Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  Confused, in the middle of the sidewalk, I start typing another message to Akbar: ‘You’ve made your point. We need to discuss …’ when an arrogant busty cow, talking on her phone, bangs into me with her shoulder, so that I barely manage to balance on one leg, dropping one crutch.

  ‘Oh, you’re so busy, so fucking busy,’ I angrily shout, letting my tears stream.

  Slowly, I pick up my crutch and move to a side street with far fewer people.

  Standing by the corner of a grimy old building, I gradually calm down, as I realize that going home is not an option … and crying is not going to help. I eventually text Akbar: ‘It hurts me as much as it hurts you, the way things turned out. I wish we could find a way to resolve it … I miss you.’

  ‘6 p.m. Ritz. Room 1105,’ he immediately responds.

  The hotel is less than a quarter of a mile away. I would normally cover the distance in a few minutes without thinking too much about it, but now I can only shuffle at a snail’s pace.

  A while later, a courteous butler politely lets me through the metal detector into an ostentatious tinsel-covered lobby, where I plonk myself onto a soft couch, being twenty minutes early.

  I immediately call my dad, and feel a rush of relief when he picks up. ‘Dad, how are you feeling?’

  ‘Katyusha, your voice is like a breath of fresh air,’ he effuses. ‘I’ve felt so weak these past couple of days. I couldn’t think nor move … like life was slowly being dragged out of me. No pumping heartbeat, no pain, just plain and utter exhaustion, almost ceasing to exist. I’ve been warned about this roller coaster of madness that being treated with chemotherapy entails … the toxins take me through a maze of misery … I don’t want to take any more of it.’

  ‘Hang in there, dad, please,’ I plead, trying not to cry. ‘I’ll arrange for the leakage to be fixed very soon, and come to see you.’ I’m shouting now, taking no notice of the extravagantly-dressed hotel guests. ‘Whatever it takes, I’ll do it. I promise,’ I weep.

  ‘I know you will. You always get what you want. You’re a fighter. I’m so lucky to have you by my side,’ he says benevolently. I want to tell him that he would not be in hospital now if it weren’t for my greed, but the lump in my throat does not let me.

  Instead, I mentally resolve to do whatever Akbar demands, even if he asks me to become his slave …

  At five to six I cold-bloodedly make my way to the eleventh floor.

  ‘Look who’s graced us with her presence,’ Akbar says dryly, opening the door in a freaky beige silicon bodysuit underneath his gray T-shirt.

  ‘Hi.’ I courteously reach up to give him a peck on his burnt cheek, balancing on my one good foot. I am expecting him to start yelling at me, but he bends over and passionately kisses me. I close my eyes, letting him stick his tongue into my mouth and fill it up with his abundant, malodorous saliva.

  ‘You make me so fucking hard … even when you’re handicapped.’ He slides his arm down behind my leg in the cast.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask angrily, pulling away, perching on my crutches.

  ‘Doing what?’ he says, still squeezing my thighs.

  ‘Threatening a UK journalist!’ I exclaim.

  ‘Come in,’ he sighs, turning around and, with a sweeping gesture, inviting me into the ice-cool, low-lit office of the suite. ‘Please take a seat.’ He offers me a brown leather couch in a freezing spot right underneath the air conditioner. ‘I missed you, so to speak,’ he says, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from a stylish minibar. ‘I could still smell your perfume on my clothes.’ He gazes at his jacket, hanging on a chair. ‘There was a golden strand of your hair on it … as if your head was resting on my chest and I was stroking it …’

  ‘You could have just asked.’

  ‘Would you like anything to drink? Same as me – as usual?’ he asks, drilling into me with his cold glare.

  ‘No, I can’t,’ I say, crossing my arms and legs, trying to stay warm on the glacial leather couch in my thin cotton dress. ‘Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Good girl,’ he says, boorishly throwing a pile of files from the spacious, executive-style work desk into the wastebasket. ‘I work here sometimes when I don’t want to be disturbed. A lot of tree pruning these days,’ he smirks.

  ‘I see,’ I say, forcing a smile.

