Disgusted by his swagger, I decide to take another route and prepare a professional offer for the clients, without having to humiliate myself calling about this worthless crap.
By the time I finish my presentation and click ‘send’ it is already 5 p.m. – time for the drinks to start.
Holding my head high, I walk out onto the broad terrace, taking in the fresh smell of the lemon sunset, with its reflection dancing and weeping in the peaceful Moskva River behind the Christ the Savior Cathedral, a monumental white stone edifice with giant golden domes.
A glass of cold, refreshing champagne from a courteous waiter elevates my mood. After all, this is one of the most impeccable views in the world - and one of the most exclusive crowds.
I strut towards a small group where Dima is in the middle, drunkenly swaying on his feet. His melancholic face is now showing some emotion as he throws dice in front of the wannabe juniors from the back office:
‘They smeared honey on all her holes and let big red angry ants swarm to sting it,’ he says excitedly. ‘You should have seen the bitch crinkle, so funny. They took them out with a stream of water but, man, I’m telling you, that was the tightest pussy I’ve ever fucked.’
Shocked by what I’ve just heard, I step aside with my on-call smile on and bump into Bruno, on his way onto the terrace.
‘So how are you settling in?’ he asks, inviting me to join the group of already-familiar London faces at the far end of the veranda, facing the Kremlin’s cardinal towers from the heights of the Swiss Bank premises. Even Red Square’s signature landmark - St Basil’s Cathedral - looks like a miniature Disneyland castle from here.
‘You did a fantastic job. We are very impressed,’ says a tall, thin, grey-haired boss with an American accent. ‘Keep pushing!’
‘I will,’ I say eagerly.
So how are you finding it in Moscow after London?’ he asks.
‘It’s niiiice,’ I say with Borat’s comedy pronunciation, which usually makes Americans laugh … and that is exactly what happens.
Soon the first customers arrive and, under the approving gazes of top management, I quickly put an irresistible smile on and jump to introduce myself as their new manager, who can work miracles to protect their assets from losses on the verge of the market collapse.
Before long, a bunch of not-so-good-looking men in tailored suits are flocking around my charming self. Most of them are short, bald, and have bellies. Richard is Apollo compared to them … but they definitely do not go on vacation in their parents’ van.
‘We’ll show those bloody Georgians how to mess with us Russians, right Katya?’ roars a paunchy, sour-smelling head of treasurn from some oil compans, all the while chewing on a fatty piece of lamb.
‘Actually, I’m Ukrainian,’ I say shyly.
‘Same here!’ he exclaims. ‘You are ours!’ he says, grabbing me by my waist.
Soon enough I excuse myself and leave the terrace, walking toward the ladies’ room.
The small loo with two cubicles is filled with an acidic lavender smell and Olga’s whining. ‘It’s just not working with him … For every little thing, a car or a fur coat, anything I ask for, his only answer is “come and do me”. He even says I should be grateful to him every day that I have this job at the bank … You’re absolutely right, he is taking me for granted. If I just calculated how much I blew him for and how much it would have cost him in the club, he would shut up.’ As I am washing my hands, she gets out of the cubicle, leaning on its door.
‘What are you looking at?’ Olga yells, sneezing into the toilet paper.
‘Nothing.’ I quickly close the tap and leave the bathroom.
Shaking my hands dry in the fresh air, I bump into Sergey. ‘Having a nice evening?’ he asks with a ratty smile.
‘It’s all right.’ I am trying to sound cool. ‘The view is fantastic. Christ the Savior looks so beautiful from here,’ I say, diverting the conversation into more neutral territory.
‘Clients seem to like you a lot. You’re a beautiful girl.’ The compliment comes unexpectedly but I sense some kind of dodge. ‘If I was a beautiful girl in Moscow I wouldn’t be working at all,’ he says, taking a new glass of some brownish beverage from the tray of a passing waiter.
‘I’m not entirely sure what you mean.’ I throw him the perfect phrase that Sophie would use.
