Sila's Fortune

by Fabrice Humbert

  Time passed. Sila grew accustomed to living in this white seashell that was Miami, its whorls and layers like a huge cake. And he was happy there, though he had already decided he would move on, to catch a glimpse of the other faces of this country. But if the strange, absurd word ‘fate’, which had fascinated him since his far-off adolescence, had any meaning, here it had re-entered his life, since one of those beautiful, inconsequential, humdrum mornings, Shoshana had stopped, frozen, in front of his restaurant.

  The day after their meeting at the restaurant, Shoshana was still thinking about the Parisian waiter. She was plagued with doubts. Hypnotised by the memory, her thoughts constantly returned to him, she couldn’t shake them off. She had to know. She went back to the restaurant.

  The moment he saw her, Sila went over to her.

  ‘So you’ve decided to come.’

  She smiled self-consciously.

  ‘Would you like a table?’ he asked.

  ‘Please. A table for one. I’ll be having lunch alone.’

  It was very early. The crowds had not yet arrived. Sila led her to a small table by the window.

  ‘A waiter will come by to look after you.’

  The young woman nodded, then said suddenly: ‘Excuse me. Would it be possible for you to serve me?’

  Sila looked surprised.

  ‘It’s just, I don’t know, I just like your French accent, it’s so lovely.’ Shoshana gave a theatrical smile which she felt was completely fake but actually came off quite well. ‘I love France. In fact I’ve been there,’ she added sitting up, proud of herself, like a diligent schoolgirl. ‘And since we’re in a French restaurant, I would really, really love it if I could be served by a man with a French accent.’

  ‘I’m not sure my accent is particularly French, madame, I suspect a real Frenchman might disagree with you, but if I can be of any service, I would be only too happy.’

  ‘He’s not French. So it can’t be him,’ she thought, relieved.

  Sila brought the menu.

  ‘You choose for me. Whatever the specialities are. I trust you. You know I once went to Lemerre’s Paris restaurant. A great chef. He owns this place too, doesn’t he? It was an unforgettable experience. And you didn’t get to choose. If you ordered the tasting menu, they just brought you everything. It was delicious, no, it was more than that, I can’t explain it, it was, you know, sort of a whole experience, like it was art, or a mysterious journey, and the flavours were sublime. I had no idea what was on my plate, it was like magic, and with flavours that blended perfectly or that contrasted perfectly depending on what the chef was doing. I’m sorry, I can’t really explain it …’

  ‘You describe it very well, madame,’ said Sila, who was not staring at her.

  ‘Really? Oh, I’m so glad … Have you …’ Shoshana went on, increasingly nervous now, ‘I mean, do you know the restaurant?’

  ‘I worked there before I moved here.’

  The young woman’s face fell.

  ‘Oh, really? You worked there?’

  Then she stopped and stammered: ‘It really was a wonderful, wonderful experience.’

  ‘It’s him. It’s got to be him. I was right. And he recognised me. I saw it in his face. I’m sure he recognised me. I feel so ashamed. Why did I come here? He must really hate me.’

  ‘A wonderful experience,’ she said again.

  ‘I’ll bring you a selection of our specialities,’ said Sila. ‘It may not be as good as Paris, but we just might surprise you.’

  He walked away a little abruptly. The customer’s comments had reminded him of the other arsehole, the lunatic who lost it. Why? The young woman had been rather nice, but, without knowing why, the memory came flooding back and with it a feeling of unease.

