Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  Minutes later I receive a long email in response, reminding me there is a professional journalist on the other end: ‘What I believe in … that’s a good question. When I was in Japan on my sabbatical I started to look at shinto and aspects of Zen. I’ve flirted with the Tao and the I Ching – the ineffable unknowable. In my salad days, living near the mountains at my parents’ place in France was my homage to Tao. In Zen I love the clarity, the dissolution of the notion of self, but I’m too bound up in passion, anger and all the other emotions to truly hold to a Buddhist outlook. I think “confused” is probably a good description, and yet … watching the vultures slowly circling above my caravan after a day of windsurfing on a deserted beach or jumping in the ice cold mountain stream at the end of my land is what makes me feel alive and interconnected with the oneness of reality … Well, enough philosophy for one night. I’m off to bed. Na dobranich!’

  ‘Bonne nuit,’ I send back, filling up my luxurious jacuzzi with hot water, in sublime defiance of Richard’s backpackes habits.

  CHAPTER NINE

  PAPILLON

  The next morning, I stay in bed a bit longer – in fact, longer than I’ve ever done before – counting the sunbeams streaming in around the edges of the dark velvet drapes. Their reflection in the mirrors fills the all-white executive-style studio up to the high ceiling and they land on me as I lie indulging in the heavenly queen size bed. The tiny motes of dust fly one after another in each rippling ray of light, looking like office plankton in slow motion – the office rat race I have to throw myself into yet again.

  It’s 10 a.m. Most people have already arrived. As I catwalk to my desk, Sergey exaggeratedly nods with his shiny bald patch and taps his Rolex Daytona on his hairy hand with a pleased smile.

  Valeria is at Dima’s desk, just like yesterday, looking at his screen and talking to someone on the phone: ‘OK. Done! We’ll settle as usual via Cyprus … Correct … you’ll get it as a lump sum at the end of the month … Thank you for the deal.’

  ‘Dima, park it to Valkyrie,’ she stumbles over her words as she sees me staring at her. Gesturing at me, she calls out, ‘We’ll go for lunch later.’

  ‘Sure, grab me when you’re ready,’ I reply, pondering if these sorts of trades are something Bruno and the trading bosses should know about … or maybe they do know. Do all these people round here ever ask themselves this question? Or do they just not want to? Or is it just me? What if I am wrong and it has nothing to do with money laundering? Please, let me be wrong.

  Keen to find out, I immediately open the trading systems, filling my screens with countless scary numbers, making me want to run away without even trying to understand what they mean … but I force myself to keep looking.

  The punning Dostoyevsky pushes through my subconscious: Perhaps it is because it is so necessary for you to win. It is like a drowning man clutching at a straw. You yourself will agree that, unless he was drowning, he would not mistake a straw for the trunk of a tree.

  ‘Katya, let’s g.,’ Valeria shouts from her desk, marching purposefully towards the exit, leaving me no choice but to quickly lock my computer and run after her.

  We walk through the modern white and yellow corridors to the building’s exit and cross the street towards the sign “Papillon”.

  At the doorstep of the opulent restaurant with florid decor, a friendly hostess takes us to a private coconut-scented marquee decorated in a faux-Hawaiian style, alluding to a bountiful lagoon nearby. You could never guess that there was a regular six-lane traffic jam just a street away, with beeping horns and tons of exhaust gas.

  Valeria sits opposite me and keeps staring at the quickly-changing numbers on her iPhone.

  She is actually pretty, even though she wears very little makeup. She has big blue eyes, a cute pug nose, and natural blonde hair, although it’s a bit sparse. This is probably why she keeps it very short. Her femininity is hidden deep under the slightly oversized, rather masculine, cotton shirt, leaving her gargantuan golden Patek Philippe watch casually exposed. Loose trousers complement the ensemble, together with rather ugly – but I bet very comfortable – flat shoes.

  She puts her phone down and drills into me with her gaze, scaring the hell out of me.

  ‘How long have you been working here?’ I say, breaking the very uncomfortable silence with a high voice, sweet and soft to counterbalance her rich metallic mezzo.

