to have lost any attachment to the real world. Most of them are simple creatures terrorized by climate change or racism. The latter is by the way, in Switzerland,  much more directed at the German freelancers from Freiburg than third world immigrants. This last generation of hippies spends the whole week complaining and asking for help, while waiting for their velo-demo or lgbt parties beginning on Fridays evenings and ending on Sunday mornings. Perhaps Dresden is a safer place.

Lenin

I am losing the hearth of men, but conquering that of women. At least according to the most recent statistics. It would have been difficult to prove that feminism could have helped so much with the Revolution, or at least the necessary steps to achieve the egalitarian state ruled by socialist elites. Private property can be seen as unethical only with a continuous brainwashing of the masses and women are particularly skilled with that. For millennia, since the birth of humankind, it was our female companion to drive us to the most dissolute decisions. Perhaps even this time, all those frustrated girls and women can collect enough strength to provoke the collapse of capitalist society. Far too many rules, increased bureaucracy and social rights make any kind of business unprofitable. Even without officially forbidding it, the free market will be put aside. The most wicked aspect of this theory, is that common people cannot even recognize the changes ongoing and if someone will notice that the Soviet Union is born once again, then it will be too late. I smell marxism in the air, as strong as the stink of cannabis. To the latter I got almost accustomed after a couple of years living in the Zurich city center. My room in the museum is quite smallish, but given the fact that I do not pay a monthly rent, it is a great premium. I am saving enough money, despite my low salary, that if I will live for a further century, without decomposing, a beautiful apartment with a lake view will be within my budget. For purchasing, not for renting. Of course also provided that the Revolution shall not triumph as I have foreseen. There is some contradiction in my thoughts, maybe because of the age or the job in the museum, that is dull and boring. If I were an optimist, I would consider my position a well-spoken one. However it goes, I can re emerge as patron of the working class, actually as leader. Otherwise I can enjoy the benefits of a very old man, who managed to keep his job on the long term in a capitalistic society. But I want more, I want to be recognized, it is the need of my strong ego.

The art dealer

Art Basel is approaching and I need to do all the needed due diligence to anticipate the good deals. Any kind of trick will be applied by galleries, issuers and flippers to make the highest margin. It is however quite hard to obtain admission during the preview of the preview, that is the only moment when it is possible to seal a good bargain. Otherwise I will access only the leftovers, that means editions and paintings sold at the same price of much more valuable pieces of the same dimension, technique and author. It took me a while to understand that it is possible to make a profit not only by buying on the primary market and reselling within six months or a year. This works with chosen popular artists only. Even the right selection of colors and subject can determine a profitable margin. For instance the Ukrainian yellow and blue, per se a good combination, have recently recorded a positive effect on auction prices. Since, as a dealer, I can convince most of the buyers by comparing my offer with the highest auction results, this also affects my margins. Luckily my relationship with my boss has also improved during the last weeks, once again on good terms and almost forgetting the setback I had to suffer with the Hockneys. It would have been a pity if I had lost my position, being unable to make a profit of what I learnt during the last two years. Of course I still need to improve my knowledge, and that is not so easy. I get continuously distracted by the messages on the social networks. Unfortunately I also need to monitor them, because most of the times my clients contact me by Whatsapp only and if I do not react really quickly there would be a very high risk not to conclude the transaction. Most of my clients buy on an emotional basis, few are professional investors or experienced collectors. They just want to decorate the new home or make a present to their wife. Few ones select artworks for their lovers, perhaps because it is clear that it will not be returned once the relationship is broken.

The consultant

I have perhaps met the right man for me. He is not necessarily handsome, but he possesses the charme of older men. At least older than me. He could be in the range forty five - fifty five, but I am not sure because I have met him one evening out with colleagues and not on Tinder. His LinkedIn also lacks information because he does not even mention his graduation year. Provided he is not a university dropper. His profile claims to have attended both the ETH and the University of St Gallen, but he could have just done a CAS in both of them. That is sometimes possible also in absence of regular studies. He however states to hold a good position by a local bank, he is a platform owner or someone like that. These kinds of titles have been inflated with all the recent trends about management and governance, up to the point that I somehow lose myself when I need to speak with an influential stakeholder. More experienced, or cleverer, colleagues can better orient themselves in such a labyrinth, but with this skill I am really catastrophic. It is also hard to clearly focus on the profile of whom I would like to date. Perhaps someone in Dresden can provide me with a good hint without the risk of losing my face in Zurich. My income is already below the market average in the financial services, given Zurich as a reference. I cannot afford to seal a relationship with another churchmouse. It is not a matter of ambition or gamification of sentiments, but old plain common sense. I am in the age to get married and procreate. Without a reasonable income supporting the educational costs, my child will risk becoming part of the under qualified workers who need state assistance to survive in such an expensive city. A further servant of the left in the town council, because without public welfare the only alternative is to move out of town and commute up to one hundred kilometers on a daily basis. I am already living a stressful life, I do not wish the same for my children. 

Lenin 

I managed to triumph, or actually the leftist Party did, in a remote town in Italy, on the Swiss borders. A place where just thirty years ago the communist flag terrorized the minds of the local population and agitated the words of the local priests. It is now the church and the catholic movement that has supported the heirs of the red banner to win the local elections. Perhaps they just need to wait a few years and they shall be able to set up the celebrations for the anniversary of the Revolution. I am so proud of those who so successfully manipulated the mind of those former opponents of my ideology, now totally blind in front of my propaganda. Yet, there is such a lot to do before being able to take over the power in a country big enough to influence the neighboring nations. Switzerland must be avoided however. It must stay a safe place for all of us, all of us ambitious enough to want to reshape the world, but cautious enough to keep a whole region far away from the undesired and unexpected effects of social experiments and effective public speeches. The friends of the museums perhaps share my risk of adversity, since they are so enthusiastic to talk about socialism, but they also live quite standard middle-class existences. Actually, I sometimes find them quite boring for having learnt any possible slogan and stereotype by heart. If there were a robot able to replicate the gestures of a socialist activist, this machine would perhaps sound less mechanical. Lack of talent combined with the need to express our minds, often impells to adhere to some stupid and empty ritual. I should blame myself for exposing socialism to such harsh commentaries, but I am convinced to speak the truth. When I created the ideology, out of the Marx´​ complete works and the rage of the anarchists, I did an excellent job rich with creativity. Only an ingenious mind could have conceived such a system. Stalin, although not so refined and sometimes dumb as only a Georgian peasant could be, or even worse a Georgian seminarist, was also a genius to so successfully implement my theories and intentions. All those who followed however totally lack any feeling for innovation, and they even manage to overbook the most pragmatic problems. Their medals obfuscated their minds, as much as the Nobel Prize does with liberals.

The art dealer

I am now facing an odd and unusual problem. Someone is offering me a new issue of an artwork that is almost unique, to be sold to a selected number of collectors. That person looks to be in this elitist league of art lovers who are entitled to purchase a piece during a preview and resell it afterwards without a problem, but with a huge margin. I wish I were one of them. This time the buyer does not look to have a sufficient network to place the meisterwerk, or supposed so, and contacts me. I have never dealt with him before. I am just aware that he has got good pieces in his own collection, but it sounds odd that he has got no connections at all. My boss is now on leave and perhaps it is wiser to wait for him to be back before making the next move. Such a thought is perhaps too pavid and risk averse, making me look like the common man who walks along the street complaining about his poor wage that has not increased in ten years. I should start to consider myself an entrepreneur, although I received a salary on a regular basis plus commissions. The point is that I find myself in no different situation than my potential client, who manages to purchase an almost unique and valuable item, but at the same time has no market where to sell it. Staying at home is a pleasant activity, and allows you to spare a lot of money as well, when living in a city like London, but it closes the door to more potential and valuable contrasts. Luckily we have got Internet, but even relying on a good VR casket, digital life makes me sick. It is totally unnatural and I get easily addicted to social networks and videogames that provide me with the feeling of having accomplished something useful when I have just wanted my time. Now that the NFT market is surging again and is mixing with gaming and enhanced interactions, I cannot stay away, but need to pay a lot of attention. Much more than to an unknown wannabe art dealer proposing a bargain on the most beguiled object of the moment.

The consultant

Compulsory training is a part of my job and I am supposed to find some time, out of the regular office hours and the irregular project hours, to dedicate myself to the recurring videos on privacy and integrity. It is quite obvious not to tell too much about current engagements and current prospective clients, but it is perhaps not so obvious and the company still needs a way to be able to legally persecute unloyal employees. It will still be possible to find an excuse and sustain that nobody mentioned not to shout loudly in the middle of the train about what the client intends to do through the business strategy or any other relevant decision. A minimum level of integrity is also quite easy to understand, but I really do not know how promptly I would react in case someone will try to bribe me. For sure I shall not be part of the game. I have never stolen anything in my life and bribes are stolen money. From the client, the company, or the final user. I really do not know whether in the former Eastern Germany, years of dictatorship have loosened the ethics of the local population. I like to entertain myself with the former Ossies. They are quite communicative and I do not have to forget that one hundred years ago they lived in one of the most wealthy areas of Europe. It is so strange to consider that, but I seldom discuss politics and prefer to keep the focus on my tasks and social life. Tonight I will have a date, still at the same piano bar of my hotel. Waiters and the pianist have started to get acquainted with my face, it will be thus embarrassing if they will spot me on a daily basis with a different man. Perhaps they will not take care of me and I can still pretend to be at business meetings. A colleague of mine, from those nearshored in  Bucharest, was so proud about her concept of “not displaying affection in public”. I understand now what she meant, considering herself, to be on the market as much as she was on the internal HRM of the company. I need to stay calm and be brave. Everything will go smoothly. Perhaps compulsory training will be the best way to spend the time while waiting for the RV time. However in my room and not at the bar.

Lenin 

If religion is the opium of the working class, it appears that in Zurich the working class has abandoned religion for opium instead. In both cases not at advantage of the Revolution nor of the status quo. Despite feeble minds are usually more malleable. I need to accept the present day debauchery, due to the supposed wealth provided by capitalism. I never loved the idea, I like it even less right now. Had I felt more nationalistic sympathies, more attachment for traditions, perhaps I would have anticipated what Hitler managed to create in Germany. I had, however, enough of the pillars of the Russian Monarchy, of any Monarchy on the planet. I was ambitious enough to desire to establish myself as Czar. Stalin actually did it. My position was perhaps similar to the one attributed to the Fathers of the Roman Catholic Church. Vladimir Lenin, instead of Gregory the Great and many other cloister-makers. Whatever trend the XXI century humankind has decided to follow, it just creates confusion in my mind. Even my Revolution was not so radical to suddenly and powerfully change the thought in billions of people worldwide. I am so curious to travel to India and China to understand whether even in such countries the influence of Americans has been so effective. They have created their own world, with their own illusions and replicated it in Europe. Despite my hatred for capitalism and my paternal disposition for the working class, that I however consider as a noisy child to be grown up, I really cannot identify myself in the proclaimed values of the Open Society. Perhaps by gathering more documentation about Soros and Karl Popper, will provide some improvement. I have heard their names almost perchance, harshly criticized to gather with the Rothschilds. It is odd how only few can attract the attention of the envious. There is much more old gold, dug and secure in the mansions of this planet, to make the Rothschild appear just as poor lads. 

