At noon on Monday, June 5, 2000, Presidents Bill Clinton and Vladimir Putin emerged from the Tsar's Entrance of the Kremlin Palace. At this moment, which brought to an end the official portion of Clinton's fifth and final visit to Moscow as president, the nuances were all in the body language: the burly Clinton looming over the welterweight Putin, the ultimate extrovert still trying to connect with the coolest of customers who just wasn't buying.
As they shook hands one last time, I hustled down the steps to take my place on a jump seat in the rear of the armored Cadillac. Once Clinton had settled into place, he looked out at Putin through the thick bulletproof window, put on his widest grin and gave a jaunty wave. We then headed for the western outskirts of Moscow, where former President Boris Yeltsin was now living in retirement.
Over the eight years they had known each other, Clinton and Yeltsin often bantered about the advantage of both being 1.80 meters: It was easier for them to look each other in the eye. Now, as the limousine rolled to a stop and Clinton scrutinized his host through the window, he noted that Yeltsin seemed to have lost an inch or two since they had last been together, seven months before.
After Clinton got out of the car, he and Yeltsin embraced silently for a full minute. Yeltsin kept saying, in a low, choked voice: "Moi drug, moi drug" -- my friend, my friend. Then, clasping Clinton's hand, he led the way through a foyer into a living room that looked out on a manicured lawn and a stand of birches.
Clinton settled in for what he expected would be a relaxed exchange of memories and courtesies, but Yeltsin had work to do first. Turning severe, he announced that he had just had a phone call from Putin, who wanted him to underscore that Russia would pursue its interests by its own lights: It would resist pressure to acquiesce in any U.S. policy that constituted a threat to Russian security. Clinton, after three days of listening to Putin politely fend him off on the U.S. plan to build an antimissile system, was now getting the blunt-instrument treatment.
Yeltsin seemed to relish the assignment Putin had given him. It allowed him to demonstrate that, far from being a feeble pensioner, he was still plugged in to the power of the Kremlin, still a forceful spokesman for Russian interests and still able to stand up to the United States when it was throwing its weight around. Clinton took the browbeating patiently, even good-naturedly. He had seen Yeltsin in all his roles -- snarling bear and papa bear, bully and sentimentalist, spoiler and deal maker.
When Yeltsin finally wound down, Clinton gently took control. He, too, had one piece of business to do. He wasn't sure, he said, how "this new guy of yours" defined strength, either for himself or for the nation. Putin seemed to have the capability to take Russia in the right direction, but did he have the values, instincts and convictions to make good on that capability? Why, Clinton wondered aloud, was Putin so ready to make common cause with the Communists? Why was Putin putting the squeeze on the free press?
Yeltsin nodded solemnly, but he didn't answer. All the pugnacity, swagger and certainty had gone out of him.
"Boris," Clinton continued, " You've got the fire in your belly of a real democrat and a real reformer. I'm not sure Putin has that. Maybe he does. I don't know. You'll have to keep an eye on him and use your influence to make sure that he stays on the right path. Putin needs you."
"Thank you, Bill," he said. "I understand."
We were running late. There was a quick group photo on the veranda, some hurried goodbyes and another bear hug.
It all began far differently, in 1993. The Soviet Union had been disbanded, thanks in large part to Yeltsin, and Russia was undergoing tumultuous change. For every move Yeltsin made, he was challenged by a Communist-led parliament determined to impeach him. It was in this atmosphere that Clinton and Yeltsin met as presidents for the first time.
The summit in Vancouver began on April 3, with a meeting between the presidents with just a few aides and interpreters present. The purpose was to break the ice, begin to establish a personal bond and give the two leaders a chance to sound each other out on the agenda before a more formal encounter between the delegations over dinner that evening and a full plenary session the next day.
Clinton tried to win Yeltsin over at the outset by proclaiming his admiration for what Yeltsin was trying to accomplish against heavy odds.
When the time came to thank Yeltsin for a good first meeting, Clinton seemed to mean it. He instructed communications director George Stephanopoulos to tell the press that he'd found Yeltsin "full of piss and vinegar, a real fighter," and then added -- not for the press -- "I do my best when I'm under the gun, and so does this guy. He's not deterred by long odds, and now he's at the top of his form."
That could hardly be said when the two delegations joined the presidents for a boat ride around Vancouver harbor that afternoon. We were barely away from the dock before Yeltsin had downed three scotches. At dinner that evening, he knocked back four glasses of wine and ate barely a bite. Secretary of State Warren Christopher passed Stephanopoulos a note: "No food, bad sign. Boat ride was liquid." Keeping count of Yeltsin's intake was to become a standard practice of summiteering.
