Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  ‘Oh Kuznetsova, Kuznetsova,’ he says, squeezing my head and vehemently pounding my throat. ‘You’re so … unbelievable,’ he groans.

  For a moment I hum and moan but once his movement intensifies, push back slightly: ‘Does that mean the deal is on?’ I ask.

  ‘Mm, we should talk about it in more detail, so to speak,’ he says, bringing my head back.

  ‘Aren’t we already?’ I get up, continuing to stroke him lightly.

  ‘Katyusha, lithium brine comes from Afghanistan … and they would only sell it in exchange for arms,’ he eventually says. ‘With all the market uncertainty, less and less ready cash and Zilbermans on my back, I just can’t afford to buy tons of Kalashnikovs and contraband them to Kabul.’ He sighs, lasciviously squeezing my pushed-up breasts. ‘I’d rather shut everything down and spend a couple of months with you in the Maldives.’

  ‘With me?’ I ask in disbelief, holding my boobs up for him.

  ‘Yeah … but those guys there,’ he looks up, putting his impulses on hold, ‘want the employment figures up, so that the rats keep racing to consume the crap we sell them and keep quiet. Nowadays, our freedom is limited to the choices given to us,’ he philosophizes, trying to get his deflated member hard again.

  ‘Maybe that’s the reason why you should do it.’ I seductively put two fingers inside myself and suck my juice off them. ‘Your price margin would be at least sixty per cent here,’ I whisper lustfully, rubbing some of the nectar onto his skin. ‘With alloy futures in freefall, this could be your only chance to make some decent money in this market,’ I say, licking it off him and fervently kneading his gigantic cock with my other hand. ‘The sheik is going to pay dollars to your Gibraltar account.’

  ‘Oh,’ he groans. ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘So, you gonna do it?’ I get up, wrapping my leg around him. He grabs the other one, lifts me up and urgently presses me against the wall.

  Man cannot commit a sin so great as to exhaust the infinite love of God.

  ‘Katyusha, I’ll have to leave soon.’ He pauses. ‘I want you more than anything - but would you be OK if left?’

  ‘Mm, I don’t know …’ I pout, lowering my legs.

  ‘You know I like you a lot, and I know you want to wake up with me holding you in my arms,’ Akbar says, stony-faced.

  ‘Why do you have to go?’ I ask with sad puppy-dog eyes, swaying my hips.

  ‘I have my reasons, so to speak,’ he says, pulling his trousers up. ‘I promise one day I’ll stay … but at the moment I can’t.’

  ‘Fine,’ I sigh in resignation.

  ‘Ask them tomorrow how much they want to buy,’ he instructs, washing his hands.

  ‘OK,’ I say with slightly more enthusiasm, but still pissed off he is not staying.

  ‘Come here, kiss me goodbye,’ he commands, waiting by the front door with his arms wide open to embrace me.

  I rise onto my tiptoes and sashay over to him in my sexy lingerie to whisper goodnight, gently kissing him on the lips, feeling the tension in his body.

  ‘Goodnight, Katyusha,’ he says, leaving me in the empty apartment, with his smell on me deepening my sense of loneliness.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ODILE

  First thing next morning in the office, I call Ahmad.

  ‘Katya, habibi, long time no speak!’ he exclaims. ‘Where are you now? Lehman is no good place anymore.’

  ‘All good, schukran. I’m in Moscow now, at the Swiss Bank. Found you a lithium seller,’ I say playfully.

  ‘A Russian seller?’ he asks, suspiciously, with a very strong R.

  ‘Yes,’ I affirm.

  ‘That’s great!’ he exclaims. ‘Much better taxes than in Chile and much closer. How much can you sell?’

  ‘How much can you buy?’ I ask.

  ‘A full ship … a few hundred tons. The sheik has almost signed a contract, but if you can do it cheaper and deliver sooner, he will go with you.’

  ‘OK. Could you hold on for a couple of days on that? Today is Friday, so by Monday you should have the terms.’ I try to sound calm, worrying whether that will give Akbar enough time to acquire the plant.

  ‘OK till Monday … but not much longer.’

  ‘OK. I’ll push for the contract. How much will you pay me?’ I ask the ever-uncomfortable question.