  ‘Just over five years.’ She glances around, trying to grab the waiter’s attention and continuing to check her screen. ‘I joined Nomura and had my internship there just after the Moscow State.’

  ‘You did really well,’ I say, realizing she must be only a few years older than me … but looking more like at least ten.

  A big, tall, friendly chap approaches us, bringing us bread and olive oil. ‘Miss Valeria, good afternoon.’ He obligingly smiles at her, pulling a notepad from a pocket of the brown apron covering his convex belly. ‘What can I get for you today?’

  ‘We’ll have two glasses of Cristal and two dozen of the class A oysters. We need to celebrate your first day.’ She gives me a friendly smile, but it is still somewhat unsettling.

  ‘Excellent choice!’ the waiter exclaims happily. ‘We’ve just had a delivery from the Tokyo fish market.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve got a shellfish allergy,’ I timidly slide in, observing Valeria’s harsh face. ‘It’s not too bad though … I could probably have some,’ I say, trying not to sound like too much hassle.

  ‘OK, forget about the oysters,’ she says decisively. ‘I’ll have beef tataki and the kaiso salad. I need to lose my baby fat,’ Valeria says the last phrase very quietly.

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ I say instantly, to get the ordering over and done with. ‘So how’s business?’ This is the standard open question for traders.

  ‘Well, as you know, Georgia attacked South Ossetia last Friday night and burnt its capital, Tskhinvali,’ Valeria says unemotionally.

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ve heard about it,’ I lie, striving to maintain my reputation as someone who follows the market. ‘I didn’t get too much into the details of it, though.’

  ‘No one did,’ she says. ‘Even today, four days later, not many people believe it’s happening. But things you could never expect happen all the time. The tail risk is always there. It’s hard sometimes to put your ego aside and just do your job,’ she jabbers, stuck into the screen, soaking yet another piece of bread in the olive oil poured on her plate.

  ‘I agree …’ I mumble, trying to squeeze into this odd monologue with her phone.

  ‘The bloody hedge funds sensed this moment very well,’ she continues. ‘The rouble was fairly strong and stable, with oil at a hundred and forty and an interest rate above ten per cent. Happy days,’ she says, automatically taking another piece of bread. ‘You buy roubles, hold them, and make ten per cent. If you manage to fade some moves, when customers buy or sell, you make thirty–forty per cent a year, and a big bonus,’ she says, accidentally spilling oil on her shirt. ‘Oh, shit,’ she shouts emotively.

  ‘Here.’ I pass the napkin.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says tentatively, rubbing her shirt. ‘The whole market was positioned one way – to be long rouble. Many local banks and traders had already left for the day on Friday, when hedge funds in London in New York started buying billions of dollars and selling roubles. It dropped over thirty points on a thin market, making it bloodshed for locals.’ She pauses, thoroughly wiping the oil off her fingers as if it were blood.

  ‘I hope you managed to get out?’ I ask sincerely.

  ‘I wasn’t caught … stayed in the office till midnight but sorted it out … but my nanny couldn’t wait for me to come back and left my eight-month-old son at home alone,’ she says with a cold expression. ‘It’s a matter of being flexible and understanding the game … Hedge funds don’t miss the opportunity to slump the market if they sense inefficiency. This is a one- or two-day game, and it is very effective.’ She puts some salt on her stain. �
��There’s moderately neutral news today in expectation of the UN resolution. But the market has already repositioned – there is no more money left on the table.’ She calls over the waiter over to ask where the hell our champagne is.

  ‘Is this all about money then?’ I ask naively.

  ‘The spheres of influence are being redistributed all the time.’ She gazes at me as if I’m a little girl. ‘The US supports Georgia not because of some abstract love of democracy. It’s needed for clear geopolitical reasons. You cannot measure it with money. It is like … what is your hobby?’ she suddenly asks.

  ‘I don’t know … jogging.’ I say the first thing that comes to my mind.

  ‘You don’t do it for money, right?’ she asks, as the friendly waiter approaches with a light yellow bottle and pours champagne into our tall glasses.