‘Of course you know,’ he says, taking a long sip of whiskey or whatever he is drinking. ‘What’s the real reason you’re here?’ he asks in a snippy tone. ‘Money? Marriage? Do you think you can just come here, smile, charm everyone around and get them trading with you?’ he almost yells at me.
‘I don’t …’ I am trying to defend myself, not really knowing what to say.
‘What don’t you, what don’t you?’ He interrogates me just like my mom used to, making me want to cry and run away, but there is only a wall behind me.
‘Get your own clients. These are mine! Remember that.’ His lips are close to my face when he speaks, and I detect the smell of something rotten from his mouth behind his perfectly bleached teeth.
‘These are the bank’s clients,’ I bark back. ‘Bruno couldn’t care less who they deal with … you or me.’ Even as I defend myself, I already regret what I’m saying.
‘Do you know how much time and effort it took to build those relationships?’ he attacks. ‘The due diligence it took to pass their Cyprus companies with multiple shareholders and anonymous Swiss accounts, arrange the kickbacks?’ He continues pushing me deeper into the dark corner. ‘You need to get your hands dirty, and you need it do it in such a way that the head office won’t ask too many questions,’ he hisses like a snake.
I desperately keep leaning backwards with my arms crossed, barely holding back my tears … until I suddenly sense a large figure on my left, someone who smells incredibly good.
‘You should not talk to a lady like this,’ says a tall, broad-shouldered stranger, with a distinguished lined forehead and clear blue eyes. He speaks in an authoritarian baritone and wears a fine, perfectly-fitted dark blue suit without a hint of bad taste. I remember seeing him earlier, talking to one of the bosses, and remember thinking ‘this man is from a different world … unreachable for me’.
‘Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to,’ Sergey mumbles.
‘You should apologize to her,’ my high-profile savior orders in a low voice. His entire body breathes strength. He has strong and muscular shoulders, big arms, a pumped chest and thick blond curly hair, like a healthy young god.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sergey immediately apologizes to me, succumbing to authority. ‘Akbar Nikolaevich, this isn’t what you think it is,’ he mutters. ‘I’m Sergey Sviryakov, head of sales.’ He hands over his card with an air of great courtesy. ‘It’s really nice meeting you personally. I speak a lot to your treasurer at KazyMak Metallurg,’ he says, offering a handshake.
‘I’ll make sure he no longer speaks to you personally, Sergey Sviryakov,’ my debonair advocate self-assuredly says, ignoring the handshake, and moves towards the exit.
‘But let me explain …’ Sergey follows his massive back.
‘All my companies have a clear shareholder structure,’ Akbar interrupts in his booming voice. ‘I do not possess any anonymous accounts and neither my employees nor myself are interested in bribes or kickbacks,’ he says in a calm, low, metallic voice. ‘From what I heard, I must conclude that my holding does not qualify for your services. Goodbye,’ he says, and heads towards the exit.
Panicking, Sergey rushes after Akbar, trying to grab his hand, but a tough, oriental-looking bodyguard with a headphone on a spiral wire blocks his way with one strong arm, revealing the gun on the inner side of his black leather jacket. Sergey powerlessly steps back, watching them leave the terrace and gazing at me with rage.
For a moment I stay still with my heart pumping out of my chest, trying to digest what has just happened.
A strong impulse, a fear, overtakes me, as I watch Sergey furiously walking towards me …
as if he is going to hurt me … I must do something. The management is way behind the bar … too far. Sergey would cut me off on the way there anyway.
Swiftly, I rush to the elevators, passing through a forest of flabbergasted faces, leaving Sergey behind.
For goodness’ sake, Akbar Gromov is one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. He could bring my career to a completely new level. I cannot blow this chance … my stomach is churning.
Akbar and the bodyguard are still waiting by the lifts.
I tell my nervousness to shut up and gather all my courage to talk to this powerful man.
‘Thank you for standing up for me,’ I say gratefully, forcing myself to look Akbar in the eye, clenching my fingers with nails pressed deep into my skin to stay focused.
