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TIME: Almanac 1995
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1994-03-25
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<text id=89TT0950>
<title>
Apr. 10, 1989: A Taste Of The Luxe Life
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1989
Apr. 10, 1989 The New USSR
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
BUSINESS, Page 82
A TASTE OF THE LUXE LIFE
</hdr>
<body>
<p> When the silver-plated telephone rings in Marina Osadchuk's
clothing and beauty boutique, it chirps like a canary. These
days it sounds as if a cageful of canaries has been let loose
in Osadchuk's store in Moscow. People call constantly to inquire
about the handmade suits and dresses, priced at 200 to 700
rubles ($320 to $1,120), or to make appointments to get their
hair done for 15 rubles ($24). With 50 customers a day, Osadchuk
has more business than she can handle.
</p>
<p> Osadchuk's eager clientele largely represents a new class
of Soviet consumer: the nouveau riche, of which she is a proud
member. Better yet, call them yuccies--young upwardly mobile
Communists. Osadchuk pays herself a monthly salary of 700
rubles, or $1,120, about three times the average Soviet salary
and enough for her family to live very comfortably. Says she:
"We buy anything we want." Thanks to the co-op movement,
employee profit sharing and other budding forms of
entrepreneurship, many Soviets are suddenly earning enough money
to do more than just scrape by. They are enjoying a taste of the
good life, and some are even becoming wealthy, at least by
Soviet standards.
</p>
<p> Yet the fling with materialism is problematic in a country
that has officially scorned materialism and has trouble
producing enough basic goods, much less luxury items. Even such
Western staples as cars, refrigerators and washing machines are
in chronically short supply. As a result, well-off Soviets often
have much more money than they need for smaller indulgences,
including restaurant meals, videos and stereo gear. "Money slips
through our fingers," says Vladimir Ivlev, chairman of a Moscow
clothing cooperative that pays him a monthly salary of 2,000
rubles ($3,200).
</p>
<p> Ivlev, who often wears imported jeans and Adidas sneakers,
has richly furnished the three-room apartment he shares with his
wife Tanya and son Sergei. A sleek, ebony-colored bookcase holds
a Korean color TV and matching video system. Ivlev says he paid
1,000 rubles ($1,600) for a Panasonic tape deck. "And we have
better food because we shop at the open market, where prices are
higher," he points out. Is their bank account growing? "It's not
our aim to save money," says Tanya. "We want to spend as much
as we can."
</p>
<p> Vladimir Yakovlev, 30, a former journalist, has cashed in
on the co-op movement by starting a company to collect and sell
information about such ventures. Yakovlev launched the firm,
called Fakt, two years ago and already has more than 30 offices
in the Soviet Union. Yakovlev, who last fall visited the U.S.
for the first time to learn more about foreign trade, pays
himself 1,500 rubles a month ($2,400), five times as much as he
made as a journalist. His most enviable perk is a company car
and driver. "I spend a lot of money every month on clothes and
fancy restaurants," he says. "I have no bank account. No
savings." Consumers have little incentive to save because such
major expenses as housing and education are subsidized and bank
accounts pay interest of only 2% to 4%.
</p>
<p> Even if luxury goods are scarce, having extra income means
being able to procure a better grade of necessity. For example,
a pound of beef costs 1.4 rubles ($2.24) when it can be found
in a state store, but is usually filled with lard and bone.
Better-quality beef is readily available at co-op markets, but
costs about 4.6 rubles ($7.36) a pound. The same is true of
services. Well-off consumers seeking to avoid Moscow's public
dentists flock to Joseph Bochkovsky, whose private office has
such modern equipment as high-tech drills from Czechoslovakia
and Japanese-made disposable needles for injecting anesthetics.
Prices at his office are four times as high as those at
state-operated polyclinics, where dentists use more rudimentary
tools. But the 600 patients on his waiting list consider
Bochkovsky's humane dentistry a welcome addition to the good
life.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>