Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  ‘OK … but I’ve never done this before,’ I say, getting into the car and adjusting the seat so I can reach the rather stiff pedals.

  ‘Just go slowly. It’s like with cycling … once you’ve learnt to stroke the pedals, you can ride any type of bicycle.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I concede, nervously switching on the engine and immediately stalling. Powerless, I watch my cheetah-dot nemesis overtake me in a Jaguar, drive confidently across the field and start down the wooded path. Brushing against the trees with hostile purpose, she triggers a minor snowstorm that falls directly onto us.

  ‘You can do this,’ Akbar says, caressing my hand, which I instinctively remove. ‘You’ll need to press the clutch aggressively, all the way down, for the handbrake turn.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I say dismissively, starting the car again, feeling its shudder and the loud engine responding to my footwork.

  ‘It’s much easier in extreme conditions. G-forces help. When the car slides sideways, just release the handbrake while you accelerate,’ he explains.

  ‘OK,’ I nod, starting to drive up the hill towards the entrance to the narrow pathway, flanked by angry snowmaking machines clapping their jaws.

  ‘Could the Ferrari GTO Evoluzione please come forward for a test lap,’ the loudspeaker announces, provoking tremors in my lower belly.

  ‘It’ll automatically put the weight on the back wheels,’ Akbar shouts over the engine’s thrum, typing on his iPhone. Nervous and disoriented, I drive over the hump, so the car jumps and I catch sight of Akbar’s phone screen, revealing a message to his wife: ‘Rallying:)’.

  The next second, I look straight ahead again at the blurred snowdrifts, clawing the steering wheel to restrain my anger.

  ‘There will be a left turn now,’ he says in his normal voice, as if nothing was wrong.

  ‘I’m not blind,’ I snarl, ruthlessly trying to hold on to the skidding car.

  ‘You should have signaled on the turn,’ he says, aggravating me, checking his phone again. ‘There’ll be another left turn after the snowmaking machine. Don’t forget the signal!’

  ‘You want me to signal in the middle of the forest?’ I ask irritably.

  ‘Yes, we’re turning, it’s logical. There could be other cars,’ he says, continuing to type.

  ‘Akbar,’ I scoff. ‘Having a mistress when you already have a wife is not logical either … even less logical is lying that you’re going to get a divorce.’ I say, boiling up. ‘But you fucking think you can get away with it, so I, blyat, also want to get away with not signaling on the turns in the woods. Is that fucking fair?’ I’m yelling hysterically now, and my freaking bangs are falling into my eyes.

  ‘Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?’ He grabs my hair and painfully yanks it down, so I can barely see the road.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I bellow, trying to release myself with one hand and drive with the other.

  ‘Don’t you ever talk to me that way,’ he hisses, sharply yanking me by the hair again. As a reflex, my foot presses the pedal, making the vehicle accelerate like hell. ‘Slow down!’ Akbar shouts, releasing my hair - but when I can look straight again, we have already started into the turn.

  Instantly, I steer to the left, when the car’s weight has already shifted to the outside tires, lifting the car so that only the left side skids along the ground.

  Disregarding Akbar’s commands, I quickly steer to the right, dropping the car back onto four wheels - but now it is careering off into the trees.

  As if in slow motion, I harshly steer to the left and release the handbrake, locking the rear wheels.

  ‘Left-foot braking, left-foot braking,’ Akbar screeches.

  ‘I’m trying,’ I squeal, my left foot glued to the brakes, pushing so hard that as I steer frantically away from the snow machine up ahead, I sprain all the joints in my leg.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Akbar barks, grabbing the steering wheel but quickly losing control as the car sharply shudders, and cold glass hits my cheek.

  An almighty bump -

  … a heap of snow …

  My knee cracks and I loudly moan from the pain as the airbag blows up into my face, suffocating me with my own tears and blood.

  ‘Shit!’ Akbar curses from behind his airbag, reaching to squeeze my thigh. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I yell, forcing his hand away like it is the plague, howling from the sharp pain in my knee.

  The most terrible part of the whole punishment is not the bodily pain at all.