  Shoshana’s embarrassment was tempered with relief. She felt horribly guilty, as though she were the one who had hit Sila, yet at the same time she was happy to know she had not been wrong because here, perhaps, was a chance for her to put things right, to get to know him, to explain, apologise, to finally do something in her husband’s stead. After all, it had been his thuggish behaviour in the restaurant in Paris that had shattered the balance of the relationship, and transformed Mark into a gargoyle, so much so that she could no longer consider him rationally. It had been this brutality which had set in motion the breakdown of her marriage, which had distanced her from Mark’s infantile play-acting, whereas before that they had made rather a good couple; they rarely argued; of course they rarely argued even now but the arguments weren’t the worst, the worst was the awkwardness between them which meant that everything rang false, as though drowned out by the silence and mutual incomprehension. And maybe, by some magical gesture, something that would have to be creative, harmony could be restored just as a broken nose could be reset. And though it was strange to run into this man in Miami as though he’d followed them, at least it was still an opportunity to put things right. Obviously, it was something she couldn’t talk about to Mark, he had other things to do and he’d already forgotten the whole story, but behind his back, by some luminous, magical gestures, perhaps she could restore unity as though by some voodoo ritual. Of course, nothing can repair the shattered pieces of a vase smashed in anger. Nothing except a gesture of conciliation, a plea to the man sprawled on the floor, a man who seemed good and kind, who had an innocence about him and would surely not reject her gesture of peace. No, he couldn’t refuse, all she had to do was speak to him frankly, with the sincerity of an honest heart, and everything could be put right. Between Mark and her, between Chris and her, between them and the waiter and perhaps, she thought obscurely in the naive, instinctive way she had, in the world itself. All that was needed was to replace this piece that had been dislodged by violence, this tiny piece that was crucial to the equilibrium of the world.

  She waited. She felt both nervous and impatient because this man could not refuse to listen to her, because honesty and sincerity were bound to be respected. A sunbeam lit up her hair and her left hand. She felt embarrassed by it. It felt rather warm. Sila personally brought her a plate of confit and caramelised meats, small sweet mouthfuls. She thanked him.

  ‘It looks delicious,’ she said.

  And she couldn’t say another word. Sila left and she tried to enjoy the dish he had brought, though she wasn’t even hungry. She devised phrases and readied herself to say them. But when Sila returned, she found herself unable to do so.

  She wanted to say, ‘I just have to talk to you.’ She wanted to say, ‘My whole future depends on you.’ would have said: ‘Would it be possible to discuss a matter that’s very important to me?’ But she said nothing. Honesty and sincerity remained silent. With an absurdly enthusiastic smile, Shoshana asked, ‘Do you like Paris? I just love the city! I love it!’

  Sila gave a polite smile. What could he say?

  And so the lunch played out, between silences and ridiculous, incongruous excesses. Sila would come to the table and Shoshana would suddenly be all keyed up with excitement, while inside she was tormented by the confession she could not make.

  It came time to pay. She could already see herself getting up, leaving the restaurant, stepping out into the street, only for the confusion of thoughts and regrets to start again. She would go home and replay the scene ten times, a hundred times, dream up perfect scenarios for other encounters. And so, desperate, mustering all her courage, in a whispered confession that sounded as though it had just slipped out, she said: ‘I’m the wife of the man who hit you.’

  Sila froze.

  ‘I’m the wife of the man who punched you in Paris. I’m so sorry. I came to apologise to you.’

  Sila said nothing. He was astonished and yet at the same time he understood why this woman had come, why she had needed to talk to him. He hadn’t recognised her. In fact, had he even seen her before? All he remembered glimpsing was a face, savage, baboon-like, a face he wasn’t sure he would recognise. So the woman sitting with him at the table …

  He extended
his arm, opened his hand. He did not know the reason for this gesture. In itself, his raised hand meant little. A gesture someone might use to stop a car. Or a hypnotist placing his palm on a subject’s forehead. A black hand spread wide, the fingers splayed, the pink palm proffered, naked, vulnerable. But at this simple gesture, Shoshana felt calm. She did not interpret it as a refusal or a dismissal, but as a sign of peace. Perhaps because all she had hoped for was a silent, perfect reconciliation, something like this open hand.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ the young woman stammered, rushing out.

  And as she fled, she took with her the iconic image of this man, one hand raised, like a saint or a healer.