The art dealer

I am feeling so stressed these days. I walk around looking for better opportunities, but I cannot find any. The silhouette of the people portrayed by Julian Opie have become to look far too trivial and familial. I bought some flowers, the real ones, not signed by Hockney, Katz or Wood. Actual real flowers, to be taken care of otherwise the sun will burn them. The green fields of the shire are keeping their color despite the global drought. There are red and white flowers on my balcony. “Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet?”. I wish I could afford a tapestry to adorn my bedroom. Something that could convey the style of the middle ages under a more modern shape. The tapestry must be evocative of a past not any longer understandable if not to the few who kept a strong attachment to their values. It will thus be unique, standing fast against any sort of Revolution, staunch as much as Assad, Putin and even King Charles have been. Nobody wanted them on their respective thrones, but for good or for bad they managed to maintain the power. I am not so dumb to admire Putin or Assad. They are both criminals, moreover with an authentic communist red background. Nevertheless they must be taken as an example of people who continue to fight even when the rest of the world, if not their own countries, want them to step aside. Our good King Charles if of totally different breed, the best one that Europe can still give birth to. I always loved him, even when he was so low in popularity and the press, the republican press, depicted him as Lady Diana’s murderer. I never liked Lady Diana instead, whose image has been so falsely and hypocritical ennobled by the enemies of the Royal House. The Crown shall never have to doubt my loyalty instead, of the son of Alistair Shepherd, the bravest among the warriors who fought for Ulster. I should calm down and focus on my flowers. There is a lot of hope in flowers and even by spending a whole weekend just by gardening, it will be a good improvement in my present conditions.

The consultant

The time in Dresden is so enjoyable, especially right now with the first sunshine of the springtime. The fields are covered with flowers and I regret that I need to travel back to Zurich during the weekends. Nobody forbids me to stay over in the hotel, but then my budget would be hitten once again. In Zurich life is so expensive that I could easily compensate by going to the theater and dine out twice a day. Then, once back in Zurich, I shall dedicate myself to the low cost activities. There are quite a lot available if you include every single walk around the town, the woods and the hills, or mountains, in the nearby. The main problem is that in such a way I cannot really connect with either community. I can survive by myself, but I need strong connections in both cities to develop the company business and, consequently, my career. Perhaps I should make an extra effort and go out on a regular basis during the week. Months of home office during the time of the pestiferous virus have made me so lazy and perhaps even shy. I am still waiting for my next Tinder date. I just cannot decide even in that sense. I previously enjoyed some good time with a good looking stranger. Or at least a caring, intelligent, humorous and reasonable one. Someone with whom it was possible to get invited in his bed without fearing to be torn apart and sold the next day on a chinese market. Perhaps I read too many crime stories or my brain has been exposed far too often to Act X and similar other programs. Let’s come back to the proposition with priority number one, i.e. secure my career and any chance to get promoted fast, thus to allow myself a comfortable and cozy expat home and perhaps even a family. It is not so easy. The salary of a senior consultant is just enough to have a decent standard of living, according to the expectations of the brand you are working for. If however you want to save enough to settle down, then you really need a director's chair. Unless you do not want to stay abroad with a lower standard of life than you could have had if you stayed at home and quietly waited for the standard job offers to materialize. Skol!, to my schoolmates who stayed.

Lenin 

The international workers day has surpassed my expectations. Several friends warned me to stay away from the city center, especially if dressed with my usual attire. Anarchists could have blamed me for wearing a tie and a black suit; the police could have stopped me for trying to lead the mob. I did not care about their caveats. I was the leader of the Revolution around eighty years ago and I have not lost my manipulative skills. It was daring to join the huge parade of the leftists, but it was really worth the risk. The enthusiasm they applied while chanting the usual slogans was striking. Words devoid of any meaning even when they had been used for the first time. Even more the violence exercised against banks and any building somehow connected with the slightest form of capitalism. They told me that several years ago, one of them had won a huge amount of money with the national lottery. He conceded himself the luxury of a sports car, a supercar as it is branded by the marketing. He also confided in his comrades, to be able to recognise the expensive automobile belonging to one of them. The comrade was wrong and his luxurious toy was burned. Such a fury is the one needed for successful revolutions. Individuals, once captured by fanaticism, cease to reason with their own brains. Those in the parade were moreover helped by regular drug abuse. Toxic substances are nowadays taken as a sort of ritual position by each celebration of anti-capitalist rage. I still have to be patient, before organizing the next putsch and to be patient is the most difficult skill for my character. I am however disciplined enough to maintain a full control of my mind. Otherwise I shall never be able to influence the mind of others.

The art dealer

Back again to Cambridgeshire, the memories of Dresden have faded away behind me. I am wondering whether I could have done more than the expected results. Perhaps it is hard, on the first day, or on the first trip, to obtain such a success to establish a link with a valuable promising artist. You need at first to understand the local logic, not necessarily the language. In the art market a foreign accent is always welcomed. It provides that feeling of exoticity mixed with a worldwide market. Honestly, the most beautiful pieces of art I have noticed in Dresden, are those hold in the Gallery of the Old Masters. It is a piety it is so hard to make good deals with them. Too many regulations, too many restrictions on the borders. Too high costs of maintenance, being the recurring needed restorations a true artistic enterprise by itself. With all the costs connected. Perhaps the only way to work with valuable Old Masters, is to deal with the perfect counterfeits produced along the centuries. Making it clear they are copies, finding a way to document the creation of the false and making it clear that no litigation about the authenticity should follow, it could constitute a reasonable business idea. Technology should help. My dad had so often mentioned forgeries while fighting with the Red Hand. It was not the forgery of artworks, but of passports and any other kind of war-related documents. Including those later adopted by historians to prove the violence to which the Celtic inhabitants of Ulster were subjected.  It was also the way, for my father, to escape the chance to be tried for war crimes. Or something like that. He never wanted to share too many details. I do not want to have problems with the law either and I am really proud to sell only verified and fully authentic art pieces. With the Old Masters, too many have already played for too many tricks. The idea has inspired me to read a book about a so-called affair Ruffini. It will be my companion while trying to fall asleep.

The consultant

Another week has reached the end. I am not really able to precisely take in account the days I have worked on a project, if not because of the report needed to bill the client. I have got my mind for the project only, and I am used to measuring my time by the number of slides delivered or the prints accredited on my bonus card. I also celebrate the Go Lives instead of Christmas and my birthday. Perhaps I make some exception with my birthday since my company reminds me of the day with a not-taxable voucher to be spent with some online market. The amount is so small that I buy a set of three exclusive pencils, made with Swiss wood, everytime that I enjoy the special date. I have stored thirty of them in my wardrobe. Perhaps I will be able to use the pencils once retired, by attending some academy of arts and crafts for aged persons. So far the only medium I can use to express myself is my laptop and powerpoint. Sooner or later, I will get tired of producing the usual slides and I will thus deroute my interest for flowers and badly proportioned cats. If lucky, someone will interpret my production as an example of naif pop art. It has already occurred to me in the past, while attempting to fix on paper the landscape of Luxembourg City. Another way to take account of time is the payment of the credit card. I forgot that for a city like Zurich, the expenses can easily reach 20k a month. A considerable sum that, if suddenly appears on the account of a churchmouse as I am, must be justified to the bank. Such an inconvenience however helps to check the personal expenses, since the available budget left on my card is so miserable that I could hardly afford an extra dinner with my most recent date on Tinder. Luckily, being a woman, most of the time I get invited. But there is always the chance to go out with a modern, and stingy, man who prefers to divide.

Lenin 
I have not moved around too much these days. The museum is closed because of some demands of my colleagues that have not been met by the Foundation. It is like in the Soviet Union, when it was not possible to strike anymore. Why should a worker protest against a Republic in the hands of workers, more precisely of the workers party? I should write a brief essay on the subject, to give further strength to a party that ceased to exist around thirty years ago. Intellectuals are always greedy to read what comes from my hand and I am also satisfied by the outcome. The more someone is far away from everyday needs, the less able to spot the nuance in my speeches that tend to alter his mind. A pure detachment from the material world is the key to spread a religion based on materialism, my fight against any sort of spiritualism and the triumph of communism. When I think about the manipulation of the mind of the masses, some exaltation still reaches my brain. It is an old pattern from which I will never take part.
Otherwise I will cease to be Lenin and I will become closer to the actor who is impersonating myself. Who is nothing else than a mummy. Right now I am profiting from the few extra holidaysprovided with the strike. I am paid anyway, because, as I have already clarified to my colleagues, I cannot feel any resistance against a socialist institution. They cheered at my words, believing I was acting in such a way not to lose my salary and even expressed some solitary thought that I am so poor that I cannot renounce even a small income. The director also appreciated my loyalty and told me that, by such a commitment, I will soon get a promotion.

The art dealer
It is really hard not to travel as far as Leipyig, where you know there is a treasure to be discovered, that is Neo Rauch and its atelier. I imagine myself pretending to be a distinguished art collector and trying to get the hands on the true primary market. Neo Rauch in person would meet me to drink a beer together. He will be astonished by the expertise of a young collector and be moved to offer a real bargain, certain that his work will be so carefully kept and appreciated. On my side, I will show all the good manners. I have learnt by attending high society and the upper class, telling so many anecdotes about Cambridge that it will be hard to believe. I have not studied there. The burgers by the red cow, the steaks by the Eagle and the beers by the Town and Gown. Unfortunately someone knocks at the door and wakes me up from an open eyes dream. It is the lady of the mini bar, asking me whether I need to refill the fridge with a beer or a mineral water. Since it is free of charge, I take both and ask for an extra beer. It is good to spare some money when you do not really have the generous wallet of an established art collector. The art collector would perhaps act in a similar way, sparing every cent to acquire the next piece in their precious wunderkammer. I however realize the need to go further with my research. It is not such an easy task. Well renowned artists are already well represented and professional gallerists can spot people like me at a first glance. Let’s try to walk around randomly in the city center. Or perhaps systematically. While studying in France, I met a
priest coming from Catalunya who drew on the map lal the streets of Paris he did on food. I can take him as a model, trying to save my career instead of my soul. A modern Imitatio Christi.

The consultant
It is not hard to get so easily acquainted with a new project when the atmosphere is so relaxed.
The expectation of the management is not so high and few colleagues are really pushy, if not by doing some finger pointing when they fear to have committed a mistake. Nobody fears on the contrary to be beyond the deadline since the business model of my client is currently so strong to allow me to take all the needed time to analyze the problems. That is also the best way to proceed, allowing the  hought leaders to be creative enough to beat the competition on the quality of our proposition. A positive circle that surprisingly makes a small company in the East of Germany to constitute a model for much better renown enterprises in cooler locations. Such a good environment provides me with extra time in the evening, that can also be reflected in my expenses. Not those covered by the company and directly related to the project, but the actual extra costs such as visits to the museums and to the concerts at the SemperOper. Dresden is an incredibly developed city and under so many aspects is as much developed as Zurich. Only from the perspective of fashionable restaurants and venues, it is quite provincial . It is anyway quite a good thing, otherwise my monthly income would be easily affected. I thus prefer to eat in the hotel or take a drink on the top floor. They will do gin tonics with the most common brands, but the pianist is excellent. What a pity that he works here during the last days of the week only.
It would be excellent to begin on Monday evenings to enjoy good music mixed with alcohol.
Better to go back to my work. The atmosphere is not stressful, but it does not mean there is no measurement of delivery.