  ‘Cheers to your first week in the office.’ She raises her glass. ‘I’m sure you’ll do great,’ she toasts.

  ‘Thank you,’ I smile. ‘So, what’s your next trade?’ I ask curiously, trying the marinated beef with notes of ginger, mango and avocado, creating a sonata of tastes, indeed melting in my mouth.

  ‘Well, first of all, get a new nanny,’ she sneers. ‘Can’t keep the one who left my baby home alone. She was so perky that she was convinced I wouldn’t fire her,’ Valeria grumbles. ‘Well, I surprised her,’ she says, getting a new glass of Cristal. ‘I’m going to have to go to London soon, on a business trip. ‘This will be the first time I won’t be sleeping with my son.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll miss him loads then,’ I say affectedly.

  ‘I will,’ she says with a subtle glow.

  ‘You’re going to leave him with his father?’ I ask unthinkingly.

  ‘His father doesn’t live with us,’ she sharply cuts in.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You can only know how a man feels about you when you have a child together,’ she says dryly.

  ‘Probably,’ I say, wondering.

  ‘So, did Bruno tell you about the structured note we do with the Russian State Pension Fund?’ she asks after the change of dishes.

  ‘Yes,’ I nod, guessing it is Russian pensioners who ‘benefit’ from her ties with a former schoolmate.

  ‘It’s about to be traded this week, but we still don’t have the compliance approval for it. They want some kind of a business case. If you get it, whatever the profit on the deal, you’ll mirror with the sales credits as shadow revenue. I’m going to make about three per cent on the half a billion dollar notional. You could make your annual budget in your first week.’ She raises her champagne glass to me.

  ‘Sure, what would you like me to do?’ I ask, trying to hide my overwhelming emotions in the most professional tone. That would be about fifteen million dollars in sales credits … and then a big bonus … a house on the beach … a sports car. Suck it, Alex!

  ‘Well, basically, the State Pension Fund has gazillions of roubles which they need to protect against inflation, so we used the Russian Economic School Inflation Index to create a note to track it,’ she scowls.

  ‘OK. So what’s the problem?’ I ask.

  ‘The problem is that the index is fairly theoretical and has never been used as a tradable instrument. We need to convince compliance it’s a good model, reflecting the true situation,’ she says, furrowing her brows, giving her a ruthless look.

  ‘If it’s an official index of the leading economic school, it should be OK, I guess. How would you make that much profit?’

  ‘C’mon, it’s a structured note. Clients always get screwed on them.’ She sounds annoyed. ‘I want you to focus on this, so when Bruno arrives, he can introduce you as a top sales person to all the big shots coming with him,’ she says with a put-on smile.

  ‘OK. I’ll do my best,’ I smile back. ‘Why didn’t you ask Olga or Sergey?’

  ‘Are you kidding me? They’re both useless.’ She scornfully takes out the little onions from her salad. ‘Olga is sleeping with the CEO of Russian Railways, who gives her some non-exclusive flow … and Sergey is just a pervert bed-hopper. His main business is taking customers to brothels and orgies,’ she says with revulsion, calling the waiter for the bill.

  ‘I couldn’t imagine anyone in London having that kind of job description.’

  ‘It’s just less obvious,’ she smirks, throwing the rouble equivalent of three hundred dollars down on the table.

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHRIST THE SAVIOR

  For the next couple of days I am busy working on the presentation for compliance. The main point of my case is there is no other inflation-tracking market instrument in Russia than the economic school’s index. It is the only suitable instrument for the State Pension Fund in the environment of the approaching debt crisis.

  The Russian Economic School’s website does not have much detail about their own index, but luckily the Standard and Poor’s portal has a list of its weights, such as S&P futures, gold and the index description, that Valeria, Bruno and compliance are going to love.

  Bad data? Scrap it.

  A few nice-looking graphs make my presentation almost impossible to reject. I am not that hopeless after all.

  If she’s honest, she’ll steal; if she’s human, she’ll murder; if she’s faithful, she’ll deceive.