Russia's economic well-being and rocky transition to a market economy were not the only issues to dominate the agenda of the Clinton-Yeltsin relationship. The West's desire to enlarge NATO to include former Soviet-bloc countries swiftly emerged as one of the toughest problems, continually straining relations between the two presidents. When Yeltsin flew to Washington in September 1994, Clinton was determined to show him that NATO enlargement did not have to threaten Russia and would be a sign that the Cold War really was over.
As Yeltsin emerged from the plane at Andrews Air Force Base and made his way down the mobile stairs, he was gripping the railing and concentrating on each step. His handlers did their best to block the view of the cameras recording his descent. He slipped on the last step and had to grab his wife's arm. That night at Blair House, Yeltsin was roaring drunk, lurching from room to room in his undershorts. At one point, he stumbled downstairs and accosted a Secret Service agent, who managed to persuade him to go back upstairs and return to the care of his own bodyguards. Yeltsin reappeared briefly on the landing, demanding, "Pizza! Pizza!" Finally, his security agents took him firmly by the arms and marched him briskly around in an effort to calm him down.
In the first formal meeting at the White House the next day, with the delegations facing each other across a long table, Yeltsin was sober but supercharged. He galloped through a list of half-baked or overcooked proposals. It was only when the two presidents met alone that Yeltsin dispensed with the posturing and Clinton could go to work on him. That chance came over a private lunch in the family dining room in the East Wing on Sept. 27. Clinton asked me to sit in on the lunch. We expected Yeltsin to raise the future of NATO, but he didn't.
Finally, as coffee was served, Clinton put his hand on Yeltsin's arm and said, "Boris, on NATO, I want to make sure you've noted that I've never said we shouldn't consider Russia for membership or a special relationship with NATO. So when we talk about NATO expanding, we're emphasizing inclusion, not exclusion. Clinton promised that U.S. policy would be guided by "three noes": no surprises, no rush and no exclusion.
That afternoon, Yeltsin and Clinton gave a joint press conference in the East Room of the White House. Yeltsin was in a state that Deputy National Security Adviser Sandy Berger described as "high jabberwocky" -- joking, jabbing the air with his fist, hamming it up, talking a mile a minute, ticking off all the good things that he and his friend Bill were going to do together. Clinton was doubled over with laughter. He wanted to make sure that the audience took it all in a generous spirit.
A pattern was developing in Yeltsin's handling of these meetings: In the plenary sessions, with a large audience on both sides of the table, he played the decisive, even peremptory leader who knew what he wanted and insisted on getting it; in the private meetings, he switched from assertive to receptive, becoming susceptible to Clinton's blandishments and suasion; then, in the wrap-up press conference, he went over the top in a way designed, in his own mind, to project self-confidence and to disguise how pliant he had been behind closed doors.
In October 1995, Yeltsin flew to New York for an appearance before the General Assembly of the United Nations. There he gave a fire-and-brimstone speech excoriating NATO for the bombing of Serbian targets in Bosnia and warning that NATO enlargement would mean a "new era of confrontation." Yeltsin and Clinton were scheduled to meet at Franklin Roosevelt's former estate in Hyde Park, New York, for what was shaping up to be a high-stakes and high-tension meeting on a variety of contentious foreign policy issues.
At the press conference afterward, Yeltsin gave the reporters just the sort of Boris Show they were counting on. He mocked the press for having predicted that differences over Bosnia would turn the summit into a disaster. Pointing directly at the cameras, Yeltsin bellowed: "Now, for the first time, I can tell you that you're a disaster!"
Yeltsin always practiced diplomacy as performance art, and when he was drunk, the performance was burlesque: This was the worst incident so far. Clinton, however, doubled over in laughter, slapped Boris on the back and had to wipe tears from his eyes. When he came to the microphone, he said, "Just make sure you get the attribution right!" then continued to laugh a little too hard to be convincing.
Going back to their first summit in Vancouver, Clinton's lenience toward Yeltsin was sometimes a source of consternation for those of us who worked for him. What we found appalling in Yeltsin's conduct Clinton found amusing. I was beginning to figure out something about my boss and his seemingly infinite capacity to put up with, and laugh off, Yeltsin's antics. Part of it wasn't even personal to Yeltsin -- it was a function of our support for the general direction in which Russia was moving. The country, like Yeltsin, was a bit of a mess.
But Clinton's indulgence of Yeltsin's misbehavior seemed to go deeper still. The key, as I saw it, might be that Yeltsin combined prodigious determination and fortitude with grotesque indiscipline and a kind of genius for self-abasement. He was both a very big man and a very bad boy, a natural leader and an incurable screw-up. All this Clinton recognized, found easy to forgive and wanted others to join him in forgiving.
