Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

‘You have peach fur on your bum,’ he says, squeezing it with his gigantic dextrous hands … stroking me down below the belly button … up to the pelvic bone … just as I am falling asleep.

  He relentlessly continues the squishing motion between my legs, making me turn around, and once I am on my back, he rolls over, engaging me in the frenzied movement of his giant body … stabbing the Great Bear’s iron nail inside me, bringing me somewhere between coming and passing out.

  ‘You fuck so good,’ he says, slapping my thighs faster and faster with his giant balls.

  I growl, lifting my legs up to let his monster meat-roll almost reach as far as my throat … feeling the pillars of my nebula start glimmering all the way down to my toes, anticipating the supernovae … but at this very moment Akbar stops - and his hard vacuum becomes all flaccid and inert.

  ‘What happened?’ I whine in disappointment.

  ‘Nothing,’ he sighs. ‘It’s been a long day for me too.’

  I theatrically turn to the other side: ‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask, unable to hold in my overwhelming emotions.

  ‘Do what?’ Akbar asks bluntly.

  ‘This,’ I shout, making an explicit gesture with my hands. ‘Monaco, yacht, Hotel de Paris, making promises and breaking them!’

  ‘Same reason you do it,’ Akbar says calmly.

  ‘Me?’ I ask, astonished.

  ‘You hardly know a man, but you fly with him to another country and go to bed with him the first night he takes you out,’ he smirks.

  ‘Ak … but you said I could leave any time,’ I argue.

  ‘Yes, and yet you are here. You see, you couldn’t just leave, even if you really wanted to,’ he says, tranquilly having a sip of his whiskey.

  ‘I can do anything I want,’ I retort, affronted.

  ‘Go, then,’ he commands, turning his back to me.

  ‘Fine,’ I fume, melodramatically throwing the blanket off, feeling even more pissed off when he does nothing to stop me.

  In a fit of passion, I grab the dress I came in from the closet, realizing that the flight back to Moscow right now on Sunday morning would cost me a fortune … I could still do it … but on second thoughts, he brought me here, and he should take me home … and he has already been inside me … so perhaps there is nothing more to lose.

  Impotently, I trudge back to the bed and demurely sit on its edge.

  ‘Want some dope?’ he asks apathetically from his side.

  ‘Da …’ I powerlessly exhale, watching Akbar lighting up a joint.

  Love a man even in his sin, for that is the semblance of Divine Love and is the highest love on Earth.

  I take a puff. It burns my throat but I hold in my cough, forcing it deeper into my lungs … and do it one more time … and again … until the soothing, tranquil wave calms down the aching hole inside me.

  The Pole Star is slowly waning, dropping its oars into the peaceful sea … as the nightingale warbles amongst the slumbering clouds and I lie in a quiet dale, eavesdropping on its babble.

  I am woken by the sea breeze tingling my nose, and with sun bathing my face, bursting in through the beautifully-carved white windows and doors.

  A giant bell rumbles amongst the white curls in my head. The memories of last night slowly and painfully appear before me like scenes from a movie … I quickly turn around to see if Akbar Gromov is really there … but there is no sign of him.

  A large glass of water on the night table instantly allures me to ravenously drink it. And there is a note underneath:

  ‘Katya, I had to go.

  Enjoy the hotel. Breakfast is served on the terrace. The plane will be waiting for you from 15.00. Call the reception for a taxi. Everything is paid for.

  Hugs,

  Gromov.

  P.S. It was an amazing night. You’re unbelievable.’

  Confounded, with my head hurting way too much to think, I put the note down. Snuggling into the blanket, I drag myself to the terrace to feel the freshness of the morning sea air, and watch the gentle sun twinkling on the rippling water in front of the toy-size yachts, parting from the harbor.

  In true dolce vita style, I pour myself a glass of champagne from an ice bucket. The sun is getting brighter and brighter, making me more and more tired. I can’t even take a selfie with the view.

  Shame Gabi’s not here … she’d make me go down to one of the swimming pools … and then the yacht club. After all, I found a richer, better-looking and more generous guy than she did.

  ‘Gabi, ciao!’ I exclaim, when she picks up my call. ‘You will never guess where I am now!’

  ‘Katya …’ she mutters feebly.