Lenin

I should be sad to state that Dresden has managed to survive the socialist era without many regards. There is still someone who remembers the good time when the state provided a nineteen square meter room to any subject, with the addition of extra places for married couples with children. Who moreover received some extra money on the day of the marriage and at the birth of each child. Others prefer to enjoy the new buildings, partially renovated, with a good view of the Elbe and the old town. I do not know whether it is my wish to admire socialist aesthetics, but the brutalist residential buildings along the river, the few ones to have survived decades of scarce maintenance, look to me more harmonious and livable than their western counterparts. I close my eyes and think at the boys and girls dressed with the white and blue, well ordered uniform of the Pioneers and the FDJ. They ran around the alleys where few old bronze monuments remind that eighty years ago a flourishing city center, made of old and elegant structures, was in the area. I open my eyes and observe the contemporary decadent society. Teenagers are showing the oddest tastes, they are loud and scarcely know how to behave. Some are overweight, others too skinny. Young adults look even worse, partially covered with tattoos and piercings as natives of the jungle. The Soviet Union, and the Americans as well, followed for years a strong anticolonial campaign. Some westerners misunderstood the goal of such activism and began to admire the most archaic behavior of exotic and underdeveloped tribes. The common population should have further misunderstood the ethnologists, thus forgetting the decency of the appearance. Luckily, my Chinese comrades have not forgotten and I am so proud to admire their discipline and attire.

The art dealer

It is funny that, by taking an excursion on a steamboat, I sealed a good deal with an Italian artist. Who is not so well renowned to be represented by the big names, but, given the proper investment of time and energy, his work can provide a good return. Meanwhile I have not collected any other success in Dresden. Gerhard Richter is too successful to agree to sell me anything at all. His only available work is a limited edition book, not signed, available at the bookshop of the Albertinum. It is still available by Gagosian at more than half the price. Moreover, it is not one of the most successful editions, but collects just a few sketches that require a lot of attention to be really appreciated. There is no color, just shades of gray. That is sometimes, nowadays, far less appreciated than the brilliant tone of pop art. In Cologne I can find much better, but I need to be patient. My boss assigned me to Dresden and I need to stay in the town. I was tempted to jump to Leipzig. Perhaps Neo Rauch, who is moreover younger, can appreciate my interest and concede some good bargains for my imaginary collection. Actually I have got a collection, but it is nothing that can be easily put on the market. A series of paintings, inspired by the murals of the IRA and the ideology of the Red Hand. They were produced on a wooden surface, made out of old furniture that nobody wanted anymore. Now even the staunchest supporters of the Red Hand are officially regretting their ideals. Really few, who remained loyal to the Crown of England, would keep such images at home. I do, proud of what my father did. The only principles, among those that I follow, that can be depicted as romantic. For everything else, my life is driven by money.

The consultant

I thought I would have scarcely enjoyed the atmosphere of Eastern Germany, but I am noticing there are much more cultural options in Dresden than in many other Western towns and cities. Beside hotels and restaurants, that in comparison with Zurich prices are outrageously cheap, entertainment is however not so affordable. Theater tickets are slightly higher than in Frankfurt and opera tickets definitely more expensive than in Zurich. At least if you sit down with the gods. However, the office hours are not so demanding here and it is easier to find time to go out in the evening. A deck of six or seven slides per day is acceptable here, while back in Switzerland I was expected to produce the double in the same amount of time. Even considering the challenge to communicate with colleagues who hardly speak German and prefer to rely on their local dialect. Another advantage is that not-locals receive much higher estimation here than in Switzerland. The only form of ethnic competition is with Russians or those coming from former Soviet countries. They support each other quite effectively and it is difficult to handle their arrogance. I have already met a few in the past and they are quite unbearable. Much worse than ambitious Indians and Chinese, who at least have got a distinguished cultural background. If the latter want to play you a trick, they can be so careful not to truly hurt you that whatever happens gets slightly perceived. I will however learn to work with them as well. Hopefully I will not find myself checking on a daily basis the Russian death toll in Ukraine and rejoicing for the soldiers who fell.

Lenin

I will take a train to Berlin once again. This time on the route to reach Dresden and without the alleged sponsorship of the Kaiser. Some other detractors of my legend, assumed that my travel was sponsored by Americans instead. Although socialism gained few fellows in the USA, the only extended support I actually received was that of the Germans. Few years, or decades later, after my death, someone thought to insinuate the idea that I received gold from New York City. A gossip aimed to discredit both my political works, both to blame the Jewish communities. Fro some reason, antisemitism always wanted the red flag mixed with the plots inside the synagogues. Once again, nobody read Marx carefully enough to spot his several lines expressed against the Israelites. Marx is the direct descendent of Luther under that, and many other, perspectives. I do not remember my positions on the subject, those from the past. Perhaps right now I would spontaneously give my hand to the realization of the Zionist state, that is actually based on socialist principles. Although the most moderate ones, guided by common sense and the desire , the most earnest one, to mitigate the effect of fortune on the life and rights of individuals. My friend Stalin was a staunch antisemite. I am quite sure about that and I think there should be enough proof to establish how the Soviet Union, at least indirectly, contributed to the persecutions until the 1950s. The police were however clever enough to keep the focus on the crimes of the Third Reich, managing to escape the blame of the free world. Even better, my comrades are now exploiting the past to make the public feel guilty. The people can under such circumstances even more easily accept the constant brainwash conducted by the leftist propaganda.

The art dealer

Next stop in my European peregrination is Dresden. I am looking for works from the primary market to be sold at outrageously high prices. Since my failure with the private collector, I have been advised to try with renown artists directly from their ateliers and publishers. In this case I could have relied on more standard prices and few unexpected points in the handling. Unfortunately I cannot clearly state that I operate for an art gallery or even worse the online aggregator of a puzzle of dealers and undefined galleries. The easiest word to define me and people like me is the “flipper”, someone who buys in April and sells the same work in May at double of the original price. It cannot last too long since artists and serious galleries do not like flippers. They believe they devalue the market. I cannot really understand their logic since a single piece of art is not different from a gold coin, a gold bar or a liter of orange juice. It can be made with the purpose to keep it safe, enjoy and drink it, in the case of the orange juice, or be traded on the market at a higher price than the previous purchase. For some reason artists believe to be more responsible than those who live on their own income. Similarity the owners of art galleries believe to be above the most simple rule of the market, that so far has never been regulated. I have got enough of such a lot of hypocrisy, but, since I have got to secure the deal, I need to act quite cautiously. I thought to follow the schemes of professional hustlers, who never target the same victim and try to move quite quickly as soon as they have scored a good deal. For this reason, I have created a map of European cities where I could hit and leave without being noticed. Dresden is on the top of my list. It is a perfect location due to its recent socialist past. A good part of the local population cannot even suspect what is the usual practice in London.

The consultant

I have done the check in once again. My company sent me out of the project because of a discussion with a tester and a software developer. They are just kids, although they believe they are experts in their fields. I was actually angry to have got to do anything with someone below the management. Their behavior further disturbed my feelings. I am used to managers mistreating junior or not management colleagues. Only this time I should have verified at first whether the testers were externals or belonging to nearshoring organizations. They turned out to be internals instead and escalated to their boss. On top of that, the latter was trying to get rid of my company and promote his former consultancy. My enterprise has kept the contract, but I am now assigned to a middle size insurance located in Eastern Germany for budget reasons. I hope I shall not have to interact with the call center and its operational managers. I never liked those in the operations. They usually come from a non-academic background and do not understand that, despite holding the title of manager and the responsibility of tens if not hundreds of people. They are far below in the hierarchy than those in the strategy. At least I could enjoy life in a city that is far less expensive than Zurich and I could still stay overnight beyond the six months deadline I had at the Bar at Lac. The hotels here are quite decent, the one I have found is wonderfully centrally located and the swimming pool much better than the tiny ones in Zurich. The only decent swimming pool in Zurich is the one of the Dolder, but a middle-management consultant can hardly afford to go there on a regular basis. The town does not either look to have been the prey of anarchists from all around the world. At least in the area for tourists and high end consultants.

Money does not always produce the same effect on the workers. Few ones are not easily beguiled by gold, just to complain and rely on others when in need. They are sometimes useful to the Revolution as much as those greedy enough to desire the wealth of others at any cost. At the same time these individuals are incapable of finding a way to make their fortunes. I believe I belong to the few ones who can master the glitter produced by jewels and understand the true power to use banknotes as much as words, to influence and rule over a whole nation. Characters like mine desire true power and measure their decisions only on the basis of that. I went to the theatre yesterday evening. Beside for propaganda purposes, I cannot truly love cinema. It is a mass product, lacking the individuality of a piece enacted for the specific public sitting in the hall. In the museum I often assist to the projection of Eisenstein’s movies. The best ones are those produced, or at least conceived while I was officially still living. Only one came actually out before that unfortunate year, when I had to prematurely leave the world. Unfortunately not for me, but for my ideas. The Revolution had been consolidated by my comrade Stalin and my fame secured forever. If I had live further, I could have however better contributed to the development of the rituals and the iconography of a new religion. Yet the founder of christianism lived only thirty three years, while I had more time to consolidate the fruits of my teachings. Far too much has escaped the socialist propaganda. If I did not realise that by reading the main newspapers and watching Hollywood movies, I noticed how large is the field of free thought when I attended the last evening show. It was a comedy, not the kind of performance enacted in the main halls of big cities, mainly produced with state money and under a certain control of my comrades. The comedy was really produced for the enjoyment of the audience, on a stage run exclusively by private initiative and the spirit of the manager. Luckily for the Revolution, it has become quite difficult to make profit from such initiatives and the need of state money is sometimes evident also for those lucky actors to enjoy freedom. I was so happy when I found out that it was the second last performance of the last season. The building belongs to the city estates, securely in the hands of a leftist majority. Indeed a minority since in the city only a third of the electors took actively part to the choice of the major. Apparently someone in the local administration has understood how the content of the plays on the stage finds its roots in the bourgeois mindset. It must have been quite a clever mind because the excuse to close the theatre has been created with the need to offer to the youth a children's stage. A stage where I hope that only selected pieces lead by socialist ideas will be offered. The audience will be thus so carefully educated that sooner or later the common mindset shall be modelled on the basis of my writings. The change must be however quite slow, but I think that the big mind of socialism has already arranged a secure methodology. I do not understand all the details, but criticism of private property has gradually increased during the last century. Or at least I hope so. Unfortunately my mathematics has always been quite poor and I lack the skills to widely use modern technology. Perhaps it is the hint that for a while I must forget society and join some evening courses. I could ask the comrades of the museum. They have for sure some good ideas, at least they pose as well educated sons of the best universities. Sometimes, however, I have some doubts about their assumptions. They look to me far too clever to be genuine.