  ‘So, my dear, we had a bit of a misunderstanding,’ he says after a pause, sitting down next to me on the couch. ‘But I hope we can work it out, because …’ He theatrically inhales, looking aside and sliding heavily down onto one knee. ‘Here,’ he says, opening a long velvet black case bearing the Graff logo. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, stunned, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu.

  ‘Just a sign of my commitment to you,’ he says with a duplicitous smile. ‘Open it.’

  Hesitantly, I open the case to find an exquisite diamond necklace.

  ‘I want to marry you,’ he says in his earnest baritone.

  ‘But … you’re already married,’ I counter.

  ‘I’m a Muslim. I can have a second wife,’ he says lasciviously. ‘And a second family.’

  ‘But I’m not a Muslim,’ I say, still not believing we are having this conversation.

  ‘That’s fine. So for you, I’ll be your one and only husband,’ he smiles. ‘I want to do the honorable thing in the eyes of Islam – to take you as my second wife. Instead of having an affair,’ he adds thoughtfully.

  ‘If I say yes, will you leave Richard alone?’

  ‘Yes, he’ll be off the hook,’ he concedes, sipping whiskey.

  ‘… and fix the meltdown?’ I ask, making my plaster cast leg more comfortable on the couch.

  ‘Already doing it,’ he says, reaching for my leg. ‘I’ve arranged for the groundwork to cool down the reactor.’ He starts caressing my thigh.

  ‘You have?’ I ask, startled.

  ‘Of course, so to speak,’ he says, as his hands inch further under my skirt. ‘Obviously, the restructured loan to its full extent would speed up the matter.’ He kisses my neck.

  ‘I’d like to see the groundwork done first,’ I say, leaning back.

  ‘Has the events company been in touch with you?’ Akbar asks, slipping his hand into my panties.

  ‘Yes, but they’ve gone quiet recently,’ I say, huddling deeper into the corner of the couch.

  ‘I’ll tell them to call you,’ he says, turning to grab the necklace from the box. ‘The charity event is on Saturday, right?’

  ‘Yes, the day after tomorrow,’ I confirm.

  ‘We’ll allocate the aid budget there and then. We’ll help every single victim there,’ he whispers into my ear, putting the wintry choker round my freezing neck and closing the clasp. ‘We’ll help everyone,’ he repeats, trying to take off my dress. ‘I want to see you … wearing nothing but my gift.’

  ‘OK,’ I obey, taking off my bra.

  ‘Perfect,’ he says, proudly assessing the soul-corroding diamonds on my chest. ‘You know a man doesn’t need much – only to feel he’s wanted, and you’re giving me just that.’ He squeezes my breasts, massaging them with lustful abandon. ‘I want to know you’re my woman, I can’t wait to dine with you every day after work.’ He moves his face right up close to mine, so that I have to endure his bad breath. ‘The truth is, you should be worshiped.’ He traces my lips with his fingers, popping his thumb into my mouth. ‘Touch it.’ He puts my hand onto his giant cock, rubbing it inside his pants, showing me its head.

  I moan as naturally as possible, leaning against the cold, sticky silicon suit that envelops his imposing body.

  ‘Feed me, make me feel alive,’ he says, licking my ear, leaving a cold, wet trail, making me shiver. ‘I could just eat you up, drink you up, all your honey. You wouldn’t leave me thirsty.’ He forces his fingers inside me. ‘Spread your legs,’ he orders.

  I humbly obey.

  ‘Let me always want you … mm, you’re so wet … Your nectar pleases me so easily …’ he si
ghs, rubbing his cold fingers inside me.

  ‘Ah,’ I shout, afraid he might hurt my injured leg - but he starts making me squirt with his broad fingers, mechanically surging in and out.

  ‘You’ve made me so greedy … I want to have a child with you,’ he whispers, feeding me his sticky fingers. ‘I’ll buy you an apartment in Moscow, Paris, Berlin. I’ll give you a private jet …’

  I growl as he harshly pinches my nipples and kisses them with his cold, thin lips.

  ‘I’ll buy you everything you want,’ he whispers, crawling on top of me, slimily groping me. ‘I want you so much,’ he breathes, before tearing off his pants and entering me.