  ‘I’m in Monaco with this oligarch …’ I eagerly recount, overflowing with pride and joy. ‘He brought me here to his private yacht on a private jet, got me a Dior dress and took me to the hottest places in Monaco …’

  ‘Katya, I’m in hospital,’ she says grimly, shattering my joyful mood.

  ‘Oh my God, what happened?’ I ask, concerned.

  ‘Omar stabbed me … He stabbed me,’ she cries helplessly.

  ‘What?’ I ask, stunned, trying to process this information with my sluggish brain. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I saw my intestines, Katya. Do you understand?’ she loudly bawls. ‘I jumped out of the window carrying them in my hands.’

  ‘You jumped out of a window? Where …?’ I ask, horrified she has hurt herself.

  ‘We were in his apartment in Knightsbridge. It’s on the second floor,’ Gabi weeps.

  ‘Jeez, what an asshole! Did you get help?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ she snuffles. ‘The security downstairs called the ambulance. I had surgery within twenty minutes, otherwise I might not have survived … I guess I was lucky.’

  ‘Oh my God, Gabi. That’s awful.’ I say, imagining her jumping for her life with blood dripping from her ripped stomach. Thank God I didn’t hook up with any of his dodgy friends! ‘I told you the guy was crazy … he crashes a sports car every week!’

  ‘I got scared, Katya. Really scared,’ she sniffs.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ I say, stunned. ‘You should sue the bastard … for a few million … at least!’

  ‘Need to get out of intensive care first … Do you know what a joy it is just to be able to go to the toilet?’ she snivels.

  ‘Sweetie, I’m sure you’ll be able to walk again in no time. You’re so strong and so brave!’ I am trying to reassure her.

  ‘I thought I was, just a couple of days ago … but I was just stupid,’ she says quietly. ‘Jets and yachts are easy for those men … way too easy … this is how they buy us, and treat us like objects. Don’t let your guy treat you that way.’

  ‘Of course I won’t, babe, don’t worry,’ I say, realizing I have got to start getting ready for my private jet flight.

  ‘I was so sure too …’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MONKEY BUSINESS

  The next morning in the office feels like a downgrade from the lifestyle I deserve … gross people, grumpy conversations and the smell of cheap coffee. Everyone immediately shuts up as soon as Valeria enters the floor.

  ‘So you want to buy three times twenty million dollars?’ she asks, whispering to Dima to buy two times thirty. ‘It’s all done for you,’ she says, moments later. ‘We’ll settle as usual … you’ll get your cash in two days’ time.’ She signals to Dima to wash the profit through to Valkyrie as usual.

  My curiosity prevails and I decide to finally run some checks on the mysterious counterparty. According to the internal systems profile, Valkyrie Plc is a UK-registered private company with a ten thousand pound statutory fund, permission for a professional trading activity … and a hidden ownership structure.

  ‘Hey, Val,’ Sergey suddenly shouts from across the row of desks. ‘Have you seen there’s an FSA training on market abuse?’ he sneers. ‘The deadline is today. Shall we unite together to play the market?’

  ‘You haven’t grown a big enough dick to play the marke
t,’ Valeria fires back, without even looking at him from behind her eight screens.

  ‘No one has a bigger dick than Valeria Kirillova … or should I say Valkyrie?,’ he says rattily.

  ‘Fine, what do you want?’ she asks unenthusiastically - so Sergey, with a winning smile, gets up from his chair and imposingly walks towards Valeria’s wall of screens.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he asks arrogantly, passing by my desk.

  ‘Nothing,’ I mutter, finding myself staring at him as I process the revelation that Valkyrie’s hidden ownership sits a couple of yards away from me … it is Valeria herself.

  Lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to the truth.

  I must tell Richard …

  Disconcerted, I look at my phone and see there is a message from Akbar:

  ‘Hi Katyusha! I’m in Sardinia. It’s very hot here. The sea is warm, salty and beautiful. I’ve finished reading my book. Thinking about which one to read next … How are you feeling? Hopefully better! Volatile markets … Harsh … Are you snowed under with work?’

  Thrilled, I re-read the text … To keep it casual I should probably recommend a book … but which one? What do oligarchs read? OK, it’s got to be something very simple … the Russian classics? Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot … oh no, he might take the title too personally. Shakespeare? Macbeth - Richard’s favorite.