  ‘We’ll pay you very good commission … one per cent.’

  ‘Ahmad, the market practice is three,’ I argue, sensing there is room to push.

  ‘Habibi, the market is non-existent. You see the news about Northern Rock and AIG bankrupt today?’

  ‘Listen, the plant is in Siberia, and the brine is from Afghanistan. To arrange its shipment to Tripoli takes more than one per cent,’ I reason.

  ‘But it’s the transportation agency arranging the shipment,’ Ahmad says, trying to take it away from me.

  ‘I’m the driving force behind it,’ I retort. ‘Nothing will happen if I don’t push. People are so concerned about their cash that everyone is withdrawing everything they can from the assets, that are depreciating day by day. No one wants to invest in any new production.’ I make my case, hoping I sound convincing enough. ‘I know which buttons to push to persuade the relevant guy to take that risk.’

  ‘OK, send me the terms first and we talk again.’

  ‘Will do.’ I hang up and spend quite a bit of time writing a message to Akbar, trying to play it right so the deal goes through.

  ‘Hey handsome, I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night … your strong arms, your soft lips. Can’t wait for more …’

  For the next two hours or so I feel massively on edge, getting more and more stressed with every minute that goes by without a response from Akbar.

  Finally the message arrives: ‘I’ve got tickets for Swan Lake tonight. Meet me at six-thirty at the Bolshoi VIP lounge. The back entrance. They’ll have your name.’

  Reading it, I’m almost jumping off the chair with relief. The game is on. The Bolshoi’s Swan Lake is a must-see in Moscow …

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I respond, booking an afternoon off in the internal system.

  ‘Off for your side job?’ Sergey asks, seeing me logging off. ‘The more you round your lips and take it deep down your throat, the longer it will last.’ He sticks his tongue against the inside of his cheek, crudely moving his fist to and fro.

  Frowning, I grab my crocodile skin handbag - which matches my shoes - and get off the trading floor.

  At 6.20 p.m., after having spent a couple of hours at the hairdresser’s getting a swan-queen hairstyle with real black feathers, which will work perfectly with my Chanel tulle skirt, I walk down to the Bolshoi, crossing under the Tverskaya’s usual rush hour traffic. I eagerly enter Theater Square, only to see Russia’s most important cultural institution completely hidden by scaffolding and construction cranes … My heart sinks. Is this a joke?

  Without a moment’s delay, I call Akbar and ask where the performance is going to take place.

  ‘On the new stage,’ Akbar says in his distinctive metallic voice. ‘Left from the main entrance. I’m at a meeting with very important people. I’ll be there soon.’ He hangs up.

  The plain-looking building is somehow disappointing in its lack of the classic Russian grandeur. The VIP entrance, on a dark corner at the back of the building, looks more like a garage.

  The usual drill with the doorman gets me into the mock-imperial red and gold interior with dark red velvet chairs, rich tapestries, porcelain vases and a rather predictable crystal chandelier hanging from a carved ceiling.

  I take tons of pictures to post on Facebook but something stops me from uploading them … Maybe it is the thought that Richard would see them and ask me uncomfortable questions …

  Half an hour later, the sound of Akbar’s heavy strides on the creaking wooden floor put me on the alert, like the five-minute call before the show - which has already rung.

  I quickly fix my hairdo and gracefully spread out my black b
allerina skirt, adopting a meek posture on the couch overhung by a golden crown and double-headed eagle.

  I hear Akbar ordering food and a bottle of Cristal from a waiter before entering the room in an exquisite black suit. ‘You look beautiful,’ he says to me, gallantly kissing my hand, scratching it against his unapparent blond bristle.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, theatrically covering my eyes with my other hand.

  ‘It’s been an awful day,’ he says, wiping the sweat off his forehead, revealing a couple of wine stains on his jacket. ‘Alloy futures are down the toilet, the scorched earth in bonds, the money sticks default, so to speak.’ He downs a glass of champagne that the waiter has just poured. ‘To art,’ he toasts, lifting his refilled glass.

  ‘The show’s about to start now,’ I say, taking a sip.

  ‘They’ll wait,’ he arrogantly assures me.