  I yowl, conscious of an acute pain in my knee, and noticing drops of blood soaking through the bandage. Akbar’s relentless pounding makes the couch lurch and shudder, knocking my aching head against its armrest until I feel it’s going to explode … he’s going to fuck me till the cows come home … Can it be that I shall really take an ax, that I shall strike him on the head, split his skull open … that I shall tread in the sticky warm blood, blood … with the ax?

  Using my one good leg, I crawl to one side, trying to release myself from the heft and sweat of his body - but he keeps propelling me back, underneath the chilly air flow from the air conditioner.

  ‘I’m cumming,’ I moan, pacing his motion, defying the pain in my muscles, holding up my aching leg.

  Predictably, he accelerates, loudly groaning through the last few thrusts, forcing his cock deeper and deeper, so I have to grab the rail of the coffee table to avoid being propelled across the room.

  ‘Stay put,’ he orders, snogging me with his stale-smelling mouth while still inside me. ‘I want our kiss to have no ending.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say, fighting the pain all over my body, hoping this will be over soon.

  ‘It’s nice and sticky down there,’ he smiles, checking inside me with his fingers. ‘You’re my wife now. With heaven’s help we will have a child soon, or maybe two.’

  ‘They’ll be as strong as their daddy,’ I flatter, choosing the words that will please him, all the while trying to slip out of his heavy embrace.

  ‘And as beautiful as their mother,’ he says affectionately, letting me get up. I’m freezing from being slathered in his gummy sweat.

  ‘My bolts are bleeding,’ I say anxiously, checking the apparent gash on my knee.

  ‘Oh, are you OK?’ he asks, putting his gray T-shirt back over the body-hugging silicon top.

  ‘I need to go,’ I say decisively, grabbing some tissues and wiping myself clean, with strained hands trembling from the cold.

  ‘Can I help?’ he asks, worried.

  ‘I’m gonna need a taxi,’ I respond.

  ‘Just put a hotel car on my room bill,’ he says, watching with a perplexed expression as I get ready.

  ‘Thanks,’ I trill, putting my dress back on. ‘The lithium buyer called,’ I add, zipping myself up. ‘He says the cargo still hasn’t reached the port.’

  ‘It has been despatched according to the contract, so to speak.’

  ‘Can you give me someone’s contacts so I can check where it is?’ I ask, getting on my crutches, ready to leave.

  ‘I’m a serious businessman, I’ve done it myriads of times,’ he viciously snaps.

  ‘Of course you are,’ I say, trying to sound kinder. ‘But maybe there’s someone somewhere who has screwed up.’

  ‘That’s why I fired most of my staff.’ He glances at the papers in the wastebasket.

  ‘You also fired your logistics department?’ I ask skeptically.

  ‘They were useless anyway,’ he drawls. ‘By the way, I’ve gotten your Whore back,’ he frowns, handing me the familiar Sotheby’s bag. ‘It’s not nice to try to sell presents.’

  Intimidated, I cast my eyes down and mumble: ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t do it again,’ Akbar says, so firmly that it gives me the chills.

  ‘OK,’ I say guiltily, taking the parcel.

  ‘Let me know how you’re feeling, OK?’ He touches my lower belly. ‘Hopefully, in two weeks we’ll get some good news.’ He kisses me on the forehead.

  ‘Hopefully,’ I smile, turning to the front door, which feels like miles away.

  ‘Do send me the debt-restructuring terms-sheet,’ is the last thing I hear before breaking out into the warm air of the corridor.

  Something is painfully tearing apart in my knee each time I take a step, all the way to the seemingly unreachable elevator, prompting involuntary tears over my own weakness … Maybe it would be easier just to become Akbar’s second wife … and not to care! But at what price?

  … Locked in, forced to kiss his bad-smelling mouth, spending public holidays on my own … digging myself a hole … till I get fed up proving to everyone that I deserve their love.

  What the hell am I doing? My own happiness is my responsibility, and mine alone.

  When the elevator’s glass doors open, I jump out on one leg, go to the concierge’s desk and take the first available hotel car to the European Clinic for Expats, at the top of my insurance list.

  The moment we arrive, the polite driver of the Bentley gets me a wheelchair, and a nurse to take me to the modern hospital with digital sensor technology and English-speaking doctors, striking in its tidiness and unusually pleasant smell.

  An attentive receptionist quickly sorts out the paperwork, and minutes later I am being examined by an experienced Israeli doctor.