  Suddenly my cell phone starts vibrating:

  ‘Good day, Miss Kuznetsova?’ says a pleasant male voice.

  ‘Yes, how can I help?’ I ask dryly.

  ‘It’s Mikhail, your personal VIP banker at KazyMakBank. Mr Gromov would like me to inform you that your new investment’s account has been credited with sixty thousand dollars’ worth of KazyMak Metallurg bonds. It is already available in your online banking and you just need to sign the terms and conditions I emailed you.’

  ‘Mm, I didn’t …’ I mutter, disoriented, looking around as if someone could advise me what to do, but there is only Sergey, sniffing and staring at me.

  ‘You can sell the bonds anytime you like at the market rate,’ he says professionally.

  ‘OK. Thank you,’ I say, watching Sergey return to his desk with a specious smile.

  ‘Great! My details are already in your inbox. If you have any questions I’m available at your disposal any time.’ He bids me farewell and hangs up.

  Thinking for a moment and looking around the trading floor like a stranger who does not belong here, I type a text: ‘Hi Akbar, I’m a lot better, thank you. Hope you enjoy Italy. I’ve just had a call from Mikhail. It really wasn’t necessary to put that money in my account.’

  A few moments later, my iPhone starts vibrating again displaying the name ‘Akbar Gromov’ across its screen:

  ‘Katya, it’s Gromov, do you have a minute?’ he says in his familiar authoritarian baritone.

  ‘For you I always have a minute,’ I say flirtatiously.

  ‘If you don’t want to keep the investment it’s fine. I’ll understand. These are the bonds my company issued … it’s just a bit of its debt I’ve shared with you, and it’s leveraged, as we discussed - so really, it’s nothing. We can talk about it tomorrow in more depth if you like,’ he says, somehow managing to sound frisky.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ I ask, wondering if he has already arranged something on the other side of the planet.

  ‘Katyusha, what are you doing tomorrow night?’ he asks ardently.

  ‘I guess I’m about to hear it now,’ I say, cheerfully.

  ‘Yes, I want to invite you to a very exclusive place,’ he says tantalisingly.

  ‘Shall I bring my passport?’ I ask cheekily.

  ‘No. It’s going to be a much shorter journey,’ he says, all serious again.

  ‘Interesting,’ I say musingly. ‘I wonder what that could be?’

  ‘A Sotheby’s preview,’ he confesses. ‘I know it’s not as exciting – just around the corner from your office - but I want to make it a special evening for you, to make up for my early departure on Sunday, so to speak.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing,’ I smirk.

  ‘OK, so let’s proceed with the cash flows we’ve discussed.’ He sounds businesslike all of a sudden.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I sigh, adjusting to the rapid change of topic.

  ‘I’ll send you an email with a list of deals to execute on the market, which you’ll book to the accounts that I’ll text you separately,’ he instructs.

  ‘I can’t just book the deals to the accounts you text me!’ I react. ‘The settlement instructions must be approved and uploaded onto the system. It’s a formal procedure.’ Despite my protests, I realize that nobody followed this formal procedure for Valkyrie.

  ‘Katyusha, calm down,’ he says serenely. ‘The accounts have been opened within the Swiss Bank and are already in your systems. It’s just that I’m traveling now and I can’t send you an official request. I’ll send it as soon as I can. OK, sweetheart?’ I remain silent. ‘Worst case, you can always blame it on human error, so to speak.’

  ‘What worst case?’ I ask, perplexed.

  ‘Never mind, I only said it to reassure you.’ he clarifies. ‘I’ve traded on these accounts millions of times. Take two points on each deal as your margin.’ It’s an enticing offer.

  ‘For you, I would’ve done it for free,’ I say playfully.

  ‘You should never do anything for free,’ he smirks. ‘Everything has a price.’

  ‘It doesn’t always have to be quantified in money,’ I say, trying to steer the conversation away from our market relationship.

  ‘True, so let me know when it’s all done, OK, Katyusha?’ his voice goes soft again. ‘We’ll take it above the material.’

  ‘OK,’ I agree.

  ‘I’m looking forward to being with you tomorrow,’ he says.