  ‘Don’t they have to start on time?’ I ask, observing the waiters covering the table with all sorts of gourmet dishes.

  ‘Come on, I’m begging you,’ he says, eagerly attacking the beef tenderloin, along with all sorts of expensive appetizers … not to mention a few lines of charlie that Akbar lethargically lays on the silver tray.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit impolite?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t you want to finish the food?’ he says, ceremoniously refilling our glasses.

  ‘Yes,’ I nod, tasting the mouth-watering foie gras … and the lines.

  Twenty minutes later, when there is not much left on the table, Akbar wipes his mouth and says: ‘So, my beautiful Odile, let’s go and see how Swan Lake is today.’ He chivalrously walks me to the spacious royal box, whose ivory balcony, overlaid with gilded flowers, gives an impeccable view of the stage with its still-closed curtains.

  A few moments after the extensive applause has died down, the huge crystal chandelier dims and the orchestra starts to play, directing its perfectly-balanced sound towards our box.

  ‘They usually wait for the Royal Box guests to arrive before starting the show,’ he mutters into my ear.

  ‘Is it easy to get tickets to the Royal Box?’ I ask, pulling away to avoid being scratched by his stubble.

  ‘The Korean ambassador couldn’t make it tonight, so I took them instead,’ Akbar says, making himself comfortable on the large, soft chair and spreading his legs out further.

  ‘I read that Stalin loved ballet. He had a box in the far left-hand corner,’ I say, pointing in that direction.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to be Stalin’s mistress,’ Akbar smirks, as the heavy curtain lifts.

  ‘Mistress, is that it? That’s what I am to you – just your mistress?!’ Filled with emotions magnified by charlie, I restrain myself from shouting so as not to disturb the other spectators who are currently enjoying the ball scene, where the prince is choosing his future wife.

  ‘Darling, calm down. Of course you’re not. I want to be with you. I’m working on it, OK? You are my queen.’ He pulls himself up and inattentively caresses my carefully-coiffed hair, which just pisses me off even more. As the wannabe brides dance their solos one by one, I start to sense some kind of sham.

  ‘So what about the lithium deal?’ I ask, whilst the Spanish princess does an impressive grand jeté, her legs stretched in a perfect split.

  ‘I’m doing it. It’s more of a struggle than anticipated, but I’m doing it,’ Akbar whispers.

  ‘Struggle?’ I ask, watching the prince having to choose his bride.

  ‘Just a few legal issues …’ He coughs.

  ‘What legal issues?’

  ‘To do with the lithium plant insolvency.’

  ‘Oh … so when are you buying it?’ I ask, diverting my attention from the stage.

  ‘It’s not even a question of money,’ he says, ignoring the dance of the little swans. ‘It’s impossible to buy it from those wankers, period. The only way is to declare it bankrupt. That’s what I’m working on.’

  ‘I spoke to my contact in Libya,’ I whisper, watching the black swan disguising herself as the heroine. ‘They’re looking to buy a few hundred tons of lithium, and very soon.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he says, as the prince falls for the wrong swan.

  ‘They’ll buy it from you if you agree on the terms within the next couple of days,’ I say, watching Odile’s jumps, holding my breath for her to not to fall.

  ‘OK, I’ll get my lawyers to work on that. You should have it by Monday close of business,’ Akbar says after a pause, as Odile is enjoying her triumphant adagio.

  Without waiting for the tragic finale, we depart early through the back door to avoid being swallowed by the mass of people filing out of the theater. The already-familiar Maybach brings me home to Leontievsky Lane. The friezes on the façade of the building, lit up by the full moon, are reflected in the mirror where Akbar is laying out the last few lines of charlie.

  ‘Will you stay tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘I wish I could, but I can’t,’ Akbar mutters with uncharacteristic insecurity.

  ‘You have your reasons,’ I sigh, realizing I’ll have to sleep on my own tonight. Again.

  ‘I’m taking my son shooting in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve found an activity you can both enjoy?’ I ask politely, ready to get out of the car.

  ‘Yes, I’m going to be a good dad tomorrow.’ He sounds totally unexcited, opening the door for me.

  ‘OK, have fun.’ I ostentatiously kiss him and stride into the building.

