Well, here I was, back in the land of the free after two incredible weeks in the Soviet Union. Once we had deplaned at JFK Airport, and while waiting for our connecting flight to Washington, I found a phone booth — remember the days before cell phones? — and called my mother. She was a champion worrier, and I knew she had to have been frantic for the past two weeks with no word from me, all the while imagining the ghastly fate that surely had befallen her younger daughter in the Evil Empire. When she answered the phone and I said, “Hi, we’re in New York,” her relieved response was, “Oh, good! You’re back in civilization.”

I looked out at the mass of humanity passing by my phone booth: harried travelers, panhandlers, homeless folks, and more than a few apparent pickpockets, and I said, “If this is civilization, I’m on the next plane back to Moscow.”

Anyway, it was on to DC, and a real surprise awaiting me. In my absence, my sister had obtained tickets to the Kennedy Center for the one show I had been dying to see: Les Miz. Jet-lagged or not, that was an event I would not have missed. (And the only show I have ever paid to see more than once — a total of five times, in fact, plus the movie, which I really wish I had missed.) And as I sat in the darkened theater, watching the stirring portrayal of the days leading up to the French Revolution, I couldn’t help thinking of the current plight of the Soviet people I had just left behind, living under the yoke of the Communist regime and longing only for a bit of freedom and a decent life. I couldn’t have imagined then that in just over a year the Berlin Wall would come down and the entire Soviet Bloc would begin to crumble.

But that was yet to come. For now, it was back to the daily grind.

Walter, of course, was delighted that his good right hand had returned to the office, where — in his mind, at least — I rightfully belonged. But it was Vladimir who was most anxious to see me, or rather the gifts he had been waiting to receive from Galina. As the reader will recall, the two small paintings had been given to me unframed, and so I had been at some pains to pack them between two souvenir books I had bought so they wouldn’t be damaged. But a corner of one of them had sustained a small wrinkle, which wouldn’t even show when framed, so I didn’t think it was a big deal. Vladimir, on the other hand, had a different reaction. Instead of being the least bit appreciative of the fact that Gisela and I had taken the time from our vacation to meet his friend — not once, but twice — under less than ideal circumstances, and to bring his paintings home to him, the little twerp focused only on the one corner of the one painting . . . and whined.

Have you ever wanted to just smack someone? I mean, just really haul off and deck them? Of course, you have. And so did I, at that moment. Naturally, I couldn’t do it, but I did give him a good piece of my mind, ending with a sarcastic “You’re very welcome,” and storming off as he realized what he had done and tried to thank me. Too little, too late.

A few words here about Vladimir. He was very, very smart. And very, very spoiled, full of himself, and — oddly, for someone who had grown up under Communism — entitled. He was the only child of a couple who had been, if not in the very top echelon of Soviet society, at least at one of the more respected professional levels. And he had been catered to by his parents, who apparently had led him to believe he was solely responsible for the rising and setting of the sun each day. But for all his scholastic brilliance, he sometimes exhibited zero common sense. For example . . .

His mother once told me that as a child he loved to read, and would often take a flashlight and a book to bed and read under the blankets at night. One such night, the batteries in his flashlight died, as batteries will do, so he found an alternative source of light: a candle. And set his bed on fire. It was just plain, dumb luck — and presumably the quick reaction of his parents — that kept him from barbecuing himself.

Even as an adult, he never learned. He couldn’t remember the PIN for his bank debit card, so he wrote it on a little piece of paper, which he kept in his wallet . . . conveniently alongside the debit card. When his wallet was stolen from his office one day — because he always left it in his jacket pocket, hanging unattended on the back of his office door — he didn’t discover the loss until the next morning, by which time the thief had made off with the maximum daily withdrawal . . . twice: once before midnight, and again after midnight. (P.S.: The bank cancelled his card and refused to issue another one.)

Then there was the new, very expensive bicycle he bought and had mounted on the roof of his car, rather than at the rear. Not thinking to measure the combined height of the car and bike, he drove happily home to his apartment building, opened the garage door with his remote, and drove forward with enough speed, not simply to dislodge the bike from the roof of the car, but to rip the roof itself halfway off of the car, front to back, with the bike still firmly attached. That was one securely-mounted bicycle! I can only imagine the reaction of his insurance adjusters when they heard that one.