The art dealer

It did not go so bad as expected. My boss kept a decent attitude during the whole meeting and looked at me frowning his brows whenever he had to remark something went wrong and could be avoided. I did not dare to reply, but his points made sense. I realised I am such a junior when he stated that it is a good chance to fail on such trivial deals. He told me about the well renowned art collector who busted a tens of millions transaction with his elbow. On the evening before the consignment, while showing so proudly the painting to be sold, with a movement of his arm, the millionaire managed to hit in the middle the precious surface. The impact produced quite a visible hole in the canvass. I argued that he should have been revealed to be Bansky. Before the rest of the world would have been able to ascertain whether his revelation was well sounded, the collector could have sold the piece at double of the intended price. The millionaire was not Bansky, although it is possible that Bansky could have afforded to make the purchase and the transaction had to be cancelled. The rich man had to lose his face, pay for the restoration and needed to wait several years before putting the market once again. In comparison, my two Hockneys, that were just an edition of 250, constituted just a millesimal of the total value. Under these considerations, I forgot to ask about the colleague who put my career in danger, at least according to my fears. It is a pity that I committed such a mistake, because it was perhaps my only chance to get my revenge. My boss is considered to be a decent, if not lovely person in the whole of the company. I would really like to enjoy such a positive renomee, but it does not necessarily deserve it. I find vengeance so sweet, especially when it is the case to exercise my power and show off the hierarchical level I have achieved. Perhaps I due it to my father and the education I received from the merry men of the red hand. You could survive the troubles, without leaving the four counties forever, only by having people around you to show some respect and fear. Under such circumstances, whenever with the IRA or the loyalist, vengeance was not an option, but a need. I saw an execution, once. I was drinking a beer with friends, I was actually underage, but the bartender did not care. He was a comrade of my father. A man entered the pub, his face covered with a dark sock used as a mask. He quickly approached the friendly master of the house, the very same who served me a pint. The man extracted a gun and aimed at the head of the unfortunate bartender, who was doomed to be one of the last victims of the troubles. Some rumours crossed my street. The dead apparently betrayed the Red Hand. The regular army did not want to trust us anymore, not to consider us their allies. It was inconvenient for the Army reputation and nobody wanted to hinder the normalisation process. It was explained in a similar way. My dad escaped the court, he had good friends in London, the same who allowed me to study in Cambridge. Or actually at the College of West Anglia. I applied to Cambridge and Oxford as well, but the colleges took the bill of the admission test without ever explaining to me why I was not deemed brilliant enough to be welcome in the cultural elite. Thus I landed in an institution whose name was not ever comparable to that of the least of the new colleges. I managed to enter the art market anyway. Apparently successfully enough to be pardoned after my first huge mistake. I will owe my boss the same understanding if, sooner or later, I will succeed in taking his place. I do not intend to wait for him to retire, thus, unless a health problem will not allow me a fast career, I will have to be brutal to sit on his chair.

The consultant

I cannot afford to despise my project and I need to stand fast, although I am beginning to receive odd requests from one day to another. The visibility provided by a role like mine can be tricky to be put under control. On one side I am the responsible and selected advisor, on which to rely not just to lead people, but mainly to take key decisions. On the other hand, clever colleagues know how to make me accountable for any subject even remotely related to the issue that has suddenly emerged. It is stressful, but it would be even more stressful and frustrating if I did not have enough money to support my hobbies and my ambition. I feel the need to be empowered by wearing expensive jewellery, actually to own it. To write with a pen from a limited series and to put it in a bag is as expensive as two months of my average income. All of this, especially when dispensed on different fronts, provokes a constant drain on my finances, in such a way that I am constantly feeling poor even if it is not the case. On the contrary I could be envied because of my theoretical lack of economical sorrows. However lives are proceeding in parallel and the ones of those with a much higher or lower income seldom cross my existence. I have several times met the boss of my boss, the senior partner who makes five millions a year. I have also met the CEO of a company who makes more than one hundred millions a year. Along the street I also meet beggars who do not possess anything, as much as there are people without tangible properties. They also cross my life, but, besides the time that we stay together, my status is not affected and I continue to burden because of the desire to possess a specific item. Someone recommended the art market. Perhaps I could make a profit.

LENIN

I am going to the Odeon cafè on a regular basis right now. Even in the morning, before opening the museum, I spend a couple of hours in the bar reading the newspapers. It is a strange feeling because the news, especially those coming from Germany, show a certain respect for socialism. Even when they do not necessarily write an apology of the idea, they look to be deeply affected by Marx and the Soviet propaganda. Not those thoughts inspired under my direct leadership, but also the lies built up during Stalin's junta. Whenever a journalist finds himself in the unpleasant position to criticise the deeds of a person or organisation close to the pillars of socialism, the writer has to clearly justify his decision. Nevertheless the world all around me does not look to have implemented any of my suggestions or, better to say, orders. People still need to fight for a decent living on their own and the only influence of socialism, beside the bla-blas of the so called politically correct press, is perhaps the disruptive impact on family values. However divorce and abortion are not necessarily triggered by the effectiveness of my followers. Individuals feel more and more egoist, they cannot find a compromise anymore within the small society constituted by a family group. They have lost the feeling of the existence of the Almighty because of their love of gold, not as a consequence of education toward a marxist-leninist world. On the contrary high schools promote more and more technical subjects and if it were not for the constant propaganda of green and red activists, politics can be easily forgotten by most students. I would have never imagined that. After so many years and decades of fighting any instance of spiritualism, materialism would have opened the doors to the most aggressive capitalism. For sure I read a lot about anti money laundry and any sort of bureaucratic limitations to full enjoyment of private property. It does however not help the working class and all these rules are instead creating an elite who is able to navigate through them. All the others are out, for choice or actual inability to cope with such a plethora of papers and forms. Even self professed leftists are not recognising that instead of communism, they are giving to the Swiss and the European people a new aristocracy made of clerks, bankers, lawyers and public servants. It is not the Russia, or Soviet Union of 1920s, but the Russia depicted by Gogol and his fellows. How long will it take to introduce the serfdom once again? Few extra guarantees for the common workers in exchange of their freedom. It happened in the past, since the time of Diocletian, a proto socialist indeed. Perhaps I have got to accept that socialism achieved its perfection under Louis XIV and that it is not so strange that the bourgeoisie has been the strongest, and most capable, fiend both of the Ancien Regime and of the Soviet Union. Marx indeed despised shopkeepers, as much as true aristocrats by birth. If it is a matter of fact, I should start to seduce a few selected among the new elite and begin with them a new journey towards socialism and my definite coronation. In that case I would not reject the idea to be effectively crowned King of Switzerland. There has never been such a Kingdom and it would remind to my new subjects their time spent in total freedom. It would be better to resume some more remote title such as Duke of Milan, Count of Tyrol or King of Burgundy. The latter would be ideal since Burgundy was the most mobile country of the past, even more than Poland did recently. In the end Poland is just constantly moving to the West. Perhaps they aim to reach Berlin.

The art dealer

My hands are trembling at the idea to reserve a train ticket to London. It is not the idea to spend extra money. They will go on the expenses covered by my company. I think I made a big mess with the two Hockneys. Actually the mess was set up by my new colleague, who pretended to understand that the shipment had to be taken care of from Switzerland and not within the U.K. Now we have got a collector who is highly dissatisfied and a major art gallery that is also crazy about me. My boss forwarded the emails they sent directly to him, he could have spared me such a humiliation and it made me only more insecure about what to do next. Perhaps that is the reaction he wants to obtain, to destabilise me, to push me to resign. I know I should not do that, I need to stand fast and deny any possible evidence against my deeds. I have to strongly believe that I am innocent and no imputation can be charged on my account, if not to have trusted a junior totally unaware of customs and regulations. Details that can severely impact the margin on any operation. That is all that I have to say, otherwise I could ignite such a confrontation where I will be the only loser. The junior can easily apply for another position, nobody would care about the quality of his first experience and, with some overselling, he could even get an increase on his fixed salary or better conditions on the fees recognised after closing a deal. I only hope he will not manage to blame me, to switch sides and sit on the chair to the right of my boss, joining the jury who will decide my fate. He could get all the advantages by acting in this way. They can even fill my vacancy with him, paying him slightly less and gaining a loyal subject. I have been a loyal dog for the last two years as well, accepting all that was thrown in my direction without a fuss. On my lips I notice an elegant grimace, almost a smile. I behaved so well for so long that I could also afford some activity. It is said that once, Caesar, became the besieger instead of the besieged, by only deviating the flow of a minor river. What worked with the Gauls, should work with the Saxons as well. At least my company is not so inclusive and I do not have got to fight against women, gays and Irishmen. There are few Indians, but we need them to trade with the London elite. At least the high performing medical doctors are mostly Indians and, as much as they are greedy to make money, they are also enthusiastic to buy art. They do not desire to acquire social status. Their interest is triggered by their cultural background, making them passionate and well learned collectors. I should recognise they are my best clients, beside institutional art galleries. I am almost at the end of my journey. From Charing Cross to the office, it does not take so long. I will enjoy a ride in a cab. I cannot trust the underground. Let’s recollect in my mind all my thoughts and my plans while approaching the door. The entrance of the building is in front of me. The structure is not conspicuous. Traditional red bricks and white wooden windows. There is no luxury to be shown, if not some brass around the door bells. In the end we trade everything online and, if a crate must be opened, it must be done in the storage, or the fraport.  Now that I think about it, it was the client who joked about a fraport and I cut and pasted the joke of the junior. I could tease it on the subject for a chat.

The consultant

I started to get tired of the project. My agenda is full packed with several initiatives stacking up without moving forward. I must dare to freeze them until we shall have more capacity. I can only expect to obtain more FTEs from above, since I cannot easily influence the internal decisions of the company. Of my client. Luckily the management is cooperative. It cannot be otherwise given the present situation. After the merging shall be completed, new places will be cut and the survivors will be the best of the best, la creme de la creme. I still remember that expression in the mouth of an old consultant already at the end of his career because over fifty. I did not know how long consultancy could afford to refuse the contribution of so called older people. They usually complain about the skills gaps and the high demand of professionals, but at the same time the top management does not want to change a consolidated habit. Within my project, we shall survive as we could and I would not blame someone who is older than fifty and still willing to spend the week in hotels far away from home. Tomorrow I shall meet two new colleagues. They are not children and had already worked for the bank, more than twenty years ago. Perhaps they could easily connect with their colleagues who stayed and made a certain level of career. I only hope they had not left because they could not stand this kind of person. The internals who never leave or change a place in their own life, proud of their resiliency and high despising of professionals who have created a wide knowledge by continuously facing new problems and environments. It is time that I cease to obsessively make philosophy while working. Though I will visit a new apartment. The hotel will be available only for a further five months and it would be ideal to spot a cosy house where to spend the next decades. At least to avoid continuous relocation costs and be able to create an actual social network all around me, that could help in case something goes wrong or at least to mitigate the strange effects of isolation. Not that I am living on a desert island, but that is the feeling when you spend most of the days in a bank, evenings and breakfasts in a hotel. I believe that by the end of the five months, if I have not found a lover, I will start to behave like the cheapest tinderella. MY last boyfriend left me four years ago, since he was tired of waiting for me during the weekends and drove me to and from the airport on each Friday evening and Sunday morning. I believe he was also somehow jealous. Not of any person that I could have met while consulting. He looked to be jealous of my career, of all the points I accumulated on the Amex, being not aware that they were the consolation prize, or the bait, for a homeless life. In Switzerland there is a sad expression for people like me, we are called the Matlosa, those who do not possess the privilege of a home country. From the German Heimatlos. They usually were wanderers from the neighbouring countries, men living marauding from village to village with few items to be sold to the local housekeepers. Gender equality has extended such a condition to women as well. I do not know whether it is a time advantage. At least I can make much more money than by trading small pieces of fabric or cheap toys for the enthusiastic kids living on the Alps. My passport is also a regular one and I am settled in what is supposed to be an exclusive residency for high income guests. The expenses are paid by my company and I am not a HNWI.