  ‘You just had your surgery, you need to give your knee some rest,’ he says gravely. ‘If you stay with us for at least a couple of days, we could give you ozone therapy and some more injections, to help it heal faster.’

  ‘Hmm, I don’t know … I didn’t bring anything with me,’ I hesitate, glancing at the Sotheby’s paper bag sitting innocuously on a chair in the corner of the consulting room.

  ‘We can provide everything you need.’ He sounds convincing. ‘If you try to go up the stairs again, it could be very detrimental for your knee,’ he warns.

  ‘OK,’ I agree. ‘But only till Saturday.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ROLLING STONE

  With the charity ball starting at seven, I allow myself enough time to check out of the hospital and go home to get ready, plus extra for the trip up and down the vertiginous stairs. The Israeli doctor did keep his promise – I am in a lot less pain … and the cramps from the morning after pill are all but over.

  Once at home, my choice of dress falls on a full-length scarlet silk Valentino gown, with a split that suitably dovetails with the cast on my knee. It looks rather strange with flats, green elbow crutches and the opulent diamond necklace Akbar gave me - a symbol that he has me on a leash … until he cools the reactor, that is …

  There is a flight to Seversk at midnight, but the timing might be too tight to catch it after the party … and the next one is in two days … by then the shield over the reactor might already be in place, so I’ll have the leverage to convince my dad to get the proper treatment.

  Just in case, I take my passport and an iPhone charger.

  The entrance to the nightclub is packed with an endless supply of semi-naked ladies in revealing, provocative dresses and ultra-high heels, being spewed out of numerous minivans and buses.

  Not sharing their excitement, I single-mindedly limp through the VIP entrance into the gloom of the club.

  Some drunken blonde in a tiny dress almost falls on me as I hobble past a private white table where a group of portly men in expensive suits are seated, directly underneath a loudspeaker pumping out mindless, deafening dance music. Both her figure and her hairstyle are similar to mine … she could be me just a few weeks ago …

  She is unhappy because she does not know she is happy. It’s only that.

  As I am pushed over to the next table, I involuntarily overhear a conversation:

  ‘… And now the new rule obliges me to burn hundreds of thousands of dollars buying shares in Russian blue chips by close of b
usiness every day, so the Russian equity market doesn’t look like it’s collapsing,’ complains one of the baboons, who has glasses and two watches. He scowls at me as I almost fall from my crutches right in front of him.

  ‘You can also sell them from your private account when your company has to buy above the market. I can help you to execute,’ smugly suggests a strange, boyish-looking woman in an oversized white dress. Suddenly she turns around and I recognise Valeria: ‘Katya? What are you doing here?’ she asks condescendingly. ‘You’ve been away for over a week now?’

  ‘Yes, it seems like a lot longer … completely new world now,’ I say, scathingly eyeing her money-grubbing friends.

  ‘Indeed,’ she says, gazing apathetically at my necklace.

  ‘How are things in the office?’ I ask, trying to come closer to lean on a wall - but she steps back, forcing me to keep standing on one leg.

  ‘The markets are down the toilet,’ she cynically adds. ‘They’ve promoted that dickhead Sergey.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yeah, someone has to be a scapegoat to feed to the regulator,’ she smirks. ‘Good job you’re on sick leave. Stay there,’ she says, as her gaze is diverted by a short, tipsy man in a fitted jacket, stained with paint from the walls. He pompously cruises towards a couch, dispassionately grabbing Valeria’s behind as he passes by. ‘All good, Ivan Petrovich?’ she jauntily asks, raising her champagne glass - but he quickly gets distracted by a waitress wearing nothing but a tiny apron.

  ‘How’s Olga?’ I ask.

  ‘I fired her,’ Valeria snorts, visibly annoyed.

  ‘Really? Why?’ I ask, surprised. ‘How’s the Russian Railways guy?’

  ‘That idiot got sacked for leaving the company’s rouble exposure unhedged – they only realized it when it was thirty per cent down,’ she smirks, accepting a new glass of Cristal which Ivan Petrovich personally pours from a newly-opened magnum, and eagerly moves to sit next to him.

  Realizing the conversation is over, I get back on my crutches and limp further into the sumptuous club.