Yeltsin полностью

It was not predetermined that Yeltsin would be a candidate for re-election upon expiration of his five-year term. He told Aleksandr Korzhakov in the spring of 1992 that he would “not be able to bear up under a second term” and needed to find a successor, and in May he said in a press interview that there was “a limit to a person’s physical and other abilities” and his first term would be his last.¹ Richard Nixon, dropping in on him in June 1992, called his disclaimer a fiendishly clever strategy—“a masterstroke” that transmitted his fearlessness as a reformer “and would be to Yeltsin’s advantage even should he eventually decide to run again.” Yeltsin gave a knowing smile and said that “of course” he would benefit politically; how he would was impossible to make out.² He commented to Bill Clinton, still a U.S. presidential candidate, in Washington that same month that taking himself out of the running had already had “an important psychological impact” and that people appreciated “that I’m not fighting to stay in office but to ensure that the reforms become irreversible.”³

Yeltsin soon second-guessed the decision. He declared, the week after dissolving the Supreme Soviet in September 1993, that he would be willing to proceed with a presidential election, and to be a candidate, in the summer of 1994—a statement he revoked just as suddenly that November. In March 1994, when an article in Izvestiya maintained that he would participate in the next election “only in his capacity as a voter,” Yeltsin had his press secretary persuade the paper to print a new article saying he was agnostic about standing. Later in 1994 there was a different iron in the fire: the idea of postponing, in the interests of political stability, the Duma election slated for 1995 and/or the presidential election slated for 1996. Gennadii Burbulis, no longer a member of the government but still influential in the liberal beau monde, wanted Yeltsin to extend his term by decree for two years and not to seek re-election. Although these and related proposals bristled with constitutional complications, Yeltsin was content to leave them in play. Aides were kept in the dark about his true intent but formed the impression by the summer of 1994 that the president meant to run, be it in 1996 or 1998, and they should begin to clear the decks. This was also the burden of remarks he made to staffers in 1995.⁴

Reconnecting with the electorate was going to take some doing. Entranced by the Kremlin and high politics, Yeltsin had long since let his reputation as “people’s president” lose its luster. To be sure, he continued to escape Moscow and accept bread and salt, the customary token of Russian hospitality, in the provinces. A hobby project of his in 1992–93 was to circuit through every subunit of the federation. He dug in against staffers who urged him to prioritize the populous regions and align his peregrinations with the Moscow political calendar.⁵ When out in the field, he could still gladhand with the best of them. Unlike Gorbachev, who invariably initiated group conversations, Yeltsin’s way was to wait for someone else to lead off and to make a retort, and one that frequently contained a nonverbal element. In May 1992, for example, he held court at the Omsk Oil Refinery in west Siberia. Hearing out one disgruntled worker, Yeltsin gave him a light slap on the forehead and cried “Mosquito!” after which the two men swapped jokes. To the refinery employees, it was a playful and egalitarian gesture.⁶ In June 1994 Yeltsin descended on Kyzyl, the capital of Tuva, the mountain republic of shamanistic and Buddhist heritage on the border with Mongolia. Decked out in the national costume at a concert by Kongar-ool Ondar, Tuva’s renowned throat singer, he mounted the stage, hummed along, and quaffed arakar, a potent beverage from fermented goat’s milk.⁷

Russians after 1991 rarely accorded Yeltsin an abusive reception. Correspondents in the advance party would see the eyes of local residents light up when the president’s blue Mi-8 chopper landed on the tarmac, especially if he shushed his bodyguards and waded into the throng: “We would stand around [beforehand] and ask people what they made of Yeltsin. They would do nothing but denounce him something fierce: ‘As soon as he gets here we are going to tear him to shreds,’ that type of thing. Then Yeltsin showed up, perhaps not in the best of form, and did a walkabout. And suddenly these very same people would be saying, ‘Oh, Boris Nikolayevich, may you be healthy, you are one of us.’”⁸ These swooning scenes speak volumes about the Russian tradition of deference to leaders. Members of the crowd often came up and asked Yeltsin to intercede on a family or community problem; adjutants took down the requests and referred them to central or local functionaries.