  Blood is dripping from the cracked window on my left, letting the chilly air in … The asphyxiating smell of gasoline fills the cabin … No, it can’t be the fuel tank. The hit wasn’t that strong. I was braking … It’s all Akbar’s fault … if he hadn’t been pulling my hair down … if he hadn’t been cheating …

  The certain knowledge that in ten minutes, then in half a minute, then now this very instant your soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a human.

  Suddenly, a wave of petrol flame gusts into the right-hand side of the vehicle, reducing the airbags to ashes, which fall to the floor like feathers.

  Covering my face with the sleeves of my snakeskin jacket, I instinctively hit all the buttons to open up the doors … but they won’t open. With freezing, sweaty fingers, I squeeze the key as hard as I can until the doors finally respond.

  I fall out of the car, wailing from the pain in my knee, my entire body shaking. I crash onto the cold, hard blanket of snow, and as I lie there, the flakes from the snow machine pummel my face like tiny knives.

  The flames from the Ferrari surrealistically dance with the white curtain of manufactured snowflakes. Breaking through my idyll, Akbar - his polyester tracksuit ablaze - throws himself into the snowdrift. He flails from side to side, getting rid of the flames before a backdrop of primordial pine trees, accompanied by a peaceful cricket chorus.

  I try to get up to help him, but the agony of the sharp black rod inside my leg and spreading up my spine chains me to the ground … Even breathing hurts …

  There’s suffering wounds, bodily pain, and it means that all that distracts you from inner torment, so that you only suffer from the wounds until you die.

  The approaching ambulance siren is belling in my head, making it harder and harder to stay conscious … I make a last effort to take out my heavy iPhone, and blindly take pictures so that Richard will get his headline.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE BLOW

  Drifting in and out of sleep … A young doctor in a white coat … Cold. Quiet emptiness … A dark, monumental hospital room … Thirst. Panic … My neck, fragile as a daisy stem …

  … A little girl is lying on the asphalt … I was holding her hand as we were leaving a shop with shopping bags full of new dresses … Now she lies motionless on a pedestrian crossing. A car with blades instead of wheels has cut off her feet but there is no blood. There is nothing. Nobody. Just me looking … at her deformed body … her pale skin … her blonde hair … I am her. But she can’t walk. But I can … or can I?

  ‘You should not be wearing the foam collar for more than three hours at a time,’ says a kind young male voice. ‘To keep your neck muscles in good working order.’

  ‘OK.’ I try to smile with my dry lips at the blurry face in front of me.

  ‘Can you see me alright?’ he asks, checking my eyes.

  ‘I guess so,’ I say, resisting the droop of my heavy eyelids.

  ‘What color are my eyes?’ he asks. To me, he looks like a one-eyed Cyclops.

  ‘Gray … hazel … green,’ I mumble.

  ‘Your blood coagulation is very low because you have a high level of benzoylecgonine, which tells me that you might have been abusing certain substances,’ he says, checking the bloody bandages on my knee, covering the sticking-out bolts. ‘The bleeding is rather abnormal - so we’re asking you to stay away from drugs and alcohol for at least a month,
till we remove the screws … if you want your ligaments to heal and to be able to walk again soon,’ he says in a serious tone. ‘Try to lift up your leg,’

  ‘OK,’ I say, trying to lift my weighty limb - but it just doesn’t obey.

  ‘Try harder,’ he commands.

  ‘I can’t,’ I whine powerlessly.

  The foreboding creak of an old parquet, at first only distantly audible, is now so close it is going to get me … I move further underneath the cold blanket, as if it were my shield … but I cannot turn my head.

  In the corner of my eye I see Akbar’s face partially covered with bandages, which in the subdued light looks particularly scary – like Freddy Krueger in Nightmare on Elm Street. He is wearing a silk dressing gown and boxers over thick, tight beige bandages. He silently takes a seat at my bedside, struggling to bend his elbows and knees, letting the doctor continue to torture me with leg exercises.

  Straining my entire body, I grab the bed rails and with a squawk of pain, finally lift my zinc-heavy leg.

  ‘Good. It’s important to keep practising - you need to build up your muscle strength again,’ the doctor says, writing something in a journal. ‘I’ll send a nurse to change your bandages.’ He nods at Akbar and leaves the room.

