The oilfields need to be inspected regularly. Lev was constantly checking the company figures, particularly the productivity of the wells. He knew that he had to constantly reassert his authority with the managers of the oilfields, with the foremen and the workers. Oil seeped out everywhere. A steady leak. Everyone stole, and without rigorous checks, they would steal it by the tanker-load. This was especially true in Garsk, the largest of the oil fields and the principal source of his revenue. But in fact the threat existed right across the supply chain, something the company controlled from prospecting to distribution. This was why he had contracted the Chechens to provide security. Lev had had no choice. Armed guards patrolled the oilfields. At regular intervals, a figure would emerge from the twilight, a dark machine-gun barrel clearly visible above the shoulder. The Chechens had made their presence felt on every ELK site, at Lev’s Moscow palace, even in his car. They were a private militia of which he was at once master and prisoner. Gusinsky – one of the biggest oligarchs who’d made a fortune in property and later in television through his close ties with Moscow mayor Yuri Luzhkov – had a militia which numbered a thousand men, a private army run by a former KGB general. But Lev had left it too late, by the time he tried to raise troops the gangs had formed, had become too powerful: they would never have allowed him to raise an army. Besides, rich though he was, Lev did not have Gusinsky’s money.
So far, things were running smoothly. The Chechens had proved obedient and efficient. The silent, deferential bodyguards who accompanied him everywhere did not wear track-suits but dark, well-tailored suits, with only the slightest bulge at the breast pocket. The muscular ex-wrestler always addressed Lev with the utmost respect. And yet beneath this meek exterior, behind the well-oiled, perfectly regulated rounds of bodyguards, even in the impeccable manner of the Chechen in dark glasses who acted as his chauffeur, Lev could not help but see a threat. Lev Kravchenko was neither alone nor free. He was no longer really a man, he was a conglomeration of interests. And if things should take a turn for the worse, what could he do against these men?
Standing stiffly behind him, the foreman in charge of the oilfield waited for Lev to finish his thoughts.
‘Did you make the offer?’ asked Lev.
Some fifty kilometres away was another oilfield, a family operation. A farmer who had struck oil on his own land. A primary development well from which pressurised crude oil spurted from the ground with no need for pumps to bring it up from the depths. The man had set up three derricks and money was flooding in. ELK usually handled refining and distribution. But, like many others, Lev thought that field contained major oil reserves with much of the crude easy to extract. He wanted to buy the field, but the farmer had refused, either because he was hoping for a better offer or because he wanted to develop it himself.
‘Yes. We made another offer. It’s been rejected.’
‘You think he’s had other offers?’
‘It’s possible, but I don’t think that’s why he’s refusing. He wants to hold on to his land, simple as that.’
‘Well then the offer isn’t big enough. Wait a while, then up the offer 15 per cent. Tell him that’s our final offer. Make that clear. He needs to understand this isn’t an auction.’
‘He’s stubborn. Very stubborn. I don’t know whether he’ll sell.’
‘He’ll sell.’
Lev turned around. He contemplated the vast steppe. It was colder now, the sun was sinking. The reddish glow slid from the steel frameworks already thick with shadow.
‘I’ll go and talk to him myself,’ Lev added.
He strode back to his car, which immediately roared into life. It was not far to the farmer’s house. What was his name again? Riabine? He’d persuade the man. It was in his best interests. This peasant had no hope of setting up a new company. While that might have been possible during the transition, there was no place in the market now for start-ups. Saturation point had been reached, and the big corporations were buying up the regional companies. There were barely a dozen companies now and the process would accelerate until there were only three or four. Maybe only two. Buyouts, mergers. Obviously, ELK’s size made it vulnerable, being midway between the local companies and huge conglomerates like Litvinov’s company Liekom, which was already planning foreign oil takeovers, as far away as the United States. In the rush to achieve critical mass, ELK needed to buy up every small business it could, even fledgling companies like Riabine’s miraculous potato field. Expand or die.
Overlook nothing. Not even Riabine.
Through the car window Lev contemplated the Siberian steppe. A desolation both sad and fascinating. Headlights on, the car sped through the empty space yet in this territory shorn of landmarks, it seemed to make no headway for all its speed. As usual when he found himself alone, Lev felt overcome by exhaustion, by a sort of unrelenting weariness, a vague disgust for others and for himself that had nothing in common with Litvinov’s cynicism. Just the weariness of the words that had to be said, the energy that had to be summoned to persuade the farmer, the shifting threats and promises of endlessly repeated arguments.
Overlook nothing. Not even Riabine.
When surrounded by others, Lev was decisive, he acted quickly, he was a consummate leader, but when they scuttled away like crabs on a beach at high tide leaving him alone to do what had to be done, he suddenly felt overwhelmed. What was it all for? This was the question that had haunted him since his time with Yeltsin. What was it all for, all the work, the effort, the stubborn, relentless determination in the face of adversity? For money? He had money enough for several generations. For power? Lev was not interested in power. Without him truly understanding how, things had been set in motion. He had been one of Gaidar’s circle of economists, joined in the heated, hypothetical discussions about the future of Russia then, suddenly, by a fluke of history discussions became decisions, words became power. When Gaidar’s government imploded, Lev, like many others, had profited from the privatisations. Since then, he’d managed his company to the best of his ability, struggling not to be swallowed up by the others, trying not to die. But he had wanted none of this, foreseen none of this, planned none of this. Things had been set in motion, that was all there was to it. Dominoes falling one after the other. The pieces of his life, time racing alongside the dominoes as they fell, he himself running in an endless race, doing his best not to stumble. But he was increasingly breathless and every time he found himself like this, sitting silent and alone behind his black-suited bodyguards, their thick necks and broad shoulders rising above the leather seats, the long, voiceless gasp of his blind headlong rush welled up in his chest.
Overlook nothing. Not even Riabine.
Night had fallen over the steppe. The car devoured the road, they would soon be there, even as the solid mass of shadow pooled into an impenetrable blanket of darkness. The beams of the headlights sliced through this thick blanket. And Lev felt himself being engulfed by these futile thoughts. It was not as though he felt out of place in a game of dominoes. No one was aware of the panicked, headlong rush. And besides, a whole society was rushing ahead, in an accumulation of virtual money and debt. Even the oligarchs, despite the vast reserves of energy, despite the desperate need of the country, were amassing colossal debts, throwing themselves into ever more ambitious projects, straining towards the future, towards future profits. And there was an exhilaration, a thrill in this headlong rush that held him hypnotised. But now he was not alone. Now he was in a car being driven to talk to a farmer as lucky as he was deluded. Yes, he felt completely at home. He had reached an enviable position in this game. He was rich, powerful, respected. It was a position he had earned, he believed, not through work but through natural superiority. Because this was another aspect to Lev. The deep-rooted self-assurance of the aristocrat. A paradoxical aristocrat, at once conscious of the chance nature of his position and yet convinced he was superior by virtue of his birth. He had acquired his importance through inheritance. And he had to prove
he was equal to it, in spite of the weariness, in spite of the feelings of futility. And now, as the car slowed down before parking in front of a ghastly house of bare breeze-blocks, he would have to assert himself before Riabine. Have to speak, to persuade. Get back into working order.
His feet sank into the foul-smelling mud, a mixture of dirt and oil probably. The black, liquid gush, invisible in the darkness, made a constant, oppressive roar like giant blades turning in a rustle of steel. A rectangle of light was carved out above the doorway of the house. Riabine welcomed them, toting a shotgun. The two bodyguards stepped forward, forming a shield in front of their boss.
‘Kravchenko!’ Lev introduced himself.
‘What do you want round here at this hour?’ grumbled the farmer, a man of about fifty wearing filthy denim overalls and a baggy vest.
‘To talk to you.’
Riabine shrugged.
‘Got nothin’ to say.’
Lev considered the man, who held his rifle in front of him like some sort of armour. He knew what they wanted from him and he was not prepared to give it.
‘Why don’t we have a quiet conversation,’ suggested Lev, ‘it doesn’t commit you to anything.’
The man shrugged again.
‘Suit yourself.’
He went inside and Lev followed. In the main room, he glimpsed women. Fleeting flashes of white and pink dressing gowns, of flaxen hair. The room was furnished in typical Soviet style, a combination of poverty and poor taste, and was dominated by a huge TV, evidence of the new-found wealth brought by oil. It was sweltering, the radiator on full. The two men sat down at a table covered by some sort of oilcloth with two glasses and a bottle of vodka. The farmer filled the glasses, sullen and uncommunicative.
‘Nice TV,’ commented Lev.
The farmer sighed. Lev knew what this meant. ‘I know you look down on me, I know you’re a fucking oligarch, you live in a palace and you own a Rolls and a couple of planes, I know my place is a hovel but fuck you because it’s my hovel, it’s my oil.’ Yes, Lev knew exactly what it meant. But it didn’t matter. The farmer’s hostility was like a wall. But he would tear down that wall with his eloquence and his wealth.
He explained the reason for his visit, he said the time had come to think clearly, reasonably, that magnificent offers had already been made for the land, offers which Riabine had refused. It was perfectly acceptable, of course, to try to push up the bidding, but all good things had to come to an end, trees did not grow into the sky, it was time to make a deal, it was in both their interests, a deal that would make him rich and free him from all concerns. He could enjoy life, spend time with his family, after all, he’d been fortunate, finding oil on his land, it was a stroke of luck, a genuine gift from life, at his age he should make the most of it instead of working himself into the ground on a difficult field.
The farmer looked at him without a word. Lev went on. He smiled, joked, then with a flourish of his hand, like a man offering all he possesses, he named a figure. And he waited.
The two men sat, stock still. The farmer said: ‘You’re not the only one to offer.’
Lev felt a slight shock but did not let it show.
‘Good for you. But need I remind you that you’re already working with us, ELK is already buying your oil. You’d be better off sticking with your partners. You know you can trust us. And I suspect that our competitors’ offers aren’t as interesting as ours.’
‘They’ve got money. Loads of money.’
Liekom? It was possible. Strange, given the size of the corporation, to take an interest in such a small field, but maybe, like him, they believed it was a promising deposit.
‘Anyway,’ said Riabine, ‘I want to stay independent.’
Suddenly, Lev understood Riabine. He wasn’t sly, he wasn’t trying to drive up the price, he had none of that cunning people attribute to farmers, he was just stubborn, determined to hang on to his little plot of land whether the crop was crude oil or potatoes. Fiercely attached to his land, clinging like an animal to his territory. His hands, gnarled from hard labour, his rotten teeth, his thin, wizened body, his expression at once ferocious and frightened, everything marked him out as an animal in his lair.
Lev wanted to try again. He leaned forward, then suddenly something inside him crumbled. What was it all for? The nagging question returned right in the middle of a negotiation. This was a first. A warmth spread through Lev. It had no right. Not now. Not the tiredness. And yet, he also knew it didn’t really matter. That Riabine wouldn’t give up. You couldn’t argue with animal instinct. Lev tried to collect his thoughts. He opened his mouth. The farmer’s claw-like hand held him spellbound. A savage, primitive man who would never surrender.
‘I understand, Riabine. I completely understand.’
He got to his feet.
‘Maybe in your place I’d have made the same decision,’ he said. ‘To be your own master, for better or worse.’
As he spoke, the feeling of unease faded. No, he hadn’t failed, he hadn’t been beaten in the negotiation. He had simply happened on an animal, a farmer who was a brute beast. There was nothing shaming about that.