Lenin

I am quite tired this evening, since I have been initiated to take part in an excursion outside of Zurich. We had to pack as if we had to escape, as if the Russian army had won the war and were approaching Zurich. It already happened in the time of Napoleon and it could happen again. Such a lot of effort to hike on the mountains around, not because of lack of proper facilities, but because of the high prices of food wherever you go. My new friends, activists of the Juso, proudly state that in Switzerland a waiter is so well paid that few people would like to take a different job such as carpenter or taxi driver. I do not see the link, because taxi fares are also quite expensive, not to mention if you need to install an electric camp in your apartment. We took the road of the zoo, marching by the headquarters of the FIFA, an astonishing product of capitalism. We briefly discussed scandals in that kind of sport, that was already quite popular in 1917. The discussion was however easily diverted on the most recent financial scandals. The Juso friends, a couple of nice local graphic designers in love with several idiosyncratic dogmas, wanted at any cost to take part in a huge gathering claiming the end of capitalism. They had been disappointed to find out that I was not so pessimistic or, from their point of view, optimistic. By mainly caring only about power and the most efficient way to get it, I have never desperately sustained any kind of ideology. I created the ideology, to funnel my propaganda. For or against capitalism, it is just a detail that was particularly convenient at that time. It is quite convenient now as well, since it is not easy at all to decently survive in the capitalist world. Most of the inhabitants of Switzerland, possessing citizenship or not, are fighting on a daily basis against bills that are at first sight unsustainable. If not for the purse of a millionaire who, on the contrary, does not really need to live in the country. The only advantage of really rich people to settle here is a good level of police security. That is to be appreciated because neither the czars, nor Stalin ever achieved such a total control of the territory. Perhaps only the clever Fouché managed to conceive such an omnipresent police control, but even he hardly dared to put his plans in action. Indeed any tyrant needs an escape route or an emergency plan. Being too punctilious to leave no chance to your opponents does not help when your fortune is turning. The Juso does not understand all of this. They love, or at least they claim loudly, human rights and any possible mix of good feelings, but they do not love power. That is their weakest point. Perhaps, once they grow up, or as soon as they get elected in a prominent role, they understand how divine it is to exercise the control over the private life of anonymous, unknown men. Perhaps I am sadic, for sure I am cynic. However I have recognised my very same vice in the eyes of many grown up socialists and this makes me much more at my ease. I have not already understood whether I need to manipulate the mind of my companions. I need to trust them at first, before dispensing with my poisonous gift. The walk of today had been a good way to deeper psychanalyse them. I will however recollect the day also for the splendid landscape as the sunshine on my face. I do not forget that I am a mummy and, when still alive, a master of plots and deceptions anxious to ignite the Revolution, to get the Power. I hope I have not changed meanwhile, lying one hundred years in that mausoleum in the Red Square.

The art dealer

From Cambridgeshire to Marrakech, the impact of high temperature is quite evident and I am suffering from the absence of air conditioning due to the stress of the town. I am imagining a future where energy production will not be an issue anymore and it will be possible to cover whole cities under a huge structure of glass, wood or any other kind of material. The inhabitants will enjoy a stress free weather, perhaps even better than air conditioning, independently from the place where they live. Luckily local architects have managed to make the interior of the buildings relatively comfortable, even those devoid of modern technology and built with traditional techniques. I had fun during these days. My best friends, mostly traders and art dealers, joined me for a week-long escapade. My dad back in Ireland recommended that I not mess up with local rulers or with the police, but he knows there is no need for such caveats. Moreover there is at least one of us with good relationships with local authorities and on good terms even with the army. In the worst case, bribes will always work and Britons are quite skillful in that. Beside having fun, I had a strong need to improve my Network, especially after the most recent failures in my hands. I was going to close a couple of good transactions, two paintings signed by David Hockney, the very same who made my fortune. These kinds of works are worth cash nowadays, since they can be easily put on the market. Not in my case, despite all my best effort. It is just because my colleagues had not been clear enough about the transport costs. That is quite unusual for an organization like mine. The name of the seller is not a British one, but this does not count anymore. However everybody knows that Zurich is outside England and does not belong to a British dominion or protectorate. Unless the financial crisis has not recently changed the borders of the old Continent. I do not like to call it Europe, because it reminds me of Germany and all the efforts that my grandad did to fight that country. Perhaps my grandad as well, as well as my father, since the IRA has always relied on German support. They branded my father, and the heroes of the Red Hand, as fascists, but they were fighting the political heirs of Eamon De Valera. Someone who was at first not totally Irish and the only one in the world to telegraph his condolences for the death of Adolph Hitley. Muslims were also, sometimes, sympathizing for the Nazis, but I cannot afford to quarrel with them. Since the opening of the Louvre re-edition in the Middle East, I have noticed a massive interest of Arab investors in the modern art market. Even the figurative one. What is really important to them, it is the quality of the investment and the return that it generates after the expenses. I have never clearly understood whether they actually understand or enjoy their acquisitions, but for sure I can enjoy their generous allowances and all the boni I have received by trading with Abduls, Ahmeds and Mohammeds.

The consultant

In a week everything that could have happened in twenty years materialized itself. The bankruptcy of a big bank, in Europe deemed big enough not to fail. The crack was followed by a fast acquisition, now the merge is triggered and meetings are already scheduled to decide who is the good and who is the bad. I perceived it by looking at my colleagues, the internal ones I mean. Most of them did remote work till yesterday and never set a step in the building where I am currently spending nights and days by frantically set up optimistic decks. They must at least appear so, that is the recommendation I received from above. The change can be also perceived by looking around in the canteen or in the park place. Both of them, just two weeks ago completely desert, are full again as if we had come back to 2008. The crisis is not so deep, since there is no increase of operations at the ATMs. I managed to get that KPI from friends of friends. Most probably I am the only one with such a question in mind. The other one is whether to speculate against the Swiss Franc. It is never advisable to get influenced by the headlines in the newspapers, especially when you have to invest your money, but the current circumstances constitute an exception. My boss called me yesterday, setting up a special meeting with the whole of the team. He has assured all of us that the consultancy programme shall not be suspended. I felt relieved only after the official call, when he confidentially provided me with a couple of contacts among the internals. On the contrary to what I feared, there should be a temporary increase in the demand of merge and acquisition consultants, as well as of IT experts. It is now my duty, beside the governance of the project, to look for new business opportunities. You never know how to interpret such propositions. It can also be a trick to get rid of me, if it is quite improbable to sell anything and for sure I will need to explain the reasons for the missed goals in front of the HR. I know I never have to feel so pessimistic everytime something unexpected disrupts my plans. Let’s interpret the task as a good chance to climb up the ladder of the internal hierarchy. Colleagues all around me are also moving frantically. More than one is continuously taking phone calls from headhunters who, in the end, are perhaps offering similar positions by the same clients. Sometimes even with some company. Head hunters do not really care about professionality, the only relevant fact to them is the signature of a contract or the resignation before having received their own fee. Everything else is acceptable, according to their own mindset. The sum is going to sleep and my eyes ache after so many hours in front of the screen, but I was aware I could not stay on the bench forever. This could have been an option, provided I win the national lottery or get married to a rich man. To discover that I inherited millions due to a distant relative whose existence never occurred to me, it would be sad and against my principles. I enjoy Disney movies because nobody dies. I love them even more, since they have become so nice and politically correct. Perhaps it is the reason for which I love to work in the financial services. By us everything is also so distinguished and polite. Most of all, Banks never die, they merge or get saved by state intervention.

Lenin

I am enjoying the collapse of capitalism and of the financial system. I have heard from my neighbor that his bank is at risk and the he must withdraw his money quite quickly. On the newspapers they are writing about state intervention, while knowledge workers are organizing mass protests nearby the central railways station.  They work for an American company where the management does not care to cut if profit is in peril. It is clear that we are on the verge of the Revolution, as Marx would have predicted. Not that I really believe in the writings and theories of that charlatan, but I have linked the credibility of my words and actions to his works. If people will start to look into the Capital and laugh, understanding all the contradictions and the triviality of the content, I will lose my carisma and my power. Actually, right now, I have been hired as an actor impersonating myself and I can hardly afford a regular meal in the city centre. For some reason waiters, mechanics, electricians and any kind of manual workers can survive decently,but not fine intellectuals as I am. The only way to live comfortably would be to join the anarchists of some occupied building, but I would not consider that an option. When I took possession of others’ properties, I always did it with a legal structure in support. I am the leader of the Revolution, not a squatter or a vagabond. In my ideal government there is no place for such typology of persons and I do not doubt that my good friend Stalin knew how to dispose of them. What a Country the Soviet Union should have been at the height of its power! It is just a piety that its leaders began to believe in their own lies and propaganda. If you cannot distinguish reality from the artificial world you have created with lies, plots and forgeries, then you have got quite a scarce chance to survive. Capitalists have revealed themselves much more clever under this perspective. Gold cannot hide the truth. It is tangible and not corruptible. Gold does not betray its owners, until they keep it in their hands. In the end, I love that material and I only regret that in the churches the icons of the saints, with that wonderful and fascinating golden background, have not been substituted by the icon of Lenin, the Saint Patron of the mob and of the working class. I am realizing I am speaking nonsense. The fact of the frustration to live in a world that I cannot recognize anymore, with a less than a secondary role. Perhaps I should really accept permanently the role of a clown, or an actor. That is the only way, at least in the short term, that would allow me to be the Lord of the Red Army.

The Art dealer

I need a break during the weekend. Perhaps I will limit myself to ride to Cambridge on the bike. It should take less than one hour and the weather is so mild that it sounds as an official invitation to stroll between the Fitzwilliam and Fitzbillies. I have never accepted so easily when Fitzbillies closed, although it was just for few months. After it reopened, they sold the Florentine cakes only, while I missed the creamy sugar cakes that I was so crazy to have on regular basis, every day, for breakfast. I will for sure stop by and justify my effort with a visit to the Fitzwilliam. I will also perhaps be able to do some dayhunting, chasing the students of the first years. My colleagues recommend on the contrary to focus on Ph.D. students. They are more mature and perhaps even willing to listen to , and believe, all my stories about art dealing. Younger girls seem not to be interested. Moreover those with a scholarship are bookish enough not to care. The worst one are the leftist artists, who look at any initiative to generate money as if it were the fruit of the devil. Or, worse to say, the conception of an arrogant and evil capitalist. Perhaps the most reproachable creature after South American rightwing politicians and fascist dictators.  Those who are aiming to complete a Ph.D. on the contrary have already lived the disenchantment of a life without a proper budget to spend the weekend in London. Just to buy the rail ticket can be a meaningful expense if you need to live on a scholarship. Being the son of a former member of the Red Hand, I could not rely on the liberal connections that guarantee access to some easy money for a well renowned institution. I had to make my way in the world without a generous financial support. I still remember how I had to cheat playing poker or spend the night working by Cindies with the modest dream to be able to visit the Tate Modern on Sundays. That was the place where my conservative mind made my fortune. Had I not considered so extraordinary the lithographic gay lovers of David Hockney, I would have not interested myself for the artist either. I would have neither bet on his cheapest works and all my gains gambling with a deck of cars. One of his lovers, a steward of an airline, is supposed to have collected a small fortune by assembling the posters of his first exhibition. Although I am a boring, hawkish white man, I did the same. I actually had not many other chances, but my choice turned out to be the jackpot. Beside the return of investment, that allowed me to pay a Master's by Christie's, it also allowed me to be considered as an unexperienced expert by some galleries in London and take part in the bigger game. Too much planning does not help. Let’s take a nap. I should have a good performance on my bike tomorrow morning.