Strobe Talbott, a former deputy secretary of state, will become president of the Brookings Institution in July. Adapted from "The Russia Hand: A Memoir of Presidential Diplomacy," this essay appeared in The Washington Post.
As they shook hands one last time, I hustled down the steps to take my place on a jump seat in the rear of the armored Cadillac. Once Clinton had settled into place, he looked out at Putin through the thick bulletproof window, put on his widest grin and gave a jaunty wave. We then headed for the western outskirts of Moscow, where former President Boris Yeltsin was now living in retirement.
Over the eight years they had known each other, Clinton and Yeltsin often bantered about the advantage of both being 1.80 meters: It was easier for them to look each other in the eye. Now, as the limousine rolled to a stop and Clinton scrutinized his host through the window, he noted that Yeltsin seemed to have lost an inch or two since they had last been together, seven months before.
After Clinton got out of the car, he and Yeltsin embraced silently for a full minute. Yeltsin kept saying, in a low, choked voice: "Moi drug, moi drug" -- my friend, my friend. Then, clasping Clinton's hand, he led the way through a foyer into a living room that looked out on a manicured lawn and a stand of birches.
Clinton settled in for what he expected would be a relaxed exchange of memories and courtesies, but Yeltsin had work to do first. Turning severe, he announced that he had just had a phone call from Putin, who wanted him to underscore that Russia would pursue its interests by its own lights: It would resist pressure to acquiesce in any U.S. policy that constituted a threat to Russian security. Clinton, after three days of listening to Putin politely fend him off on the U.S. plan to build an antimissile system, was now getting the blunt-instrument treatment.
Yeltsin seemed to relish the assignment Putin had given him. It allowed him to demonstrate that, far from being a feeble pensioner, he was still plugged in to the power of the Kremlin, still a forceful spokesman for Russian interests and still able to stand up to the United States when it was throwing its weight around. Clinton took the browbeating patiently, even good-naturedly. He had seen Yeltsin in all his roles -- snarling bear and papa bear, bully and sentimentalist, spoiler and deal maker.
When Yeltsin finally wound down, Clinton gently took control. He, too, had one piece of business to do. He wasn't sure, he said, how "this new guy of yours" defined strength, either for himself or for the nation. Putin seemed to have the capability to take Russia in the right direction, but did he have the values, instincts and convictions to make good on that capability? Why, Clinton wondered aloud, was Putin so ready to make common cause with the Communists? Why was Putin putting the squeeze on the free press?
Yeltsin nodded solemnly, but he didn't answer. All the pugnacity, swagger and certainty had gone out of him.
"Boris," Clinton continued, " You've got the fire in your belly of a real democrat and a real reformer. I'm not sure Putin has that. Maybe he does. I don't know. You'll have to keep an eye on him and use your influence to make sure that he stays on the right path. Putin needs you."
"Thank you, Bill," he said. "I understand."
We were running late. There was a quick group photo on the veranda, some hurried goodbyes and another bear hug.
It all began far differently, in 1993. The Soviet Union had been disbanded, thanks in large part to Yeltsin, and Russia was undergoing tumultuous change. For every move Yeltsin made, he was challenged by a Communist-led parliament determined to impeach him. It was in this atmosphere that Clinton and Yeltsin met as presidents for the first time.
The summit in Vancouver began on April 3, with a meeting between the presidents with just a few aides and interpreters present. The purpose was to break the ice, begin to establish a personal bond and give the two leaders a chance to sound each other out on the agenda before a more formal encounter between the delegations over dinner that evening and a full plenary session the next day.
Clinton tried to win Yeltsin over at the outset by proclaiming his admiration for what Yeltsin was trying to accomplish against heavy odds.
When the time came to thank Yeltsin for a good first meeting, Clinton seemed to mean it. He instructed communications director George Stephanopoulos to tell the press that he'd found Yeltsin "full of piss and vinegar, a real fighter," and then added -- not for the press -- "I do my best when I'm under the gun, and so does this guy. He's not deterred by long odds, and now he's at the top of his form."
That could hardly be said when the two delegations joined the presidents for a boat ride around Vancouver harbor that afternoon. We were barely away from the dock before Yeltsin had downed three scotches. At dinner that evening, he knocked back four glasses of wine and ate barely a bite. Secretary of State Warren Christopher passed Stephanopoulos a note: "No food, bad sign. Boat ride was liquid." Keeping count of Yeltsin's intake was to become a standard practice of summiteering.
Russia's economic well-being and rocky transition to a market economy were not the only issues to dominate the agenda of the Clinton-Yeltsin relationship. The West's desire to enlarge NATO to include former Soviet-bloc countries swiftly emerged as one of the toughest problems, continually straining relations between the two presidents. When Yeltsin flew to Washington in September 1994, Clinton was determined to show him that NATO enlargement did not have to threaten Russia and would be a sign that the Cold War really was over.