  ‘Me too,’ I say, already looking at the email containing instructions for fifty-four USD/RUB FX deals, with a total value of just under half a billion dollars, meaning he wants to give me about three hundred fifty thousand dollars of margin.

  Immediately, as required by FSA regulations, I pass the trades to Valeria to execute on the market.

  ‘Who gave you that order?’ she asks.

  ‘Akbar Gromov,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Himself?’ she asks, raising her head from her screens.

  ‘Yes,’ I affirm.

  ‘He’s a big dick … with small balls,’ she smirks. ‘Try to hold on to his flow, though.’ She disappears behind her screens again.

  ‘OK,’ I say, as I continue booking the executed deals to the various KazyMak affiliates, incorporated in the Cayman Islands by citizens of Panama with Russian names and all sorts of anonymous accounts at the Swiss Bank.

  ‘All done,’ I eagerly message Akbar.

  ‘You are my most beloved woman;-)’ he immediately responds.

  ‘Can you blow me too?’ I hear Sergey whispering to me from behind my chair, trying to get a look at my iPhone screen as I reread the text with glee. ‘But actually, no thanks, I prefer decent girls,’ he says boorishly.

  ‘You mean those fat, middle-aged village women in the sauna?’ I taunt, referring to a recent Facebook post of his.

  ‘That’s none of your business,’ he furiously retorts, and walks back to his desk, eyes glued to his phone.

  A few minutes later I receive a notification that Sergey Sviryakov has blocked me on Facebook, but my pictures from the private jet have gotten over three hundred likes and a myriad of comments, the most recent from Richard: ‘What pomp and circumstance ;-)’, which I immediately Like.

  ‘Can you talk now?’ he messages me a few minutes later.

  ‘Sure,’ I respond, and step out to the empty, over-air-conditioned mahogany boardroom next to the trading floor, so no one can hear me.

  ‘Hey, a bit of an upgrade from the city bike,’ Richard teases on the other end.

  ‘Ha, yes. Can you believe Akbar just told me I am his beloved woman? What could that mean?’ I excitedly vaunt, suddenly feeli
ng hot.

  ‘Oh wow, congrats. What did you have to do?’ he asks.

  ‘Mm, I don’t know. Nothing,’ I say, making a mental note to check the deals are booked correctly to Akbar’s anonymous accounts.

  ‘Well, you’re sexy, amusing, a breath of fresh air - you could be anyone’s beloved woman,’ he rhapsodizes.

  ‘Me? A breath of fresh air?’ I ask, perplexed. ‘I’m just doing my job …’

  ‘Actually, about your job,’ Richard says, in an uncharacteristically serious tone, which is usually not a good sign. ‘There’s a bit of a hassle around that inflation tracking note the Swiss Bank sold to the Russian State Pension fund. Are you involved with it?’ he asks sharply, making my heart sink into my boots.

  ‘Why are you asking me this?’

  ‘Because I want to make sure you have nothing to do with this - stealing from pensioners,’ he avows.

  ‘I’m not stealing from anyone,’ I protest, instinctively jumping up from my chair in self-defence mode. ‘And I don’t know about the deals.’ I am making excuses for myself … if there were several deals, then surely my involvement in the last one does not make me guilty …

  ‘The Fund is about to go bust because of those deals, which is particularly sad for a country like Russia, that neglects its pensioners.’

  I didn’t know … that’s awful,’ I mumble, trying to swallow an uncomfortable cold lump in my throat.

  ‘Is your success based on corruption, Katya?’ Richard abruptly asks.

  ‘Excuse me? Of course not!’ I furiously exclaim. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with it. I’m hard-working, smart and dedicated; my success is based entirely on that.’

  ‘OK, Katya - I’m glad you have nothing to do with it,’ he says distantly.

  ‘No problem,’ I say, sharply biting off a chip of my bright red fingernail, so it starts bleeding. ‘I’ll try to find out what’s going on and let you know.’

  ‘I’ve got to go now, I’ll talk to you later,’ he quickly says, ending the conversation and leaving me with a strange feeling.

  I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, and all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidean mind of man, that in the world’s finale, at the moment of eternal harmony, something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, for all the blood that they’ve shed; that it will make it not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened.