Chasing the Storm

by Martin Molsted

  The second half of the ballet was darker, with the suicide scenes and the dances of lamentation, and when the curtain finally rose for the third time and he’d clapped until his hands were sore, he looked over at Lena. Her cheeks were entirely wet, and she smiled a wobbly smile at him. “The ballet,” she said, raising her voice over the applause and leaning toward him. “Always it makes me to cry. I am sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he shouted back.

  On the front steps of the theater, he caught her arm. “Hey,” he said. “Why don’t you give me a call? Here’s my card. I’m at the Odessa Korona Hotel.”

  She shook her head, but he thrust the card into her hand. “Just take it,” he said. “Think about it.”

  Chapter 11

  Petrovich

  May 7

  She called him up the next morning, while he was eating his breakfast in bed.

  “Mr. Torgrim Rygg?” She sounded cautious.

  “Speaking. Who is this, please?”

  “I am Lena Lorincozová. We met yesterday at the ballet.”

  “Right. And how are you doing this morning, Lena?”

  “I am well. You said, Mr. Torgrim – Torgrim – that you were concerned about oil. It is right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I have – I have my friend of my father, he is also concerned about oil. I tell him about you, he say he will like to meet you today.”

  “That’s excellent! Give me the place and the time, I will be there.”

  “Okay. It will be at a dinner. I will be there as well. Seven o’clock. I will send driver for you, to your hotel. Is all right?”

  “Perfect.”

  When later that morning, Rygg told Marin-Alex that he’d hooked up a date for the evening, Marin feigned worry. “Be careful of prostitutes in Russia, Mr. Rygg,” he said earnestly. “They carry many diseases.”

  “Oh, she’s no prostitute, I think,” he retorted. “I met her at the Bolshoi. She seemed very elegant.”

  “But this will mean that you must miss the outing on the Volga by night. Very nice, with lights and Russian folk dancing.”

  “Cancel that for me, Alex, will you? I mean, I want to check out your folk dancing, but perhaps another time. You haven’t seen this girl.” He gave Marin a wink and a little flicker of amusement passed across Marin’s eyes.

  Driving through the streets that evening, in a Mercedes C300 with smoked windows, Rygg looked out at the passing streets. Tattered drunks, their T-shirts riding over their bellies, wobbled across the cobblestones. As the vehicle moved beyond the central area of hotels and offices, they passed young people under bridges and in doorways, with bands around their arms and needles in their hands. Some slouched in pairs or trios, but they did not talk to each other, each staring off in a separate direction. At one intersection, a skinny man with lank, oily hair came up to the car and pressed his face against the glass of the windscreen. His eyes were bloodshot gashes, and his cheeks were flour white. He put a hand against the screen. On his forearm was the black stippling of needle pricks. The driver started up the wipers, jostling the man’s head sideways, and he toppled backward into the gutter. They drove on, the smear of grease on the glass diminishing with each pass of the wipers.

  They drove for forty-five minutes, as the apartment blocks grew first higher and grimier, then more spread out and newer. Finally, they paused before a barrier. On either side, a concrete wall topped with hurricane wire vanished into the darkness. A security guard with a submachine gun slung across his shoulder checked the driver’s documents, peered at Rygg, then made a call on a walkie-talkie. He listened for a moment, nodded, and signaled his companion to lift the barrier.

  Beyond the barrier, they entered a zone of huge mansions. It reminded Rygg of the Bygdøy district in Oslo, where the millionaire oilmen vied with each other for the most colossal palaces. Here, behind immaculate gardens with trimmed topiary and goldfish ponds and gazebos, brand new villas stood, some like fairytale castles, with turrets of white marble and flags fluttering behind crenellation. In the driveways were the requisite dark-windowed Mercedes and BMWs, but also, like parakeets perched among crows, candy-hued Ferraris and Lamborghinis, all in a state of perfect polish.

  The Mercedes entered a long, curving driveway and halted before the largest villa in the enclave: a great dark hulk against the light-polluted sky, with a few randomly placed windows, narrow as those of a medieval fortress. Rygg thanked the driver, who nodded shortly, and walked up to the door, which was a round-topped oak slab set with iron knobs.

  A voice from a recessed speaker over the door said something. “I don’t speak Russian,” Rygg told the door. “I was invited here by a woman. Lena. I met her at the ballet.” There was a minute of silence, and then, with a multiple clicking of bolts and clatter of chains, the door opened. A huge, shaven-headed man stood before him, but behind him, Lena was smiling and waving. “Just a moment, Torgrim,” she called. “Boris will search, and then you can come in.”

  Boris stepped forward and ran his huge hands over Rygg’s body, squeezing his genitals without compunction, pressing into his armpits, running a finger between his buttocks. He indicated that Rygg should open the briefcase, and flipped cursorily through the documents, then stood aside to let him enter.

  Lena kissed him on both cheeks. “I am sorry about Boris,” she said. “We are very suspicious here, as you know.”

  “I guess so,” he said. “Why’s that?”

  “In Russia, if you are rich, there is always someone who want your money.”

  “I got you. So is this your house?”

  “It is the house of my uncle. The brother of my father.” She led him down a carpeted hallway to a smoke-filled room where four men lounged on leather sofas. The side tables were littered with glasses and bottles and cigarette cases. On one table, among the glasses, lay a small pistol with gold grips. The men were dressed in silk shirts and had belts with fancy buckles and dark creased pants. With their beefy grim-mouthed faces and pomaded hair, they reminded Rygg of New Jersey mobsters in a made-for-television B movie. They looked up as Lena and Rygg entered, but made no move to stand.

  Lena gave a short speech in Russian, gesturing at Rygg. He caught the word “Bolshoi.” When she’d finished, the fattest man, who was wearing a purple shirt and a gold chain, nodded once. Without raising his hand from his belly, he angled a finger toward a sofa. Lena looked at Rygg, with relief in her glance. “This is Mr. Nikolai Petrovich,” she said. “My uncle, as I informed you. He is one of the leading Russian experts in oil production, and he is interested in your proposals. I will leave you.”

  Petrovich said a single word to her, without raising his voice, and she turned to Rygg again. “My uncle wishes me to stay,” she said and motioned him to take a seat.

  Rygg sat and nodded at the four men. Petrovich watched him over the beetroot bulwarks of his cheeks, the eyes ensconced in pouches of fat. He said something to Lena, and she bustled about, offering Rygg a cigarillo, asking him what he wanted to drink. She seemed a bit flustered. He waved the cigarillo away. “I’ll have whatever Mr. Petrovich is having,” he said. She dumped some vodka into a glass and handed it over.

  Petrovich grunted, and Lena said: “Tell Mr. Petrovich about yourself, please.” Lena and Petrovich seemed to have a special semaphoring system: Petrovich’s grunts seemed too rudimentary to contain any meaningful content.

  “Well, I’m just your average Norwegian oilman,” he said, looking from face to face. Only Lena responded at all, giving him a small smile. “I’m the vice-president of acquisitions at Iversen Foss and Company.” He fished out his wallet, pried up one of the cards Marin had made for him, and leaned forward, holding it out to Petrovich. With a slightly impatient patting motion of his palm, Petrovich indicated that he should set it on the table. Rygg did so. “Now Iversen Foss,” he went on, “is one of the top oil firms in the world. And we’re always on the lookout for fresh fields, if you know what I’m saying. We’re dee
p in Angola, we’ve got our fingers in Alberta, in Kazakhstan. Anyway, we’d learned about Romashkino – well, everyone in oil is watching it – huge potential there, we understand. Initially, I tried to make contact through the government, but … well, you know how it is. Things got bogged down, there was more and more paperwork, just to get to see someone. Anyway, the chief thought I should just fly on over, see if I could make any headway. So yesterday I was still trying to make contact with someone in the government, set up a meeting. Frankly, I was at my wits’ end. You just get shunted from one bored woman to another. So I decided to see a bit of the city. Last night I went to your famous Bolshoi. Romeo and Juliet – ballet, you know. Have you guys seen it?” The four men just watched him. Somehow, Rygg had a hard time picturing them at the ballet. “Romeo and Juliet,” he said again. “And it just so happened that my neighbor was this lovely young lady. We began talking. I told her I was in oil, and she said she had an uncle, and … well, you know the rest. Here I am, having a drink with you good people!”

  With Lena translating, Petrovich asked some questions about Iversen Foss, and Rygg answered, staying close to the truth while boosting some of the figures and interjecting fabricated asides about his role in closing certain deals.

  “My uncle has heard of Iversen Foss,” Lena said. “But, please, what does your company want with Romashkino? This he wishes to know.”

  “Stock. Stock options. Perhaps the possibility of joint investment. If you’re doing exploration, you know, Iversen Foss is interested, very interested in funding that kind of thing. With a share of the profits, of course.”

  Petrovich grunted again.

  “My uncle wishes to know if you have previously made business in Russia.”

  “Not at all, I’m afraid. I’m brand new here. But I understand that you just drink a glass of vodka together and everything goes like clockwork.” He raised his glass.

  Lena translated this and suddenly the four men were giggling, their faces expressionless but their bellies heaving. Rygg laughed with them, a little too loudly. Petrovich lifted his glass to Rygg and nodded slightly with his eyebrows.

  Petrovich now made a little speech, the words rumbling out as though his mouth was filled with small stones. He paused to let Lena translate.

  “My uncle says that Russia, the new Russia, operates with two laws. This is the law of the gun, the law of money.”

  Petrovich leaned forward and took the little pistol from the table, holding it between finger and thumb. It looked like a toy. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold clip that gripped a fat wad of rubles. These two items he brandished at Rygg. He continued with his speech, Lena translating on the fly: “Without gun, there is no money, without money there is no gun. From outside, Russia look like normal government. But from inside, no government. Only gun, only money.”

  “I got you,” Rygg said. “I’ve worked in Egypt – similar story. But there has to be some sort of structure. I mean, oil’s coming out of the ground here, it’s getting moved around. Who controls all this?”

  Lena passed this on. Petrovich nodded. Then he shrugged and tapped his chest with the muzzle of the pistol.

  “Right,” Rygg said. “So I’ve come to the right person.” He laughed, but not even Lena joined him this time. “So what do I need to do – what do we at Iversen Foss need to do to become partners? Is it even possible? That’s what I need to know. Is it possible?”

  Petrovich looked at Rygg for a long time. Then he held up the gun and the clip once more and shook them slightly at Rygg. He grunted something to Lena.

  “Money or gun. Which do you have?” she said.

  “Well. Money, I suppose.”

  “How much?”

  “As much as you need. Iversen Foss is willing to offer what it takes to get our foot in the door. There’s no theoretical limit. Within reason, I mean. But basically, no theoretical limit.”

  Lena passed this along. Petrovich seemed to digest the information for a minute, watching Rygg through his fat-crusted eyes. Then he heaved himself upright and extended his hand. Rygg leaned forward and took it, and though he was a big man, he felt his fingers engulfed and crushed within the slab of flesh. Petrovich lifted his vodka glass, and his three companions and Rygg did likewise. “Cheers!” he said – it sounded like “cherries” – and they drank.

  A buxom blonde in a filmy white dress came through a door and whispered something in Petrovich’s ear. He nodded, and she walked away. He called her back. When she leaned over him again, he grabbed her right tit and smirked at Rygg while she squealed. “Svetlana,” he said, by way of introduction. “She nineteen year,” he informed Rygg, then let her go. He said something to Lena in Russian.

  “Mr. Petrovich is inviting you to dinner with him.”

  “Sounds good. I’m starving.”

  Dinner took place in an immense dining room that mimicked an old English hall, with a long dark-wood table and candelabras and porcelain place settings. Old oils of the Russian countryside hung from the walls, and an entire stuffed bear reared in one corner, reminding Rygg of a burly bodyguard that might lurk in the shadows. Petrovich and his companions seemed at odds with the elegance. They slouched in their chairs and slurped at the soup, splashing it on their silk shirts, and picked up the lamb and duck bones and held them in their fists, gnawing at them with rotten, gold-studded teeth. All the while they were drinking vodka, and as they were constantly raising their glasses for more toasts, Rygg was compelled to keep up with them, although the odds weren’t exactly on his side.