He went outside. The chill night fell around him. He straightened up. The tiredness left him. It must have been the heat. He hadn’t failed. Just too much heat and a stubborn farmer. A real muzhik, that one. A fine example.
The car door opened. He dived inside. The lean farmer stood on the doorstep, still wary, a little dazed by this abrupt conclusion.
Riabine watched the car drive away. The black mass moving into the distance, the red and yellow lights punching holes in the darkness. In the silence of solitude, the rush of crude oil continued to make its reassuring roar.
14
Sila turned. A young woman was looking at him through the window of the restaurant. He wondered if she was a customer. As she simply stood, frozen, staring at him, he moved towards her. He opened the door of the restaurant.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked in English.
The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she adjusted her sunglasses.
‘Would you like to reserve a table, madame?’ he spoke again.
She nodded her head with difficulty.
‘For what date?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ she said weakly.
Sila smiled. ‘Take all the time you need to decide. We’re at your service.’
Suddenly, Shoshana was no longer sure. What if it was someone else …? After all, this man didn’t look like he’d had his nose broken. And his pleasant, affable manner was nothing like the stunned, shattered expression of the waiter on the floor.
Sila went back inside. Shoshana slowly crept away. But for the rest of the day, she thought about the encounter. What if it really was him? What was he doing in Miami? Could he have followed them? But why?
The truth was that Sila had followed them, for no particular reason, the simple, chance movement of a leaf buffeted by the wind. With no intention, no purpose, only the unfathomable curiosity of a wanderer coming from Africa, passing through Europe, deciding to spend some time in the United States. A week after being discharged from hospital, where he’d had an operation on his nose, he had announced that he wanted to go to the States.
‘But why?’ the maître d’hôtel asked him. ‘Are you not happy here?’
‘I am, but I want to see the world.’
‘So why the States?’
‘Because the guy who punched me is American. I want to see what the country is like.’
‘You get arseholes the world over. He could just as easily have been from France or Belgium or Venezuela.’
‘Maybe. But the fact is he’s American. It interests me. I want to see the country.’
Lemerre called him into his office, asked him if he was sure about his decision. When Sila insisted he was, Lemerre said he would go on helping him. He owned twenty-three restaurants around the world, three in the United States - in New York, Miami and Los Angeles. He would make him maît
re d’hôtel.
Sila had seen from his hotel registration card that the American came from Florida.
‘I’d like to go to Miami.’
‘Is this why you’ve been learning English?’
‘No, but I’ll get some use out of it.’
Everything had been simple, as always for Sila. All he had had to do was wait a few months for his work permit. When he left the restaurant, one of the waiters said: ‘The guy’s an idiot.’
‘No,’ said Lemerre, ‘he’s a prince.’
And no one quite knew what he meant by this.
Sila settled in Miami. He took a studio apartment downtown, and adapted to the restaurant which, while it didn’t have the prestige of the flagship restaurant in Paris, had skilfully developed the concept of a fusion of flavours from all over the world, something that initially disconcerted the clientele but quickly became one of the hottest tables in the city, all the more so since Lemerre’s name and the glowing reviews for the restaurant quickly reassured them. What was needed now was to manage this success, especially during the day, since business lunches attracted a hurried clientele ill-disposed to waiting.
The staff, in the kitchens and in the dining room, came from all over the world. To the various people from North Africa, Sila spoke French. But they preferred to speak English, even if badly, to leave their former identity behind, to melt into the new language of their new lives. And Sila himself eventually felt completely at ease speaking English.
One day, he asked one of his colleagues: ‘Are we really in the United States?’
The man clearly didn’t understand. ‘Of course.’
‘It’s not like I imagined it. The sun shining every day. It’s like being at the beach. No, honestly, this isn’t how I imagined it. All this dazzling whiteness, all this money, it lacks truth.’
‘Truth? I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I have to say I love Miami. It’s just one facet of the States, one face. You can find others if you travel around.’
Sila's Fortune Page 13