  The black swan, after all, is as free as she wants to be. It is her choice what to do, what to feel … but what is the point, if he can’t even fuck me? But the moon can … fondling my darkest thoughts with its glimmer … committing fornication with the kings of the earth … it’s just a body … and feathers. The great whore knows that.

  A frisky wind flaps the trees as if they were blades of grass rustling under the windowsill that I could just step on and join the moon, merge with it.

  If you knew that, only to attain happiness and tranquillity, you would have to torture just one single creature, let’s say the little girl who beat her chest so desperately in the outhouse, and that on her unavenged tears you could build the edifice of human happiness, would you agree to do it?

  The little girl has built a concrete wall around her heart, so you can torture her as much as you want. She doesn’t feel anything, anyway … because once she blocked out pain, she blocked out love.

  I try to make myself a cup of tea like I used to do at Richard’s place on Fashion Street, but don’t seem to be able to handle anything, from a box of matches to a teaspoon, without dropping it and making such a noise that I’m mortally afraid I might wake Richard up, and then he would think it was burglars and call the police and then two detectives would rush to arrest me, and march me off to the detention unit.

  A morbid nervousness paralyzes me as I picture myself at the trial, trying to explain the circumstances to the jury, but nobody believes me and they sentence me to twenty years’ penal servitude, and my father dies from a broken heart.

  I open my eyes - it’s 4 a.m., and I am covered in black feathers. I realize with relief that it was only a dream.

  A few minutes later I get up and take a long foamy bath, still shivering in the hot water – I’ve never felt more awake in my life. If there was a reason for feeling this way, it could only be charlie. I need to get it out of my system - perhaps going for a run would help.

  Dressed up like a marathon runner, I rush out of the gray fleapit that is my building on this dark and foggy Saturday morning. Still, it feels weird that there is nobody on the street. The illusion that Moscow never sleeps dissolves right before my eyes.

  I run hard for half a mile through the empty - but somehow still polluted - lanes with French style homesteads, which miraculously survived the big fire of 1812 that kicked Napoleon out of the city, and were gradually converted to KGB offices after World War Two. There are three men in sight at the entrance to the monumental secret police building, in w
hose dungeons thousands of people were reportedly repressed in the fifties and sixties … and who knows what goes on there now …

  The men look suspiciously at me, prompting me to do an about-turn and run back, with my pulse jumping through the roof.

  Back at Leontievsky Lane, with the first rays of the rising sun, I finally stoop down and feel my legs … and write a message to Akbar:

  ‘Good sporty morning. I just had a beautiful run downtown. Hope you’ll have a great day with your son.’

  By the time I have finished my shower, a message accompanied by a picture of a naked torso with a sucked-in belly arrives: ‘Good morning dear. I’m just getting ready.’

  ‘Looking good! Wouldn’t give this body more than 35;)’ I write back, conscious that older men like this kind of compliment.

  As I am already rolling in my warm, cozy bed, an invitation arrives: ‘Would you like to meet for dinner tonight?’

  ‘Sure,’ I respond, crawling under the blanket, almost asleep.

  In the evening Akbar picks me up in his usual off-work preppy dad pants, making me look like I might be his daughter in my dark skinny jeans … and takes me for a prosaic dinner at the TV tower.

  What Akbar initially had in mind was the panoramic view from the windows, but what excites me is the option of dining on the edge of the roof, at 1,772 ft.

  ‘Come on, let’s do something different,’ I say, persuading him to get up on the narrow gray rooftop, overlooking a rather grim landscape, with no barrier or any other protection from falling down.

  Akbar keeps slightly behind. We have been given special yellow jackets with a security rope attached to the tower’s antenna. I take off my heels, so they do not fall off my feet while I sit on the edge of the roof. I place myself next to Akbar, playing a cool, fearless alpha female.

  A flock of cranes flies above our heads as if we were in the countryside, with the warm summer wind playing with my hair and caressing my face. I spread out my arms to give me a true bird’s-eye view.

  As soon as they take the plates away, I bend over to Akbar, the security rope behind me scratchily dragging me back as I unzip his trousers and take out his giant manhood. I smile to myself as he freaks out, looking down at me with his hands glued to the cement of the rooftop.