  ‘Hi,’ Akbar says after a long pause, breaking the heavy silence.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, ashamed, pushing myself through pain to prop myself up on my elbows.

  ‘They told me you had concussion and whiplash and … your knee,’ he points at my leg, bulky from all the bolts and bandages.

  ‘I’ll walk again,’ I say gruffly, fighting the desire to sleep and the urge to vomit.

  ‘That’s a nasty one,’ he says.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask guiltily.

  ‘No, blyat, I just like to wear this stupid silicon costume,’ he says, struggling to control his anger. ‘It’s a third degree burn!’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I slur, ready to accept whatever blame comes my way.

  ‘Yes,’ he says imperiously. ‘It was a bloody good car.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, already drained of energy by this conversation.

  ‘And … I’ve heard …’ He pauses, eyeing me suspiciously. ‘… omeone has sent pictures from the crash site to the FT and they’re going to put it on the front page tomorrow … If this was in Moscow it would be easy to revoke the article, but we’re dealing here with a headline in a respectable London paper: “Akbar Gromov’s mistress crashes top-of-the-range Ferrari as thousands lose their jobs in Lehman collapse”,’ he yells, louder than even my mom ever did - but now I cannot run away. ‘Do you know what my in-laws are going to do to me? I’ll never get a loan again in my life,’ he fumes, raising the formidable mountain of his body above my bed.

  ‘Lehman collapsed?’ I ask in disbelief.

  ‘While you’ve been chilling here, the world has changed and will never be the same again,’ he shouts furiously. ‘Because of you, I’ve lost over twenty million dollars on those fucking Lehman shares you sold me …’ he yells, pointing a beige-gloved finger at me.

  ‘It was your order to buy …’ I say quietly.

  ‘I know what I’ve bought.’ His usually pale face is now all red. ‘The freaking plant you made me buy. Zilbermans attacked it,’ he continues with intensity, slowly pacing around the room.

  ‘I thought you wanted Zilbermans to react?’ I defend myself with the remains of my consciousness.

  ‘Yes, but not to throw missiles!’ he exclaims. ‘Who’s going to repay me the hundred fifty million dollars cash I paid for that hole because of you?’ He kicks the chair with his poker-straight leg. ‘And I can’t even fight back, because those bastards told the court it was me who arranged the raid in the first place, to take ownership of the plant.’

  ‘I just wanted to help,’ I gasp, anxiously.

  ‘Katya,’ he exhales. ‘I don’t have time for this.’ He looks at his watch on his unbended arm, turning towards the door. ‘Get your friend to remove all the articles mentioning my name or yours,’ he commands, threatening me with his index finger. ‘This is in your best interest. We’ll talk later.’ With that, he walks out of the room.

  Breathing shallowly, I use what is left of my strength to lift myself up with my arms and reach for the remote control to switch the TV on.

  Every channel is showing the unimaginable image of hundreds of employees in shock, standing with their cardboard boxes in front of an instantly-recognisable glass building on a sunny square.

  Making a real effort, I reach for my handbag on the windowsill and pull out my iPhone, which has only a few per cent battery left.

  When I swipe the screen, Facebook automatically opens up, suggesting I should check in at the Sochi Presidential Hospital. A post from Virgin Mary pops up: ‘The entry cards to the building stopped working at 6.45. No further information given.’ The Polish kurva comments below: ‘Those fucking cunts knew it. Alex left last week with all his shit, including the keyboard.’

  Quickly, I check Alex’s account, with the picture of him chilling by the pool … and my battery treacherously dies. My heart palpitates … I wasted all that charge and did not even message Richard.

  Drifting off, I hear a low, grumpy voice from behind the door: ‘Do I look like a journalist? You see a camera on me or a microphone?’ A brash, plump woman in her fifties loudly pushes past the guard at my door, rumbling a cart with a giant pot on its top.

  ‘You want porridge?’ she asks abruptly.

  ‘Hm, can I have some water, please?’ I answer, forcing a tired smile.

  ‘So you don’t want porridge?’ she asks, putting the ladle back into the pot.