  15

  Lev considered the man he was speaking to with suspicion. It had been a long time since they had met. He knew the Chechens were occupied elsewhere. They were having problems with the Slavic Brotherhood who, for some years now, had been fighting for supremacy in Moscow. This was a turning point in the war between the gangs. The decentralised structure of the Slavic Brotherhood, affording considerable autonomy to local gangs and taking no interest in their trafficking and racketeering in exchange for a bond of fealty by which they freely provided men in times of armed conflict, proved to be stronger than the strict centralisation of the Chechens. There were always more gangs prepared to ally themselves with the Brotherhood, while the Chechen franchise, in spite of its reputation, attracted fewer. And the disparity in numbers was becoming glaring although, since the 1993 turf war when a machine-gun battle between the gangs in a Moscow cinema had left one of the leaders of the Brotherhood dead, both sides had favoured skirmishes over all-out confrontation.

  But the man with the wrestler’s neck standing before him, the same Chechen who had first come to his office to make the ‘proposition’, had good reasons to be here.

  ‘Riabine’s had an offer from Liekom. We’re sure of it. And that means Liekom have as much chance of getting the oilfield as we do.’

  ‘We?’ Lev snapped.

  ‘We, you, however you want to put it. But the Chechens share your interests. We’re connected now.’

  ‘Like Litvinov and the Brotherhood?’ asked Lev.

  ‘Sure,’ the wrestler grumbled, ‘but that’s obvious. Things have changed. The gangs have allied themselves with the oligarchs, we’re not mafia any more, these days we’re businessmen just like you.’

  Or these days we’re all mafia, thought Lev.

  ‘Anything that hurts Liekom, hurts the Brotherhood,’ the wrestler went on. ‘And anything that’s good for ELK is good for the Chechens. We can’t lose that oilfield. Liekom is taking over everything, and pretty soon they’ll be taking us over.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Lev interrupted, ‘I’ll never let that happen.’

  The wrestler fell silent. And in the silence, Lev understood. Things really had changed. If they had to, the Brotherhood would eliminate him, and launch an all-out war to exterminate the Chechens.

  Lev’s voice grew fainter. He tried to stick to the subject of Riabine.

  ‘I made him a decent offer. He refused. It’s his loss. It’s not like it’s a particularly large oilfield. I mean, it’s only three wells.’

  ‘That’s not true, as you well know!’ said the Chechen in a tone that had none of the humility of their early meetings, when he had been all fake deference. Now, he knew that Lev’s life was safe only by virtue of his connection to the Chechens.

  ‘That field has serious possibilities. It could be a major supply. And Riabine should never have been in a position to refuse. It sets a bad precedent. You accepted defeat. And in our world, that’s not good.’

  Lev angrily got to his feet.

  ‘There was no failure on my part! I’m president of ELK and I’m head of the Chechens since I’m the one who pays you. Without my money, the Chechens would be nothing any more, and it’s not like the diminishing returns from your rackets or your humiliations at the hands of the Brotherhood are going to save you. Your money, your reputation, it’s all me. If it weren’t for my money, the Chechens would be nothing! The Brotherhood would hunt you down on the streets of Moscow and slit your throats.’

  The Chechen lowered his head.

  ‘I’m sorry if I offended you,’ he said in a quiet, submissive tone, ‘it wasn’t my intention. As you say, you’re the boss. But I’d like you to give the situation some thought. The situation is very delicate, the mergers between oil companies are constantly accelerating. Word gets out about things, including Riabine turning down our offer.’

  ‘So? I’m supposed to kill the man for refusing to sell me his oilfield?’

  The Chechen did not answer.

  ‘So that’s it? You think I should have killed him?’

  ‘No, probably not. But you could have let us handle things. You had two men with you. All you had to do was ask. They can be very persuasive.’

  ‘Very persuasive? I’m sure they are. But it’s not my style. I won’t have anything to do with such methods.’

  The man picked up his hat.

  ‘If I might suggest, Councillor, give the matter some thought. Another week and Liekom will get Riabine to sign, whether he likes it or not. It would be better for us – and for him too – if he were to accept our offer.’

