Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  ‘Tandoori naan is a crazy bargain here – one pound,’ Richard enthuses.

  ‘Calm down, it’s only leavened bread, it usually comes for free,’ I sneer.

  ‘This one is traditional, very good … like the real thing.’ He waves to the waiter and orders decisively, whilst I am still twiddling the sticky, laminated menu back and forth.

  ‘Quick, ma’am,’ the waiter shouts, irritated, taking the plates from the bewildered rabbis before they have finished their food. He stacks the plates on top of each other, so they don’t even have a chance to argue with him.

  ‘I’ll have the same as my friend,’ I say without thinking. Almost immediately, the waiter brings a plate of smoking lamb chops, and two minutes later, fills our table with mixed grill.

  ‘So how come you’re free for dinner? What about your beau?’ Richard asks, grabbing a rib with his hands and biting into it like a caveman.

  ‘He’s meeting his daughter, she lives here,’ I explain, cutting the chicken fillet. ‘Apparently all she eats is yogurt from some shop in Notting Hill.’

  ‘Oh, I know the kind,’ Richard says, ravenously carving the lamb chop. ‘I work in events but daddy doesn’t want me to work much,’ he imitates, putting on a high voice, his lips already greasy. ‘The air hostesses on passenger planes are shit compared to the ones on private jets.’

  ‘Imagine if you had to bring her to this place,’ I muse cynically. ‘She’d make a massive scene.’

  ‘A Russian girl with no drama doesn’t seem quite right,’ he winks.

  ‘I don’t have any drama,’ I say, smiling coquettishly. ‘I get to the office by ten, leave at five, get a sit-down lunch every day, I’m invited to senior management conference calls. I could never have dreamt of doing that at Lehman.’

  ‘It’s very different to Lehman, from the sound of things,’ he says. ‘So how are things with Akbar?’

  ‘Good, good … Do you think someone like him would get divorced for someone like me?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘I don’t have a clue. But I don’t want you to get hurt if he doesn’t,’ he says compassionately.

  ‘So how are all your dates from easyroommate? Still screwing as much as possible while you can?’ I tease.

  ‘Well, my salad days when I was green in judgement are over,’ he retorts, quoting Shakespeare.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve grown up,’ I say, amused.

  ‘I’ll be thirty-nine next year. You know, it’s time to settle, to get a proper home,’ he mumbles, ‘… and everyone says Sophie is the nicest and most beautiful person …’

  ‘Sophie? What the fuck!’ I exclaim. ‘Who says that?’

  ‘At the end of the day, what you want is someone you’re comfortable with.’ I get the feeling he is trying hard to sound cheerful.

  ‘You know you’ll get bored with Sophie in no time,’ I say firmly. ‘You’ll die on the plain; you need to climb to the very top of the mountain, enjoy the view and rush downhill with someone as free-spirited and adventurous as you are.’ I’m shouting so loud that even the rabbis at the next table turn their heads to stare at us.

  ‘Is that how you feel about Akbar?’ Richard asks seriously.

  ‘Think so,’ I affirm. ‘We can get on a jet and fly to another part of the planet, have dinner on top of the TV tower, swim in a seawater pool in Venice,’ I say, feeling cool about this part of the game.

  ‘Sounds like he’s the right kind of guy for you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I smile. ‘He invited me to a snow rally over the weekend!’

  ‘In Sochi? The gathering of CEOs of strategic enterprises?’ he asks, obviously aware of the event. ‘Send me some pictures,’ he says with a wink. ‘I’ll keep my column free in the weekend paper.’

  We get pushed out the moment we leave our cash on the table and squeeze back through the crowd to the exit … as I follow Richard out, I find myself pressing up close to his strong body, feeling his breathing louder than the din of the busy place.

  ‘There’s a list of trades with Valkyrie,’ I say to break the uncomfortable silence when we get outside, pointing at the Gucci paper bag. ‘There should be enough info for an article or an FSA investigation.’

  ‘I’ve already written an article about it,’ Richard says, looking me in the eye as if he knows it is my fault the fund collapsed.

  ‘I’ve got to go … Akbar’s waiting for me,’ I apologise, quickly waving goodbye and getting into a cab for the long ride across town.