As Yeltsin emerged from the plane at Andrews Air Force Base and made his way down the mobile stairs, he was gripping the railing and concentrating on each step. His handlers did their best to block the view of the cameras recording his descent. He slipped on the last step and had to grab his wife's arm. That night at Blair House, Yeltsin was roaring drunk, lurching from room to room in his undershorts. At one point, he stumbled downstairs and accosted a Secret Service agent, who managed to persuade him to go back upstairs and return to the care of his own bodyguards. Yeltsin reappeared briefly on the landing, demanding, "Pizza! Pizza!" Finally, his security agents took him firmly by the arms and marched him briskly around in an effort to calm him down.
In the first formal meeting at the White House the next day, with the delegations facing each other across a long table, Yeltsin was sober but supercharged. He galloped through a list of half-baked or overcooked proposals. It was only when the two presidents met alone that Yeltsin dispensed with the posturing and Clinton could go to work on him. That chance came over a private lunch in the family dining room in the East Wing on Sept. 27. Clinton asked me to sit in on the lunch. We expected Yeltsin to raise the future of NATO, but he didn't.
Finally, as coffee was served, Clinton put his hand on Yeltsin's arm and said, "Boris, on NATO, I want to make sure you've noted that I've never said we shouldn't consider Russia for membership or a special relationship with NATO. So when we talk about NATO expanding, we're emphasizing inclusion, not exclusion. Clinton promised that U.S. policy would be guided by "three noes": no surprises, no rush and no exclusion.
That afternoon, Yeltsin and Clinton gave a joint press conference in the East Room of the White House. Yeltsin was in a state that Deputy National Security Adviser Sandy Berger described as "high jabberwocky" -- joking, jabbing the air with his fist, hamming it up, talking a mile a minute, ticking off all the good things that he and his friend Bill were going to do together. Clinton was doubled over with laughter. He wanted to make sure that the audience took it all in a generous spirit.
A pattern was developing in Yeltsin's handling of these meetings: In the plenary sessions, with a large audience on both sides of the table, he played the decisive, even peremptory leader who knew what he wanted and insisted on getting it; in the private meetings, he switched from assertive to receptive, becoming susceptible to Clinton's blandishments and suasion; then, in the wrap-up press conference, he went over the top in a way designed, in his own mind, to project self-confidence and to disguise how pliant he had been behind closed doors.
In October 1995, Yeltsin flew to New York for an appearance before the General Assembly of the United Nations. There he gave a fire-and-brimstone speech excoriating NATO for the bombing of Serbian targets in Bosnia and warning that NATO enlargement would mean a "new era of confrontation." Yeltsin and Clinton were scheduled to meet at Franklin Roosevelt's former estate in Hyde Park, New York, for what was shaping up to be a high-stakes and high-tension meeting on a variety of contentious foreign policy issues.
At the press conference afterward, Yeltsin gave the reporters just the sort of Boris Show they were counting on. He mocked the press for having predicted that differences over Bosnia would turn the summit into a disaster. Pointing directly at the cameras, Yeltsin bellowed: "Now, for the first time, I can tell you that you're a disaster!"
Yeltsin always practiced diplomacy as performance art, and when he was drunk, the performance was burlesque: This was the worst incident so far. Clinton, however, doubled over in laughter, slapped Boris on the back and had to wipe tears from his eyes. When he came to the microphone, he said, "Just make sure you get the attribution right!" then continued to laugh a little too hard to be convincing.
Going back to their first summit in Vancouver, Clinton's lenience toward Yeltsin was sometimes a source of consternation for those of us who worked for him. What we found appalling in Yeltsin's conduct Clinton found amusing. I was beginning to figure out something about my boss and his seemingly infinite capacity to put up with, and laugh off, Yeltsin's antics. Part of it wasn't even personal to Yeltsin -- it was a function of our support for the general direction in which Russia was moving. The country, like Yeltsin, was a bit of a mess.
But Clinton's indulgence of Yeltsin's misbehavior seemed to go deeper still. The key, as I saw it, might be that Yeltsin combined prodigious determination and fortitude with grotesque indiscipline and a kind of genius for self-abasement. He was both a very big man and a very bad boy, a natural leader and an incurable screw-up. All this Clinton recognized, found easy to forgive and wanted others to join him in forgiving.
Strobe Talbott, a former deputy secretary of state, will become president of the Brookings Institution in July. Adapted from "The Russia Hand: A Memoir of Presidential Diplomacy," this essay appeared in The Washington Post.