  The door closed. Lev’s head ached and he felt tired. Lying, cheating, threatening, bribing, he had done all these things. He could not quite understand how, but he had been that man, he took no pleasure in it, but he was ruthless. But torturing a man for his signature, that was something he could not do. He knew exactly how such things worked: the men would simply walk in with a briefcase full of money in one hand and a gun in the other. They’d open the briefcase, point the gun at the man’s head and the negotiations would proceed at a fantastic pace. But Riabine would refuse, Lev was sure of that. So then they would start hitting him. Until he gave in, or died from the blows.

  And he did not want to give the order. Litvinov would decide whatever he decided, but he could not do it. No, such methods were not for him. Not murder. If he gave the order, he was lost. Everything he had believed in, however faintly, however tempered by his cynicism, would be lost. He would never again be able to think of himself as an ordinary businessman forced to make difficult decisions by prevailing circumstances in Russia, just as one must weather a storm, whatever the cost. He would become a criminal, nothing more. As surely as if he himself had beaten Riabine.

  Lev walked across his office, picked up his coat and went down to the street. He needed to walk. When he walked, he thought more clearly. Time was, at the Institute of Economics, ideas would come to him too.

  The thunder of jackhammers assailed him. He walked faster. The two Chechens behind him were almost running. They were probably cursing him. He was convinced they despised him. They would be only too happy to put a bullet in his head. They were just waiting for the word. All it would take was for him to fall out with the wrestler. Not just some fit of pique, obviously. This he had to admit, the wrestler did not easily get worked up. Business was business. He was a professional. But if they were to have a serious disagreement on their strategy for dealing with Liekom and the Brotherhood …

  What would Litvinov do about Riabine?

  The answer was obvious. And if he, Lev, did not make a decision, in a matter of days Litvinov would be the winner. Whatever happened, Riabine was lost.

  And besides, why was he so concerned about some muzhik? Did Stalin think twice? Millions of peasant farmers died during the forced collectivisation. Not to mention the war. No leader in history, even those whose benign names are celebrated, had hesitated to kill.

  It was a fact: they had to get rid of Riabine. After all, if he was reasonable, everything would be fine. He would take the money. He’d understand immediately. The men would march into his house. How many? Three or four maybe? Heavy-set men. Maybe the wrestler himself. He would have no qualms about getting his hands dirty for something like this.

  Lev looked up. He no longer recognised
the district he was in. Next to him loomed a huge building, a tower under construction. Huge cranes swayed, drunken birds, black against the grey sky.

  Though the country had changed radically in a few short years, the shockwaves from the original blast petered out as they moved away from the cities, meaning that the remote backwoods were still as they had always been, the crash of the present collapsing on the ancient empire of the steppes. But Moscow had been at the epicentre of the upheaval. This dreary, petrified city suffocated by torpor had exploded, for better and for worse. A luminous, modern city now thrummed, sometimes repossessed by the silence and the stillness of the vast monumental avenues with a sort of icy coldness reminiscent of Soviet greyness. Huge property fortunes had been amassed thanks to deals struck with the state and the city council, the result of which was this modern metropolis, both disturbing, since it shook up the lives and the memories of the inhabitants of old Moscow, and exciting because it was a city of money and pleasure.

  He hailed a taxi. Without even looking at the driver, he gave his address. He needed to talk to Elena. But fresh arguments now presented themselves.

  Yes, Riabine was lost. But what sort of justification was that? Litvinov could do as he saw fit. Why did he have to show himself to be just as brutal? If Litvinov was corrupt and violent to the point of adopting the most savage methods of the Brotherhood, Lev had no truck with such corruption. He would do better to save his soul. The expression sounded almost comical to his ear. Save his soul.

  When he got home, Elena was in the library. She was reading. She was surprised to see him home.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you so early,’ she said.

  ‘I was bored at the office.’

  He sat in an armchair, studied the books that lined the four walls of the room. He always found this room calmed him. He had been born surrounded by books, given that in the tiny apartment his parents lived in the family’s vast collection of books took up every nook and cranny. As a child, his bed had been surrounded by books. Though he did not read as much now as he used to, at heart this room was still his favourite place, all the more so since Elena had bought all the writers banned under the Soviets, which added quite a few titles to those he knew by heart.