  ‘No, I’d like some water, please,’ I say despairingly, looking at the scowl on her face.

  ‘I don’t have any water,’ she says curtly.

  ‘Can I give you some money? Maybe you can get me a bottle from downstairs?’ I plead.

  ‘Yeah? And who’ll pay me to change your urinal after?’ she snaps at me, probably waiting for me to increase my bid.

  ‘Hey,’ I shout past her. ‘You, at the door!’ I scream with all the force I can muster. ‘Ibrahim!’ I yowl.

  An imposing square-jawed young guy, wearing all black, with blue plastic shoe covers over his military boots, confidently enters the room.

  ‘What?’ he grunts.

  ‘I need an iPhone charger,’ I say firmly, resisting his intense stare, ‘and a few liters of water.’ I calmly ignore the chubby kitchen employee, who tries to object but eventually gives up and leaves.

  ‘Akbar needs me to make an urgent phone call,’ I say serenely, pausing prior to the key words. ‘I can’t do it because the number is in my phone and its battery has died. If I don’t talk to this person and an article comes out incriminating Akbar, I’ll make you personally responsible.’

  The next moment, he is gone.

  Minutes later, he duly returns with the charger and a pack of water bottles.

  ‘Call me. Urgent.’ I text Richard, as soon as the phone switches on again.

  ‘I can’t right now. Crazy here. R u ok?’ he texts back.

  ‘Plz don’t publish anything about the crash. Need to talk,’ I feebly type back, letting myself drift into an overpowering snooze.

  The next thing I know, a friendly, good-looking brunette in her fifties is tapping me on the shoulder. ‘Good afternoon,’ she says kindly. ‘Time to change your bandages, love.’ She gently removes my blanket, making me pull my heavy body up on my tired, shaking arms.

  ‘Before I start, please fill in some paperwork for the hospital. We just need your data,’ she says, genuinely smiling, passing me the forms.

  Slowly, with a disobedient hand, I fill out my name, address and all the usual stuff, but when I get to the ‘next of kin’ field at the bottom, my eyes fill with tears of despair.

  Who the hell is my next of kin? There is no one to bring me water, take me home … Where is home? I am a fallen leaf away from its tree, with no place to come back to
, no one to call, no one to love …

  ‘All good?’ the woman asks.

  ‘I don’t know who to put in the next of kin section,’ I sob.

  ‘Is your mother still alive?’ she asks, preparing the new bandages.

  ‘Yes, but we don’t …’ I tail off.

  ‘What is there to think about?’ she asks with a shrug. ‘Put her details in. She’ll always be your next of kin.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I obey, copying my mom’s cell phone number from my phone, wondering if it is still the same.

  ‘OK, let’s start,’ she says. While she is removing the swathes of bandages, Richard calls.

  ‘Hey, sorry it took ages - so crazy here,’ he says. I can hear the rapid click-clack of his typing in the background.

  ‘What happened to Lehman?’ I weakly ask.

  ‘Seems like the liquidity dried up and it couldn’t get out of its structured credit crap,’ he hurriedly explains. ‘Anyway, how are you feeling?’

  ‘They reconstructed my knee ligaments from bits and pieces,’ I say, watching the nurse as she cuts the bandage, revealing the bolts sticking out of my flesh.

  ‘Ouch … It’ll take ages to heal. You should be very careful with it,’ he says, shouting something to someone on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Akbar doesn’t want any articles about the crash at all,’ I say, as the nurse scrapes the dried blood off my knee, keeping me well awake.

  ‘Well, Akbar Gromov is not just any old John Doe … and you sent me a very exclusive photo … luckily for him there was bigger news today,’ he smirks.

  ‘He’s concerned that his in-laws … won’t let him have any more corporate loans,’ I explain, wincing in pain as I speak.

  ‘They should have stopped doing that a long time ago,’ Richard cynically comments. ‘The Russian economy would have been a lot stronger for it.’

  ‘Please at least don’t mention my name or the mistress thing,’ I say feebly.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Richard says.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, watching as the nurse finishes cleaning up the open wounds on my knee. ‘What about the other accident?’ I ask, shivering, trying not to look that way.