The consultant

I began the week under the most unfavorable circumstances. The bank, the client, is getting all the attention deserved by major financial scandals. I cannot mention the name of the institution, because I signed the NDA, but it is quite evident what I am talking about. The bloggers of InsideParadePlatz are having real fun to expose all the mistakes that have brought us in the current situation. I suppose that the well renowned anticapitalist grounds in the town are also rejoicing. I am far less happy and more than troubled given the fact that I have just started the assignment. External consultants are the first ones to be cut and I could already find myself on the line of fire. Unless the mistrust towards the risk department is so night that they would keep me as a watchdog. I would be perfect in the position, since as an external I would not constitute a danger to the informal hierarchy of the team. Moreover I will be under the constant blackmail to be sent back on the branch from a day to another. That could happen if I do not complete my task with the due speed and quality. That could also happen in case I could start to find what should be kept observed. I found myself in several occasions not at my ease, but I am really feeling the eyes of my colleagues looking in my direction even when I need to go to the gents. Or, actually, therapies. Nevertheless, I will pay attention to all the possible movements around me. It is not unusual, even if for the less serious reasons, it happened to me in the past and it will happen to me again. On the contrary, I need to find quickly a way to discharge the stress. Back in Frankfurt it could have turned out quite easy. A drink afterwards and a nice chat with a casual encounter by Sullivan’s. They told me that La Stanza offers a similar cozy atmosphere if Zoe need a nice chat, or even a romance, in the heart of the cold Zurich. Under such circumstances, I usually miss Cologne, where I was born and grew up. Go out in a Brauerei, order a Kolsch and for sure you’ll have someone beside you happy to share some good words.

Lenin

I have managed to sleep in the house that welcomed me more than one hundred years ago. It is a pleasant feeling to find a safe place that has endured so long, much longer than my Revolution and all of its direct consequences. Perhaps some side effects are still ongoing, since I continue to read my name in the newspapers every time someone mentions the war on the Eastern front. Responsibilities are never so clear, not among children quarreling for a toy; much less among political leaders or the factions of the mob. It is necessary to exploit each gray zone, each uncertainty to be considered on the good side. Yesterday was the anniversary of Stalin’s death. He was such a good disciple, or better to say comrade. His name is still remembered with awe and admiration by a few, selected workers affected by a deep nostalgia of the Soviet Union. What a beautiful scene, to watch on the television such a large mob of old and young people bringing flowers on the burial outside the Kremlin walls. The czars, with all their noble blood and royal relationships, cannot Rest In Peace. Their bodies have never been recovered, despite all the claims of the few surviving monarchists. Even their bones, or any other kind of relics attributed to the last ones of the Romanovs have not been ascertained to be the actual ones. Peasants, outsiders like me and Josef, are on the contrary celebrated and, at least for what concerns me, excellently preserved. I am just considering how to take possession of the apartment that was mine. It looks empty, the furniture has been carefully taken care of and the local Marxist-Leninist has dedicated it to a museum. I would hardly be trusted in case I introduced myself as the original Lenin’s mummy. In the best case a team of doctors would be summoned to discuss how such a phenomenon, “my resurrection” has been possible and my body will probably end up to be the most interesting attraction in a museum. The best solution, given all the circumstances, is to pretend to be an eccentric actor, so well gifted and so convinced of his part, to look actually as the original Lenin. It is not possible to do more. Also my original exile in Zurich, one hundred years ago, had been the fruit of a suffered compromise and it worked so well to success beyond any reasonable expectation. That will perhaps be the case, once again. Meanwhile I can live on the gold coins that every year the secretary of the party deposited in front of my body, in a small bag in which nobody dared to look inside.  A pagan ritual that was a true nonsense, but that came out to be so useful. It is perhaps my good chance, as improbable as the war ignited by Gavrilo Princip and whose only true winner was the Revolution.

The art dealer

I am back at home, back in England and Cambridgeshire. I have not grown up here and sometimes I still feel mocked because of my Irish accent. Nobody can tell me I am no Saxon. My dad accomplished his duty to protect England, alongside the good red hand. The accent can however be improved along the years, especially with some proper training and dedication. Also by cutting with my roots. To live in Donaghadee, county Down, it does not make any sense. It can be good for some naval engineers without special ambitions, but not for a greedy art connoisseur who is so well gifted both with accounting and communication skills. London is however too expensive for my budget, at least in the present condition. It does not bring any added value to rent a representative apartment in Chelsea, if I cannot afford to join the most exclusive clubs and compete in liberalities with the average of their members. I cannot expect to find clients there either, since the art collector sometimes avoids status symbols and prefers not to appear. At least those interested in good deals. Those who on the contrary rely on the prestige gained by collecting art, are more prone to overspend on kitschy pieces by galleries and they would not be my target. I am pretty convinced that comfortable pubs in the City, attended by reasonable directors approaching retirement, could provide much higher revenues. They are usually more colloquial towards young professionals and their bank accounts are definitely better looking than those of socialites looking for a triumph wife. Many of them can also open the vaults of their own company. By acquiring an institutional investor, it is much more profitable than to deal with a wannabe who wants to spare the cent because he is already using all of his savings. I have thus settled here, enjoying the countryside and the chance of a nice walk recollecting the style and the traditions of romantic poets and intellectuals. The Cambridgeshire enables me to pose as a gentleman of good heritage, who does not care about status symbols because he does not need either. It also works wonderfully when I introduce myself as a Oxbridge scholar who has entered the market just because of the need to sustain myself and my family properties. Although nothing is left in Donaghadee, if not a big red hand on the wall of the house where I was born.

The consultant

The most strenuous and unbearable exercise in my profession is to face an empty day. The agenda can be free because it is expected that I dedicate free time to my duties, without pressure from above, or because nobody trusts me anymore. The latter condition is the most unpleasant, because it means that, as soon as the internal line manager discovers it, you will not be terminated. Along the years I have noticed the most dramatic and sudden cuts. Some too self confident consultants are happy to be back on the bench, but in most cases it is just the anti chamber of final termination. It happens, however, during the first days of a new assignment, that the agenda is empty because someone, somewhere, is looking for a specific task apt to you. In most of the cases it is an evaluation mistake, but it is apt for the consultant to be creative enough to survive. Also, while in this limbo, the creative consultant manages not to appear with his or her own hands empty and takes advantage of creating a network within the account. The best way is to spot some buddies, because, like in the U.S. jail movies, not everybody around you is your best friend. Some discussions with the internal management are also profitable, with the disadvantage that some would just desire to terminate you for their own pleasures. To discover the terminator is quite impossible and it is necessary to confide in good self marketing. Overselling is however also something to be avoided, otherwise after a year or two you shall be pointed out as the most incompetent charlatan that the financial industry has ever seen. Not that this world lives without charlatans, but the most experienced ones among them are so clever that they would never reveal their true identity. My first day in the project has been spent with such a mood, a mix of anguish, impatience and desire to survive. To prove myself I will need more time. I have even forgotten about Zurich and what is waiting outside for me. Perhaps a new cafe or a new bar, but I feel so frustrated and frantic that I have got no impulse to explore. Perhaps I will go back to the Odeon Café. It was pleasant last evening. They have got delicious chips and a splendid vegetarian croque monsieur, or something like that, with aubergines instead of ham. Better to hurry up. I am not sure at what time the kitchen closes.

Lenin

What I have read on the newspaper is just outstanding. Such a world would be the ideal nest for any kind of well gifted and ambitious revolutionary leader. The institutions to subvert are however so complex, with such a redundancy, that I would not be able to seriously take over the power. I would not either be able to dismantle the slightest gear of such a huge system. Perhaps the humankind is now doomed to follow the rules of a society established fifty, or seventy years ago. A tradition that I am sure will be consolidated during the centuries and millennia to come. Perhaps Marx was right, it is just a matter of structure. I have however never been convinced of his theories. There are thousands of ways to use a hammer and any other kind of inventions, of tools, of gears that even the superstructure generated by the technological improvements can be developed and interpreted in many other thousands and more individual ways. Marx was just a good label, that for some reason sounded good among lazy European and American intellectuals. He wrote far too much, like the fishmongers who, along the years, established himself as a wise man within his village. He is just someone who knows how to speak and express the anger, the fear and the hopes of the villagers. In the end Marx was not so different than me, he was not even better than me. He was simply satisfied to beat his wife when needed, made pregnant his housekeeper only for his pleasure and nevertheless managed to get adored by a wide range of persons and circles. Perhaps he was even much more brilliant than I could deem, since he avoided to get the power, the actual power of a revolutionary leader and to end up like me. A walking mummy who after one hundred years is so well preserved to be able to order a beer at the Café de l´Odeon without even being noticed. On the contrary, one hundred years ago, when my funerals had been celebrated, quite a good number of comrades were forced to express their condolences. I felt like a Mongolian Khan at the end of his reign. In my case, however, nobody who saw my body passing by had to be decapitated. In my time, executions were not so theatrically conducted. We were much more relying on discretion. History proves to me that we had operated in the cleanest way since, even if my organization contributed to the death of tens of millions of people, intellectuals still celebrate us, and my legacy, as the good one. Well, it is really time to take a walk. Perhaps in the direction of the Opera. In that area, I could easily find something interesting to comment about.

The art dealer

What a day and also what a night I have left behind me. It was really impossible to sleep, in that strange area of Zurich near Langstrasse. The hotel sold the place as quiet and central; another advertisement, definitely more expensive, defined the neighborhood as the design district. I have just been able to notice the loud voices of students and drunkyards along the street. Yet the buildings are beautiful and many have been recently refurbished. They should be quite expensive on the market, but apparently the police do not care. I have already been warned that the local city council has been for years in the hands of immoderate leftists. I was wondering how and how many have explained to me that most successful and well paid professionals do not vote here. They cannot vote here because they do not possess Swiss citizenship or they do not actually live here, but in other cities and towns where the tax conditions are more income and wealth friendly. In the end Zurich voters are mainly living on social support and they kindly show their gratitude by choosing radical liberals as their leaders. Even policemen, sometimes covered with tattoos and piercings, remind me more of the occupants of an anarchist community, than actual law enforcers. It is also the truth that laws vary according to the local community. In some areas of South America, controlled by the narcos and the gangs, the order enforcers should not look more respectable. However, it is not the kind of market I am into, although I do not doubt that also mafia bosses should have their private art collections. On the contrary I patiently follow the AML processes and all that is foreseen by due diligence. My clients are more institutional ones, as those I have met after such a terrible night. Perhaps, to be almost asleep helped me to sustain all the personal attacks that I received in a few minutes, one following the other. I had been trained for that, but it is still unpleasant. Only a few of the people sitting around the table had been kind to me, staring in my direction with a reproachful sight beginning with the moment when I introduced myself. Despite the cold I felt on my skin, just slightly mitigated by my fatigue, my counter-parties could acquire a whole block of a collection by paying at least fifteen percent below the average market price. The artist has good potential for the future and its trading volume has constantly increased along the years. Also my company, and the seller, managed to make some profit, although not an optimal one. I need to take a flight and speak face to face with my boss to understand whether I have been wise enough.