  Petrovich started on a story, something about a girl he’d fucked in Thailand, and Lena translated for a while, throwing out bits and pieces, and then, as the story went on and on and grew more sordid, she fell silent, looking down at her plate. Petrovich threw a lamb bone onto her plate, and she looked up at Rygg. “Mr. Petrovich discovered finally that the girl have a penis,” she said. “You understand?” Clearly uncomfortable with the situation, her usually beautiful face turned into a ghastly grayish-white grimace.

  Rygg nodded. He grinned companionably at Petrovich. “The old switch,” he said. “Never been in that situation myself, but I’ve heard similar stories.”

  Petrovich still seemed annoyed with Lena. He rumbled something at her, and she shook her head. He rumbled again, more insistently, and she sighed. “Mr. Petrovich wishes me to tell you that I am a bad girl,” she said.

  Petrovich interposed himself here. “This Lena,” he told Rygg. “She no good. She her father leave. Her family leave. She go to mens they no like Russia. You know? They no like Russia. Now she come backs to uncle.” He scrubbed at his cheeks with his fists and made babyish crying noises. “Waah. I no have money. I want come back. Waah. Baby!”

  Lena looked at her plate. Rygg shrugged. “Women, eh?” he said.

  The four fatsos found this immensely amusing. “Women!” Petrovich shouted. “Russia, Norway, one problem. Women!”

  When the plates had been cleared the final time, and a last toast had been offered, Rygg stood with the other men and immediately swayed backwards. He managed to catch the edge of the table before he toppled, and had to clutch chair backs and door jambs to make it to the lounge. When they were seated, Petrovich said, “I like you.”

  “And I like you, Mr. Petrovich.”

  “I like you,” Petrovich said again. “We make a business. I have gun. You have money. We make a business.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Petrovich’s face swam.

  Rygg gripped the arms of the chair. “Now where do we start?” he asked, praying that he wouldn’t lose consciousness before they’d concluded the deal.

  “Lena will take tomorrow,” said Petrovich.

  Lena said something to him. Petrovich’s face darkened. Then he laughed. “Women!” he shouted to Rygg. He tried to continue, but failed to find the words he needed in English, and continued in Russian.

  “Tomorrow,” Lena told Rygg, touching his arm. “I will take you to special place. I come t
o hotel at nine o’clock. On Tuesday you will go to government office to meet with Mr. Petrovich.”

  “Ministry of Natural Resources?”

  She shook her head. “Ministry of Defense.”

  Chapter 12

  The Dacha

  May 8

  Rygg had expected the black Mercedes, but Lena arrived on foot the next morning, looking summery in a dress of light pink with white polka dots. She had a white ribbon in her hair. When she saw Rygg she giggled. “You look as though the vodka was maybe difficult for you, Mr. Rygg,” she said.

  “I tried to hold my alcohol,” he told her, chagrined, “but clearly I couldn’t. I feel like I was run over by one of your Russian tanks. So where are we going? My guide here, Alex, he’s a little concerned about our outing.”

  Marin stepped forward importantly and started haranguing Lena in Russian. A crinkle of amusement formed at the corners of her eyes, and was quickly quelled. Marin pulled out his sheaf of folders and brandished them in front of her, giving her the agenda for the day, all worked out. Lena brushed him off with the back of her hand and grabbed Rygg by the arm. “Come,” she said. “He know nothing.”

  But Marin kept insisting, stepping in front of her and pointing to his official forms, and finally she shrugged. She looked at Rygg. “Do you mind that he come?”

  “Up to you,” he told her.

  “Then he come. I no care.”

  They took an elaborate series of taxi rides and subway rides, for more than two hours, sometimes getting off and wandering around a square or a park for a few minutes, then abruptly hailing another taxi. At last, as they entered a street, Marin muttered, “Here,” and shoved them into an underground garage with a hand on their backs. In the garage, three identical cars sat purring in a row.

  “Hurry,” Marin urged, pushing them toward the car on the left. The doors were open and they tumbled in. Then, at intervals of half a minute, the cars sped out of the garage one by one, each taking a different direction. Marin drove. He took the turns very fast, whipping entirely around the block and then careening off down an alley. After a few minutes, he lit a cigarette, then looked at Rygg and Lena in the rear-view mirror. “Success!” he said. Lena started laughing and couldn’t stop. She waved her hand at Marin, tried to speak, and then just laughed helplessly for a while. Marin smiled. “She thinks I am a good actor.”