  Back at the hotel, I scuttle through the lobby and take the stairs up, hoping I don’t leave a trace of the tandoori lamb chop smell. Suppressing my shallow breathing as I enter the dimly-lit room, I can already feel Akbar’s heavy energy. He is lying on the bed in his suit and shoes, with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

  ‘It’s the Uzbek president,’ he scowls, pointing at the screen where the movie Borat is playing.

  ‘How was your day?’ I ask, sensing he is pissed off with something, hoping it is not with me being late back.

  ‘They still don’t bloody understand they’re gonna get a civil war if they don’t let us build the fucking pipeline,’ he says, taut with anger, pressing random buttons on the remote.

  ‘They?’ I ask taking off my curry-infused dress.

  ‘Wagners, Syrian sheiks …’ he sighs. ‘Besides, my daughter’s gotten completely out of hand,’ he emotes, spilling his whiskey. ‘Now she wants to start a line of luxury fur coats. OK, I’m not totally against it … I just keep asking her, why the hell do you need to buy your mink in Greece? A friend of mine has a logging business in the taiga. He gets so much fur running around the place, he doesn’t know what to do with it,’ he says, pouring himself a whole glass of pungent whiskey from the bottle on the night table. ‘Wait till she’s eighteen, marriage will kick that nonsense out of her head.’ He wipes his tie clean, making a couple of diamonds fall off in the process. Then, sniffing the air with a look of disgust: ‘What’s that smell, anyway?’

  ‘We had Punjabi food,’ I say guiltily.

  ‘Go and take a shower and I’ll be waiting for you in bed.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE HANDBRAKE TURN

  The next day, we go back to Moscow just to fly to Sochi the morning after - as if we haven’t had enough of a crazy jet-setting week already.

  Akbar has an important agenda so I spend the evening shopping for suspenders and getting my bangs cut like Demi Moore in Ghost. They tone my hair black and fix it behind into a bun, so it really looks short like hers in the film. I know I have to keep surprising him all the time - I can’t let him get bored.

  Looking like a giant lollipop himself in a red and white polyester tracksuit, Akbar picks me up from home very early in the morning.

  ‘You look different,’ he says in his low, serious voice, greeting me with a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Do I remind you of someone?’ I ask, playfully turning around to show off the suspenders underneath my gray snakeskin jacket.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs, letting me into the Maybach.

  ‘Suspenders, the white T-shirt … maybe if my hands were covered in clay it would be easier?’ I hint, flattening my heavy bangs down over my eyes, but he still does not get it. I hum the infamous theme music, an idiot-proof clue … which doesn’t work either. ‘Your favorite actress, for Christ’s sake,’ I snap, disappointed.

  ‘Oh, Ghost,’ he says dryly. ‘Will your hair go back to blonde again?’

  ‘Yes, after I wash it.’

  ‘Good,’ he says, already stuck on his phone again, typing energetically.

  Soon enough, after speeding through the unusually empty Moscow streets, we get to the good old private jet terminal, which, in contrast, is very busy. The identikit hookers in vulgar dresses are getting loaded into planes big and small, together with boxes of champagne and Louis Vuitton luggage.

  We promptly make our way up the stairs to the freshly-cleaned Boeing.

  After a few lines, Akbar gets up and stumbles
to the loo, leaving his phone on the table. Sensing something is wrong and worried he might be losing interest, I discreetly grab his iPhone and check who he has been messaging all this time … and see the first message in the list, sent to his wife: ‘On the way to Sochi. Feeling better?’ In her profile picture, she is looking a bit … heavy.

  The liar. The freaking liar!

  Just as the plane goes into a turbulent zone, Akbar returns to the couch and kisses my numb lips.

  ‘All good, Demi?’ he asks, playing with my bangs.

  ‘Yeah,’ I nod, feeling like I might erupt, snorting another line to control my emotions.

  Shortly after, we land at the brand new, empty airport, where a bunch of daunting-looking bodyguards follow us through to the exit, as if there were a crowd we needed to be protected from. They ominously pack themselves into three black jeeps, ABBA’s “Happy New Year” blaring from the nearest one. Meanwhile, Akbar and I get into a black Mercedes Geländewagen that looks more like a tank.