  ‘Under the terms of the transaction the customer will be locked into a four-year trade and, if or when the market goes against him, he’ll be charged an unwind cost of four per cent per annum to get out of the trade.’ I explain the business case at a high-profile conference call with the boring ‘pains in the neck’ in London compliance.

  ‘It’s a new unique offering in challenging market conditions with multimillion-dollar revenue potential and zero market risk,’ Bruno skillfully sums up and eventually a solid voice on the phone says, ‘Approved’.

  As soon as Valeria hears this, she immediately grabs her phone and makes a call, whilst frantically placing multiples of bids and offers on the market, cold-bloodedly instructing brokers on the execution and shouting ‘done’ left, right and center.

  I silently sit at my desk, watching the Russian credit market collapsing below 1998 default levels … at every point of the graph’s fall, feeling an upsurge in my anxiety levels … almost to the point of suffocation. “The greatest wealth is made when a country is collapsing or building up” … But what empire is collapsing? Who is making the wealth?

  It stops when Valeria hangs up the phone. A few moments later the graph stops falling and even re-bounces a bit, making me feel slightly better. Shortly afterwards the already familiar tall, friendly waiter from Papillon brings a couple of magnums of Cristal and a big box of oysters.

  ‘You deserved it,’ Valeria winks at me, raising her glass from her desk, and the next second the waiter brings me a glass of champagne and a plate of oysters.

  What did I deserve …?

  As I am downing my second glass, an email from Bruno arrives, expressing his deepest congratulations to the Russian team: “Special thanks to Ekaterina Kuznetsova for her professional and timely effort.” It should fill me with pride, but instead it fills me with inexplicable numbness. Sergey’s resentful grin only adds to the feeling. My colleagues damn me with faint praises, but really … they are all lazy mediocrities.

  I did a great job and it has just been proven to everyone that I am special! I worked very hard for this. I should celebrate … cut loose … The fancy gym downstairs is the place to try Richard’s pick-up tactics and finally get a hot guy into my luxury bed.

  If the spirit has passed through a great many sensations, possibly it can no longer be sated with them, but grows more excited, and demands more sensations, and stronger and stronger ones, until at length it falls exhausted …

  The next morning the suited and booted bosses from London conspicuously walk around the office, exacerbating the stressful atmosphere, as well as my severe hangover. Even when they sit down behind their laptops or in the boardroom they still radiate authority, prompting
people to stay at their desks and look very busy.

  The punching bag is moved aside and the golf holes are covered with a grey carpet, so it is impossible to tell how frequently they are used.

  Everyone is smartly dressed. Even Olga looks decent today with a neat ponytail, much less screaming makeup and a knee-length black cocktail dress, very similar to mine.

  ‘I like your lipstick. It makes your lips look very elegant … not too big,’ I blabber, making a clumsy attempt at a compliment.

  ‘Sweetie, lips cannot be too big,’ she plunges, putting on an alluring smile for Bruno, who is approaching our desks accompanied by other important males.

  ‘Here is our new superstar,’ Bruno exclaims, giving me a big show-off hug and introducing me to the heads of various departments of the bank, who compliment me on my ‘good job’. Sergey shines with his bald patch at the back of the crowd, proudly carrying their briefcases.

  ‘Katya, we like to reduce Lehman bonds and shares position,’ he says with a strong Russian accent and an annoying, bossy attitude. ‘It should be easy for you to repeat your success and help to sell it to your clients,’ he says, currying favor in front of the bosses.

  ‘If this is the management decision, then of course.’ I say, smiling at Bruno, thinking one has to be a complete idiot to touch anything to do with Lehman.

  ‘It would be great if you could use your client relationships to help us with clearing our books,’ Bruno explains.

  ‘I’ll try,’ I say, smiling professionally and already regretting my time.

  ‘Gut,’ Bruno says. ‘You’ll have a great opportunity to pitch it directly to the clients on the terrace in a couple of hours.’ He winks and gives me a friendly tap on the shoulder.

  When they move to Valeria’s desk, I hear Sergey demonstratively shouting from his desk in English: ‘It is a Chuck Norris bond! Lehman is a sure thing!’.