But enough about Vladimir. In 1988, life was good, except for one circumstance. The partners at Surrey & Morse had, two years earlier, made the fateful decision to merge with a firm that had a wider national presence and was seeking the broader international presence that we offered. That firm was Jones, Day, Reavis & Pogue (now simply Jones Day). They were, and are, a very large, very successful, and very reputable old firm; yet their entire personal philosophy was diametrically opposed to that of Surrey & Morse. Whereas S&M was a family, JDR&P was a corporation. And Walter Surrey regretted that merger to his dying day — which, tragically, was not as far off as it should have been.

Less than a year before I joined the Surrey firm in 1979, Walter had suffered his second heart attack. Since that time, he had done all the right things: changed his diet, entered a therapeutic exercise program, given up smoking. He was doing so well, until the effects of the 1986 merger began gnawing at him, and he reverted to his old, unhealthy habits. On the morning of January 30, 1989, he finished his treadmill exercise at home, headed for the shower, and suffered his third — and this time, fatal — heart attack. He was only 73. His wife had lost her husband, his adult children their father, and I . . . I had lost my mentor, my father figure, and my best friend. We were all devastated.

But there was no time to grieve. As the keeper of the keys to Walter Surrey’s office kingdom, I had three main tasks to perform after his death: reviewing each and every one of his client files and preparing a status report on each one for the office’s managing partner; gathering all of his personal financial files for his estate attorney; and notifying half the world of his passing. The third task came first.

Now, if you’ve been following my blog from the beginning, you may recall the two huge rolodexes on my desk in 1979. They were still there — but even larger — in 1989, and I had to go through them, card by card, and begin calling those individuals I could reach and sending telexes to those I couldn’t (including, you’ll remember, Viktor Akimov in Moscow). So I moved the two rolodexes and myself into Walter’s office, closed the door, and started calling. It was one of the most gut-wrenching jobs I’ve ever had to do, speaking to ambassadors, foreign dignitaries, top U.S. government officials, leaders of industry, an actual Empress, a couple of Rockefellers, and so on, to deliver the dreadful news. And, of course, there were his long-time “China colleagues,” Henry Kissinger and Richard Nixon.

In the last two cases, I did not actually reach them directly. I did speak to a very nice lady in Dr. Kissinger’s office, and an unspeakably officious woman in former President Nixon’s New York office who was interested only in how I had gotten his unlisted office number. I refused to tell her the whole convoluted story, which was that I had a friend at the State Department who had a friend in Reykjavik, Iceland, who had previously been on Nixon’s staff, and who had been kind enough to search out his current number for me. I was in no mood to quibble, and told her that it was none of her business (I believe the word I actually used was “irrelevant”), and that she should just do her job and give the message to President Nixon.

Do not mess with me when I’m in mourning.

But life goes on, in one form or another. After two weeks of holding it together in the office, followed by nightly visits to Walter’s widow to keep her advised of what was being done, I finally had time for a good cry, and a look at an uncertain future. Which — while never again as it had been with Walter — turned out to be pretty good after all, thanks almost entirely to his tutelage. Walter Sterling Surrey was the gift that kept on giving, and does to this day.

Thinking back to those years of working with him, I remember a few colossal arguments, but mostly I recall the hilarious times. From the very beginning, we were the Laurel and Hardy of Surrey & Morse. Like the time he came into the ladies’ room after me; the episode of the Chinese Military Attache who asked him to arrange a date with me; and the time the travel agent inadvertently booked him into a whorehouse in Rome. And let us not overlook “Bitch,” “Moneybags,” “Shithead,” and “The Little Blind Guy.” Obviously, this was all many years before political correctness reared its ugly head. But somehow, I doubt even that would have stopped Walter being Walter.

So next week, before getting back to my overseas adventures of 1990 and beyond, I’ll shift gears and take a walk with Walter on the lighter side. Until then, have a great week, everyone.

Brendochka
1/26/23