  I quietly get into the scratched black leather seat and look out of the tinted window at a run-down landscape filled with ancient heavy machinery in a dark, acrid cloud of exhaust gas.

  ‘So this is the future Olympic site?’ I ask sulkily, as we shudder over yet another pothole.

  ‘If it was an autobahn it wouldn’t be Russia anymore,’ Akbar says, diving into his phone … probably texting his wife again.

  ‘So you’d prefer to keep it in the Middle Ages?’ I smirk, pestering him.

  ‘No,’ he counters. ‘As you can see, we’re rebuilding it. It’s better to build where there was nothing before,’ he says, as we drive past a massive crane tearing down an apartment block. Bags, boxes, TVs, fridges and washing machines are strewn all over the place, while people watch the demolition of their homes in despair.

  ‘It doesn’t look to me like there was nothing before,’ I challenge, catching the eye of a little girl glaring with deep hatred at our convoy.

  ‘Look, I know about the shit I live in and the shit I do and I don’t like it to be pointed out to my face,’ he says, aggressively pressing his fist into the leather of his seat.

  ‘You know, one of the reasons Peter and Ekaterina were great is because they knew how to get European hands to build their roads,’ I push further, as we get stuck in yet another traffic jam.

  ‘It’s getting annoying, you trying to be clever,’ Akbar immediately reproaches. ‘European contractors won’t provide you with a fifteen-meter road when its actual width is fourteen and a half.’

  ‘Just saying, European contractors could do a better job,’ I say, although I know he won’t want to hear it.

  ‘Why does everyone keep telling me about European contractors!’ he barks, losing his temper. ‘You and that ungrateful sheep, my daughter, who doesn’t want to marry who she should.’

  ‘To be fair, it’s good to have a choice when it comes to marriage.’ My point adds heat to the already-rising temperature in this tank.

  ‘In Muslim culture,’ Akbar says with a daunting gaze, ‘daughters are supposed to obey their father’s will. She’s going to marry who I tell her to,’ he affirms, brandishing a pointed finger, ‘… and she wants a practising guy. Where am I supposed to find one of those, who’s also a billionaire?’

  ‘So billions is the only criteria? Money marries money?’ I ask, looking him in the eye, not wanting to believe something obvious that I think I’ve just heard. ‘It means you’ll … never marry me?’ My voice is barely audible.

  ‘Katya … Of course I want to be with you,’ he says in a gravelly voice.

  ‘But you’ll never divorce …’ I say melodramatically.

  ‘Katya, let’s try to have a nice weekend, OK?’ he smiles sympathetically, while checking his phone again.

  Soon we approach a massive private gate with an arabesque decoration, opening onto a vast meadow behind it.

  ‘Have you ever driven a collection Ferrari?’ Akbar asks, suddenly in a more cheerful mood. ‘She’s one of a kind, a GTO Gran Turismo,’ he says with the delight of a little boy getting a new toy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, without excitement.

  ‘The Katya I know wouldn’t think twice about jumping into a new adventure,’ he says beguilingly.

  ‘I don’t care,’ I sigh.

  ‘OK. Buy me a hundred million dollars’ worth of Lehman shares,’ he orders in his authoritarian baritone as we park in front of an exquisite, titanic palace with Arabic-style stucco, surrounded by orange and palm trees more typical of the beaches of the Costa Brava.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re my banker, I’m giving you an order to buy a hundred million dollars’ worth of Lehman shares … three times leverage,’ he says, emphasizing every word.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ I retort. ‘The bank is closed.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as a bank holiday for a bank, you know that.’

  ‘You sure? There’re all sorts of rumors about Lehmans going bust …’ I give him the heads-up, as a good banker should.

  ‘They are saying the same about other banks too - and so what? If I didn’t take risks I wouldn’t be here. Lehman’s equity costs almost nothing at the moment but it still has intrinsic value,’ he lectures. ‘Please take my order and buy the shares.’

  ‘OK, I’ll try,’ I say, and dial Bruno in London, where it is around 7 a.m. on Saturday morning. My boss, no doubt half-asleep, immediately gets alerted and accepts the order. Seconds later, he calls back and confirms the execution. ‘You’ve just saved us millions of dollars, we’ve cleared all the Lehman stock from our books,’ he happily imparts. ‘Good job! Give the client a flat rate, we will pay you.’

