OLKHOVATKO, Central Russia -- All Alexander Khodayev wanted to do was sell off his goods to the highest bidder, pay off his debts, and invest whatever was left over in the business he runs.


So when a Moscow firm offered Khodayev three times more than local buyers for a shipment of bulls from his 8,000-head farm in Olkhovatko, a village in the Voronezh region's fertile black earth zone, it seemed like a good move.


But not in Voronezh, where authorities are trying to turn back the clock to the centrally managed past. Within days after the deal was done, much of Olkhovatko's local government had been fired and Khodayev, a colorful 59-year-old who writes poetry about his cows, was up to his neck in trouble.


"I thought I was doing something right for a change," Khodayev said at the humble cafeteria of the farm he runs, which still bears the name of Lenin. "Next thing I know, I'm a pariah."


Authorities in Voronezh have their own opinion of Khodayev's deal. They fear that sales outside the region will undo their efforts to re-establish state controls over agriculture and will lead to a shortage of meat.


Voronezh's mayor, Anatoly Goltz, said of Khodayev's dealings, "What he did was animalism," adding: "It was a classic example of a few getting rich at the expense of the majority."


Or perhaps, it a classic example of what is wrong with Russian agriculture.


For years, the Lenin Farm has purchased baby calves and sold them to the local butcher, Myaskombinat, at the age of nine months when they weigh 400 to 500 kilograms.


Under Soviet rule, it did not matter whether these companies made money because of generous state subsidies. Now, the subsidies have vanished and each agricultural firm has to stand on its own feet.


These days, the Lenin Farm buys its baby bulls for 800 rubles (about 26 cents) a kilogram, but Myaskombinat's buying price is only 850 rubles -- hardly enough of an increment to cover Khodayev's costs incurred while raising his bulls. Worse, he said, Myaskombinat had taken to downgrading his cows so that they could pay him even less. As a result, he loses money on every cow he sells.


If he ever got paid, that is: Like many Russian firms, Myaskombinat is broke, and lacks the cash to repair its broken refrigerators, much less pay Khodayev. By last month, the Lenin Farm was more than 800 million rubles in debt.


Salvation came in the form of Agroalimsk, a Moscow company that offered to buy 1,250 bulls for three times Myaskombinat's price.


"Not only that, but they actually paid me," Khodayev said. The next day, he paid off his debts and started planning to open his own butcher shop. It was a rare event in a region where many farmers have quit tending their land and opened up commercial kiosks in Voronezh.


Trouble began a few days after the deal was done, when a local newspaper reported that 550 of the bulls were headed for Lebanon.


"A few more deals like this and the people of Lebanon won't die of hunger, but we will have to go on a vegetarian diet," the paper commented.


The stir attracted the attention of Voronezh region's conservative governor, Alexander Kovalyov, who had already reintroduced price controls in the region for some food products.


Kovalyov slapped a quota on all farms in the region. Before any farmer could sell products outside it, first the regional quota for that product had to be met. Efficient farmers would have to make up for their less productive neighbors.Not only did the governor's resolution contradict the laws of market economics, it also went against Russia's constitution, which guarantees the right of producers to sell their goods as they see fit.


"They have to have iron in their heads, instead of brains, to set these quotas," Khodayev said. But he had too many troubles of his own to worry about the law.


Olkhovatko's mayor and police chief were fired for complicity in the sale of beef to Lebanon, as was the local customs supervisor and the head of the Voronezh regional farming department.


The word came down from Voronezh that Khodayev, who had been elected by his 1,200 employees, should resign as farm director -- or he could forget about his pension when he retires next year.


"It was a special pension, the kind they give to heroes," Khodayev said. "They aren't going to give that to the guy who sold cows to Lebanon."


Agroalimsk's director said in an interview this week that Khodayev knew nothing about where the bulls were headed. Furthermore, she said, the Russian government had forced Voronezh to rescind its quotas.


Hearing that was little consolation for Khodayev. "Next time, I'll give my meat to Myaskombinat and let it rot," he said. "I've had enough."