The consultant of undefined age and experience

The project will start tomorrow, thus I still have got an evening to enjoy my time and be able to touch my bed at a reasonable hour. The forty hour week has got no sense in advisory and only those who have got no ambitions to make a career keep track of their time. Perhaps we are wrong, but those are the rules of the world we are living in. Moreover,  I also enjoy spending long days on slides and meetings. It is even a great way to socialize with colleagues and clients. The latter are sometimes friendly, sometimes so proud to have settled in a position that will allow them to survive in a comfortable zone to the end of their time. I would not be so enthusiastic at the idea, but I am more and more convinced that the public educational system cannot avoid instructing westerners towards the road of socialism. Or at least of a sort of bureaucratic indoctrination.  The free spirit of professionals should not be so easily harnessed into hierarchy and a precise cursus honorum, but it is also on me to decide whether to fight and get more independence. What I really doubt, on the contrary, is if I shall ever acquire some financial independence. Perhaps I need to keep some savings on the financial market and give a look at the right stocks. I have never been a wise trader, I lack the strength of an experienced dealer, but perhaps I do not need to handle conditions. I just need to focus on the market and pay attention to do a good shot. To think too much about my future and rent is however not so productive and distracts me from actual goals worthy of focus. For instance, I plan to go to the cinema tonight and relax a little bit far away from the desktop. Perhaps some local production, that could avoid me to pay for something similar to what I could watch on Netflix at a much lower cost. I only hope that I will not be forced to sustain some politically correct narrative about genders, feminism, colonialism or any other ism from which Bertrand Russell recommended to stay away. He means others than those in my list, but I hope that the same concept can be applicable. Last week in Milan I attended a brilliant klezmer show, dedicated to Jewish traditions in America. It was totally ruined by the actor who preached about McCarthy and appealed to the public for having been forced to pay the copyright for the music in the DVD version of the show.  DVDs that he however sold, during the intervals, in the foyer of the theater, for quite good money. Consultants and advisors are however not less hypocritical than liberals, perhaps we have learnt something from each other during the last decades.

Lenin

I reach the café de l’Odeon, finding it with the same marbles and the same atmosphere as I left it slightly more than one hundred years ago. My name is even celebrated among those who sat down at the table, drinking champagne while plotting the most amounting revolution in human history. People are still taking place here, perhaps dreaming of other tumults in remote and exotic countries. In the local newspapers the main subject is the gay pride. Apparently Stalin and many others of his entourage persecuted homosexuals. I cannot really recall my position. Perhaps it was not relevant in 1917 or it was just a concern of the clergy. Indeed the young Stalin pretended to want to study to become a priest. I am however proud of the contemporary leftists who managed to hide the official position of the Party. They now claim that conservatives are the most hateful gay-mongers. About Stalin’s position I do not doubt it. At least Marxism is the legitimate heir of Hegel and, more remotely, of the Reform. Martin Luther was not such a brilliant mind. He was affected by antisemitism as well. If it had not been the creativity of the Russian people, and my acumen, maxims would have never conquered the streets of Moscow and the Red Army would have never reached Berlin. Marxist, in the strictest sense of the word, can just understand word by word exactly what they read. Provided they can read or want to read. To most of them, it is sufficient to hear the slogans quoted by their comrades and repeat them like robots. It is the trick of good school pupils, adored by the teacher, but with a lower IQ than the average. It was me, and only me, who made out of a bunch of boring and stupid books, the most powerful movement of the XX century. Coming back to homosexuality, by the way, I cannot really remember. Both Marx and I wrote so much that our writings can contain any possible statement about any possible topic known at the time. It is not even worth looking for a reference. Let’s enjoy my drink and give a look at the NZZ. Given the prices applied, I should at least take advantage of free newspapers.

The Art Dealer

The meeting takes place tomorrow and I have still got to set up the contract. Some lines are not so clear and the legal office does not want many responsibilities. It is all on my side and I am not really sure. I have gotten so accustomed to making buyers and sellers uncomfortable that I do not know how to react when I am on the weak side. Perhaps I shall have to agree, they sent me out without too much support just to get rid of me and make a generous present to the other company. At least it is what I am expecting. There should be no other rationale behind that. Small sharks are doomed in front of the bigger ones. It would be interesting to find out whether in real life sharks truly kill each other. Taschen published a book about sharks. My ex-girlfriend wanted it for her birthday. She had been always attracted by good looking sharks, she said. I felt cool at the time. Perhaps it's better to take a drink and not care. Perhaps I will also find someone to date on Tinder. I wish she were a local, someone well settled, with a good apartment and a comfortable bed. I do not really intend to sleep in the EasyJet Hostel in the Zwinglistrasse. I have been there already twice and it me me claustrophobic. I am wondering if also the apartments in the area manage to create the same neurosis. With the train from the airport I have given a look inside the lofts with a direct sight on the railways. They must be expensive. Someone told me that private sales and exhibitions are organized there from time to time. If it were the case, I should find out the names of the owners and I can conclude a good deal for sure. I check the time , it is very late and I cannot really afford to further deprive my body of the minimum amount of sleep, otherwise tomorrow I will underperform. My failure can be worse than what was expected by my boss. Provided that my conjecture is correct and I have been really sent as cannon fodder to sacrifice myself for the company. Or, better to say, to cover the failures of someone above me. Let’s try to sleep and forget about the details. To persevere further on my thoughts, it will not help anymore. Let’s dream about easy girls and clients.

The consultant of undefined age and experience

The teatime was excellent, as well as the restoring bath in the spa of the hotel. A luxury that I am going to forget quite soon, once in force from the local company and without the benefits of working and traveling from abroad. It is better not to enjoy the good time with sad anticipation and let’s enjoy the day. I am also still in the rump-up phase and I could afford some free time before the very start of my engagement. People are quite busy all around me, some are leaving complaining about some bad treatment, others are furious because of some last minute problems due to a proper analysis. I just hope to be able to maintain myself kind and considerate when I have the lead. I also do not forget that I must set up some way to increase my network both in the company and the outside world. It will not be easy, because everybody is nice, but you really need to find something they are luring to enter the inner circle. This evening I shall be out to explore the place, I am not already acquainted with the town and if I need to be successful and establish here, I need at least to know what are the key gatherings. Those attended by bankers and consultants at least, because the places for real estate dealers or small size entrepreneurs are not fit to me. I cannot afford to invest millions in apartments with lake views. I am also a full time employee, which does not look so good in the eyes of those who have got the habit of managing their small company. They are two different environments, seldom if not ever communicating. Just parallel lines. Both of us are striving for getting our hands on a big sack of money, but they are focusing on the net margins, quite huge indeed, obtained by trading with the final client. I also need to reach out to the final client, but in my case it is too large to afford to tackle it individually. I would be just satisfied with a small margin of a huge cake to be divided with many other thousands. The cake is so big that in the best case my revenues can easily exceed those of a small shop. It is not so easy, thus I need to work hard and never allow my brain to cease to work. Even the gin tonics so beloved by people like me, can be dangerous. They mentioned an Odeon Cafe, and I will be satisfied to have a beer.

Lenin

I have not written for a while. Parties with the high society have kept me busy and I forgot about the mass of the workers exploited by the czar.  The revolution has however been a good subject of conversation to catch the attention of the upper class. Everybody is speaking about the new czar. Apparently, the revolution that I ignited one hundred years ago totally failed and has provided Russia with a new leadership model. It also appears that I am blamed for the segmentation of Holy Russia into countries now at war. That would be really sad, because I really did not have any intention to weaken my own motherland or create the premises for a civil war. Not in that sense. Better not to care about. Should intellectuals really pay attention to the consequences of their actions, or words, it would be better for us to keep silent and limit ourselves to enjoy the delicious canapés offered in socialites’ mansions. However, without theories that could attract the morbid attention of the bored bourgeoisie, I need to refresh my knowledge about the most recent political trends in Europe. It looks that anarchism does not lose its flair. After such a long period of inactivity, my thoughts are not so seductive any longer and I need a walk around the town to start to recover. Something has changed along the decades. The uneducated working class does not seem miserable anymore, if not because of their unhealthy habits. Common workers are overweight or have grown far too many muscles to afford a natural movement. Young girls and ladies of the lower social classes are covered with tattoos like Novosibirsk’s fishermen, their lips are oversized, their eyebrows are all identical. They remind me of the peasants and the factory workers of my youth just for the inelegance of their movements. It is not so relevant. What is essential is the way to manipulate the feelings of the mod. This should have not changed either and I can play it at my advantage. I actually don’t already know how to start, but if I am taking the path to the lake, I should still be able to find the Café de l’Odeon.

The young art dealer

Eventually I managed to enter the art market with a certain success. The digital company I am working for is one of the most relevant aggregators for art collectors and resellers. I mainly work remotely and a lot of travel is not really needed, if not to sign agreements with the most important galleries in London, New York, Singapore and any other big town all around the world. It is also what my boss recommended me to claim while getting in touch with collectors and potential buyers. “Praise their paintings, quote some failures of the auction houses, pretend the market is cooling down and offer them a minimal gain. If they insist that the offered price is low, tell them that the galleries must make a margin. They do not know that in this case the galleries could directly buy from them. They do not know either that the most of the profit come to us.” Actually “to them”, I would say, since I am not making such a generous profit. However, enough to live above my expectations and to feel self confident enough to be arrogant with inexperienced buyers and sellers. Perhaps they are not so inexperienced, but the aggregator I am working for is big enough to make them believe I am an expert. Only a few check on LinkedIn and find out I am not even 30 and that my only degree is in management and media by the College of West Anglia. That is, however , located in Cambridge and nobody could call me a liar if I claim that I conducted my studies not far away from Parker’s Piece of the King’s Parade. A further advantage is given by working in the DACH area. My interlocutors find themselves at a disadvantage by speaking in English, even when they pretend, on their side, to wonderfully master the language through a fake American accent. Nevertheless, I am landing in Zurich with the hope that there will be no misunderstanding with the booking of my hotel room.

The consultant, of unknown age and experience

The hotel room is wide and comfortable. It has been great that, despite no loyalty card being available, I obtained a free upgrade due to the low season. I expected there is never a low season in Zurich, since affluent billionaires are bringing their money to the local banks the whole year around. My company has however clarified that the local wealth tax is not so convenient. There is no flat-rate for billionaires. Private banking is thus a speciality of Geneva and French speaking colleagues. They, the Zurich colleagues, do not trust my French despite my studies at the University of the Saarland, my Erasmus in Lyon and my volunteering in a French-German Stammstisch, this one in Frankfurt (am Main). I am the kirchenmouse consultant from Germany, I do not speak Swiss German and I need to be happy with core banking by the local main financial institutions. I could switch to profit and loss by the insurance market, if I get lucky. It is fair enough. My company cut down so many of us in the Mainhattan, that I could consider myself more than lucky with this assignment in Zurich. No remote working from Germany is possible, due to local regulations and the understanding with the client. I should definitely move here if everything works well. Fair enough, I had no particular links to Frankfurt (am Main) and I will take advantage to see a little bit of the world. On some travel guides, it is stated that my hotel offers a great tea-time. I should profit from that as well, as long as I can still book the expenses. In a few months I will have to find an apartment by myself. If I am lucky enough to survive the assignment, by living on a salary slightly above the average, I will not be able to afford such a treatment anymore. I better go to sleep now. It will be a hard day tomorrow. I can fall asleep by dreaming about the generous breakfast waiting for me.

Sunday May 30th on a train to Zurich

I spent a weekend in Milan, since the life in Zurich is astoundingly lonely. The fashionable ladies I used to attend are now deceased. I cannot even trace the burial of many of them. I recollect few faces, sometimes by strolling alone around the town and spotting the name of a friend on a street placard. Most of them called writers, artists, painters or even philanthropists. They looked to me all the same, untalented privileged people who enjoyed my entertaining conversation. They perhaps also felt guilty for the sums lavishly employed by their husbands to compliment them with expensive jewelry and cars. Not really seriously, they would have otherwise financed my revolutionary purposes or I should have not accepted the Kaiser’s support to come back to Russia.