  ‘You’re all done. You’ll get the confirmation and the stock shortly,’ I confirm, turning to Akbar as we pass through the tropical garden towards the endless, sun-filled meadow, guarded by fir trees on the hills.

  ‘It isn’t exactly very snowy,’ I comment, with typical British understatement.

  ‘There’re enough snowmaking machines on the slopes,’ he says calmly.

  After a few moments, we stop at an iron-shod gate and finally get out of our tank onto the field, where the overwhelming scent of pine trees takes me back to my childhood. A few yards away there is a security gate, letting us into the vast area with its extensive array of sports cars and chicks with fake boobs in red bikinis, serving drinks to unfit, serious-looking men.

  ‘They all wear the same kind of polyester tracksuits as you? What is this, a pioneer camp?’ I mock, surveying the red-and-white masses milling about on the green pasture.

  ‘It’s a future Olympic site and hence the future Olympic suits,’ Akbar explains, as we approach a large table with all sorts of food and a lamb roasting on the side, filling the air with an appetizing smell, mixed with the sea breeze from down the mountain.

  ‘Akbar Nikolaevich, you promised me you’d arrive earlier!’ exclaims a voice that makes my heart sink. Though she has replaced her cheetah-dot dress with an ostentatious pink velvet tracksuit, I immediately recognise the Head of Distribution from the Ministry of Defence, last seen at the Casino de Monte-Carlo. ‘Your wife isn’t coming?’ she asks amiably, taking his elbow, pushing me out into the hostile crowd. The important men in tracksuits fix me with their cruel gaze, making me shrink deeper into my insubstantial jacket.

  ‘No, she’s sick,’ Akbar bluffs, and then, in a quieter tone: ‘Will you lobby for that arms dispatch for me?’

  ‘Certainly - but remember, everything comes at a price,’ she says sleazily, taking him further aside, making my blood boil within. The thought that he is talking to her for business reasons only - to get the Afghan part of the deal through - gives me some elusive comfort.

  I take a few deep breaths of the very fresh air and, recalling my promise to Richard, start taking pictures of the area, the array of Jaguars, Maseratis, Ferraris, Aston Martins, and the entrance to the snow rally course in the woods, with snowmaking machines roaring to cover the bar
e ground.

  About sixty feet away from me there is a big cage with a balding gray ostrich, cautiously trying to stick its head into the snow.

  Astonished, I take a picture and send it to Richard.

  ‘Ha! What’s the ostrich doing there?’ he immediately responds.

  ‘No clue … looks like some dude got government funding to “finance” an ostrich farm in Siberia. The usual Russian crap, just a front for laundering state money.’

  People often speak about the ‘bestial’ cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts; no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.

  A few moments later, Akbar appears, stumbling over the ostrich cage. ‘Come on, the Ferrari is waiting,’ he says, putting his hand - which reeks of cognac - on my shoulder, leading me towards the cars. ‘It’s the best car I’ve ever owned,’ he raves. ‘Those Aston Martins are good, solid cars, but they’re boring. A gentleman needs a little diversity in his life.’ He winks, making me wonder if his attitude to cars applies to women too.

  ‘Is that why they get a wife and a mistress?’ I snap.

  ‘The best and most exclusive,’ he croons, elatedly stroking the low roof of the flashy red car, deliberately ignoring what I’ve just said.

  ‘You aren’t listening to me,’ I whinge, not sharing his affection for this lump of red metal.

  ‘I am … and of course you’re right about everything.’ He twiddles my ear as if I were a dog. ‘I just want you to be happy.’ He presses the button on the keychain, making the Ferrari’s side doors open up like a Transformer. ‘I want you to be the first to drive it, so you appreciate how much you mean to me,’ he says proudly, offering me the driver’s seat.

  ‘Well, I must admit, driving a rally car has always been on my bucket list,’ I say spiritedly, appreciating his effort. ‘But it might be tricky on the snow on a tiny path in the woods,’ I hesitate.

  ‘Just try a test lap, see how you go,’ he suggests, buckling up in the passenger seat.