Someone told me that in Milan I would have more easily found the understanding of the local authorities, they would have allowed me to openly proclaim the revolution in exchange of that few thousands of francs needed to find an accommodation. I am not impressed by the XXI century figures. I used to spend the same amounts, back in 1917, without taking in account the inflation that occurred along the years. I always had an elegant taste, the finest among my revolutionary circle, and it was really expensive to satisfy it. I did not even consider a compromise the idea to mix up with the so hatred bourgeoisie. In the end that is my milieu and I would not find myself so much at easy with the lowest social classes. That is perhaps the reason why I never totally trusted Stalin. He was such a plebeian, someone who had to become a seminarist in order to get some free education. Not even of the best level. Stalin was however brilliant, I am collecting more information about his extraordinary success and I would have had no doubt. He had the instinct of a killer, he was ruthless, he had all the energy to achieve the greatest goals. I felt the same when I spoke in front of the people, when I had to fight against the other members of the central committee. When I was alone, and had to meditate about the revolution, I most of the time enjoyed a cup of tea with honey and milk. As well as some pastries.

Sunday May 30th A train from Milan to Frankfurt

What a busy days I had in Milan, and I still need to go back to Frankfurt by train because of a really needed stop in Basel. I am feeling art fairs fatigue, but how else could I get acquainted to new customers? There are some fashionable social networks, but the more exclusive they pretend to be, the higher is the chance to meet up with fake profiles. They just pretend to have money to spend or be interested in my field of business, they do not want anything else than my WhatsApp and a date. That sometimes I am however happy to concede, despite I am aware that it will have no follow up. I just need to be sure not to arrange anything with students, who just disappear when the waiter comes with the bill. That I find really outrageous, because I cannot really stand men who are not generous and want to split the bill. I can even less tolerate those who do just want to get a free dinner. There are many other ways to obtain that, the best one it is by attend Art Basel, in Basel, Miami or wherever. Just by being invited to the parties, it is a good way to spare on the expenses. Especially when the expenses are not backed by a main institution. When I left the village, I had to learn how to survive a University Campus. The tactics I learn there, helped me to survive when I was not anymore eligible for students benefits and rent a studio apartment in one of the most expensive financial capitals. Also Milan was not cheap, and I cannot figure out how most of the so called professionals with the proletarian Italian-Income can manage to have a decent life. Perhaps they just invest most of their money in few fashionable clothes, carefully hold the same mojito for a whole night and pretend to have spent holidays in some fashionable resorts. That sort of a metropolis has become one of the worst places where to do business. If someone shows up to not to have the money, even after having signed a formal contract, it is almost impossible to claim any right. Luckily even lawyers are in desperate need and they usually work cheap. Especially if you are a gorgeous blondie and you exploit their sexist ego. I am not so dissatisfied by the inadequate leftist ruling class either. They selected the perfect combination of laws to asfissiate the art market and still let some holes open to export the most interesting devaluated artworks. If I were an old widow, who hoped to guarantee her rent with the beautiful paintings she had at home, I would be extremely angry, but I am a young and brilliant foreigner who knows how to exploit these circumstances at my advantage. My contact in Basel shall help me, it is such a shame that I cannot do everything alone and need to split the cake.

Sunday May 30th 2021 On a train from Milan to Lugano

I luckily managed to get the full expenses for the weekend I spent in Zurich, and the one I spent in Geneva. I exceeded my budget far more than expected. Perhaps it was also due to a couple of über art collectors I dined with. I do not like that word über, that Americans find so fashionable, yet I need to follow the trends also with my writings. Perhaps I will end up with a strange relationship with some acquaintance met in an Assouline store. A place that I also detest, I do not like those kind of fashionable art editions printed to allow affluent Chinese and Arab customers to justify some expenses in culture. If I were free to choose, I would wonder around Cologne, looking for the shop of a local printer. Cologne has already developed a couple of international well sounded successes in the matter of art editions. I do not doubt that something more shall come out soon, during the next few years. I am reading here and there about these NFTs art editions, art totally virtualized, to enhance the meaning of art as a unique creation. It is just a piety that I cannot adopt NFTs as pieces of interior design. Unless I shall set up some multimedia installation, a work of art by itself I will also contribute to. Perhaps it is the only way to me to truly express myself while providing a client with my service. Most of the time I need to give a look at expensive objects on 1stDibs, take in consideration the given budget, add to that between 20 and 50%, and make my proposal. The increased budget is just something that the client does not expect, but that makes him, or in most of the cases her, happy. They feel empowered to lavishly spend on something unnecessary, with the additional illusion that they are doing a brilliant investment. By the time they shall be dead, most of the objects they have purchased will just be out fashioned or in such a bad condition that shall hardly be accepted by a self respecting auction house. Just few possess the skill to anticipate the market. I could try to influence them, but they would just be left unsatisfied and I would loose my client, as well as my reputation. The train has moved faster than I expected and I have not been bothered by the borders control. It is time to move on.

Saturday April 24th 2021 On a train from Geneva to Zurich

I express my deepest sympathy to the members of the central committee who, after more than 100 years, are still struggling to establish the victory of socialism over capitalism. I am well renown as Lenin, a charismatic figure who lead the revolution to the triumph over the reactionary forces. I actually lead a putsch, supported by a foreigner power, but I prefer to freely interpret history in order to sustain my ideas. Quite awkwardly, after my death, I was well preserved in a mausoleum in the center of Moscow, just to wake up in a Soviet Union I was not able to recognize anymore. Russian aristocrats adopted English, instead of French, as the most favorite language and the current leader of the Russian people looks like much more to an Italian socialist heretics called Mussolini. Those socialist heretics are now called fascists and they are apparently the fiercest enemy of the people and the ideals of the revolution. Although also socialism is more popular among the financial capitalist elite of the United States than in the Soviet Union itself. I should admit to be confused. I reputed myself a master creator of plots and lies, to manipulate my own people and cope with foreign reactions to the regime I mostly contributed to establish. I now see that my method has been more widely applied, in such a way that I cannot recognize anymore liberals, libertarians, Roman Catholics, comrades who call themselves socialists and comrades who call themselves fascists. I however managed to take a train to Zurich, to exile myself in the Swiss town once again, waiting for better times. Once again it was Germany, now a federal republic, although not a soviet republic, to sponsor my travel. At first from Moscow to Berlin, recognizing me as ethnically German. I should thank some friends in the immigration office. Once acquired the passport of the European Union, that is nowadays the closest organization to the Soviet Union I created, I also obtained a work permit to establish myself in Switzerland, that, despite the general chaos, has never proclaimed itself a Soviet Confederacy. When local immigration office asked me what I am surviving with, I told them I am an alpine guide and book illustrator. They compared me to a certain Wymper, who was the first to ascend the Matterhorn, but when they asked me to show my drawings as a proof of my activity they mentioned a certain Hitler. Apparently a fellow socialist, also a heretic one, who linked socialism with nationalism. I think that Marx theorized something like that, but I need to read again all of his works, just a double check. After one hundred years my memory has faded and I anyway have to admit that I never read all of Marx´works. He was too prolific and I was also too busy to setup my show and catch the attention of my admirers. I however managed to obtain a five years work permit B. On the building I was living in, during my previous exile, someone put a commemorative plaque. I tried to find an apartment in the very same place, but it has become apparently too expensive. The Kaiser is not sponsoring me anymore and, waiting for better times, I had to content myself with a small studio nearby the main railway station. They say it is a new fashionable area, surrounded by fashionable restaurants, art galleries and design shops. It could be a good and reasonable start. I will perhaps meet a pleasant and adventurous lady who could help me with the expenses. Meanwhile I will keep an eye on some romantic locations, at least to pose myself as a talented and romantic artist and explorer. Luckily I also quickly found a job for some newspaper published on something called the Internet. It should be reachable from everywhere around the world, and it should help me to connect with my comrades of the Central Committee. Wherever they are and whatever ideology are they now working on.

Saturday April 24th 2021 A train from Geneva to Zurich

I will come back to Zurich today. My house on the mountains has been transformed into a fashionable resort and I cannot afford to live there permanently anymore. Just the time to greet a couple of friends and to take a further train to Frankfurt. I have grown up, I am not anymore the inexperienced country girl I used to be. I trade contemporary art and travel constantly in the whole of the DACH area, plus London and the United States. The market is expanding and I am acquiring more and more rich Chinese and Russian clients. Perhaps I shall be able to set up my own company, but I need to exploit the brand of the auction house I am working for and establish my image on the social networks. Everybody call me an ambitious girl, but who would not be with my conditions and background. I have grown up on the Swiss alps, in an exclusive area, got acquainted, already as I was a child, to everlasting celebrity. A Japanese reshaped my image around fifty years ago, providing me with eternal youth. I do not need to get married, nor to bear children, I shall live forever, as those leaders from North Korea. I am not a true expert of the Juche, but beside the hammer and the sickle, North Korean iconography has added a brush. That gives me a good feeling, and sustain my idea that art is a powerful tool to become influential and make money. If I shall have success I will buy a huge mansion on the Taunus, or perhaps I shall move to Munich, or on the Starnbergensee. Despite the low taxation, the center of my business network lies in Germany and I need to stay here till to my next career step. Bonuses are however provided to me through a subsidiary based in Lichtenstein and, since they constitute the main component of my incomes, my overall tax bill is not higher than 20% of my revenues. I am feeling tired, I travelled the whole day. I really need a stop. Just the time to get on a taxi and reach the Dolder Grand. I cannot wait to have a bigger splash in the spa, I just hope to be there before the closing time. Or, in the worst case, that I shall obtain a free upgrade of my room. I need at least a bath and I am not in the mood of a plebeian shower. Let‘s take a nap and wake up in a better world.

Saturday April 24th 2021 A train from Geneva to Zurich

I am really tired. I spent the whole day by a client in Geneva. I wished to become a naval architect, but for some strange destiny I found myself as an interior architect living in Milan. Just a stop in Zurich, I shall need to spend the whole night there. Due to the pest, it has become quite difficult to travel and the last train from Geneva to Italy has been cancelled. Between sleeping in Brig, Domodossola or Zurich, I prefer the biggest of the Swiss cities. I can take advantage of the stop to pay a visit to the local design museum, there are a couple of objects I should buy there for one of my most obnoxious clients and perhaps have also enough time to take a coffee with a potential customer. I have not already booked the hotel, but I hope that the Baur au Lac will make me a good offer. I need a spacious room, I feel the need for a Jacuzzi, after a terrible week in that IBIS in Geneva. It will be the last time that I shall allow my client to book a hotel room for me. I understand they have to pay for my expenses, but do they not recognize that I have become an archistar? Anybody know my name, especially after I set up the museum house of the most renown fashion designers in the world. Perhaps I should work through an assistant, not to introduce myself as an independent consultant anymore. However I am still enjoying my job and I would not like to delegate even the slightest inconvenience. I even like to fill the forms, perhaps it is due to the fact that I have grown up in the former so called DDR and moved to the west only just after the Wende, when I was 14 years old. If the regime had not fallen, I would have perhaps ended up to fill the walls with the Egyptian profile of workers and soldiers, with those modern hieroglyphs expression of the socialist realism. Luckily my parents chose to move to Düsseldorf and as the child of a poor Ossie plumber I got easily admitted to the local Kunstakademie. Perhaps also thanks to the success obtained by Gerhard Richter, now one of the most affluent Germans, who also moved from the DDR to the decadent west, replacing socialist realism with capitalist realism. Indeed I love capitalism and despite everybody suggested me to overnight at the 25 Hours, a design boutique hotel in the modern designers area, I still prefer the luxury of the Baur au Lac. I really need to take a nap. I will better enjoy the evening in less than half an hour in the jacuzzi of my junior suite. That I shall bill on the expenses of my stingy clients in Geneva.