For a moment, which feels like ages, he looks at me before saying: ‘You should watch out. The jackal will stab your back when you least expect it, so to speak,’ he says, stepping into the elevator, making me realize I have lost.
My limbs are trembling. My last chance is slipping through my fingers. I have to say something.
‘And now he is even hungrier!’ I shout the first thing that comes to mind. The doors are closing, together with my hopes for a long career at this bank. Sergey will eat me alive now …
Suddenly, the doors slide open. Akbar takes a serious look at me. ‘Get in,’ he commands.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
UNFORGIVEN
Akbar checks me out with a stern, impassive face in the deafening silence, making me feel like the elevator shaft is about to swallow me up.
‘Let’s have a bite at the Ritz,’ the oligarch suddenly suggests, confidently marching out, his bodyguard at his heels.
For a moment I stall, but then rapidly catch up, trying to keep up with their wide strides all the way around the corner to the sleek, glassy entrance of the luxury hotel.
‘Good evening, Mr Gromov.’ A polite butler bows to Akbar, letting us through the beeping metal frame into a gorgeous gilded interior. Is he going to take me to a room? My whole body involuntarily tenses. No, he is an important client, he stood up for me … Impudently, Akbar proceeds to the private glass elevator at the back of the hall, and with a palpitating heart I totter behind him.
The elevator takes us to the rooftop restaurant, my sense of relief increasing with every floor we pass.
Once we arrive, the bodyguard discreetly disappears. At the door we are offered a traditional appetiser of bread and salt, with a vodka shot, which Akbar ignores, going over to a remote table in a leafy oasis by the little lake, with an even better view of the Kremlin than from our terrace … what’s the deal with the snipers then?
He takes an open posture in a comfortable chair with lots of room for his long legs.
‘What do you drink?’ he asks with dogmatic seriousness, leaning towards me so I can see his wrinkles.
‘Mm, I don’t know. Same as you, I guess,’ I say timidly.
‘Nineteen ninety-eight Chateau Lynch-Bages,’ Akbar offhandedly orders to a complacent sommelier. ‘… And some food … carpaccios, tartares … as usual.’
He looks at me as if he has almost figured me out, with only a couple of puzzle pieces missing. I am anxiously thinking of a way to start the conversation but afraid to say something stupid. The only thing that comes to my mind is to comment that if anyone snored loudly enough in this hotel, they might wake up Lenin in the mausoleum right across the street, but that’s probably not the most appropriate thing to say to such a serious man.
‘If you aren’t prepared to fight, you do not deserve to win,’ Akbar says authoritatively, tasting the wine. ‘I slept in the hangar of a metallurgical plant for months,’ he continues after a pause, studying the wine in his glass. ‘I began losing my teeth because of fluorine and scurvy. It did not kill me. I withstood. Even though there were attempts,’ he says, grinning more to himself. ‘If I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be who I am today, so to speak.’
‘You did very well,’ I say with admiration.
‘If you’re forty, that means you’ve been doing commodities since the nineties, and if you are not a billionaire you are a loser.’ He leans back on his chair and it wobbles, almost tipping him to the floor. Two waiters, apologizing profusely, quickly seat him in another chair.
For a while we sit in silence. As Akbar checks his phone, I look away in bewilderment at the timeless moon in the gooey haze rising from the twilit horizon.
‘I also slept in a factory,’ I say quietly.
‘What?’ Akbar asks, as if I’ve woken him up from a dream.
‘I slept in a car plant near Milan,’ I say louder. ‘I worked there as a product controller for screws,’ I say, nervously putting my blonde locks behind my ears so the light wind does not tangle them.
Akbar turns to me with interest. ‘You?’ he asks in disbelief.
‘Yes … my shift started at 2 a.m. and I had to be back at university by 8.30,’ I say, slightly more confidently.
‘Interesting,’ Akbar pushes my untouched glass of wine towards me. ‘Why did you go to Milan?’ he asks.
‘It’s a long story,’ I say as a cold-faced model-type waitress in a gold minidress brings us the food, smiling broadly at Akbar.
‘We have time,’ he says, ignoring the haute cuisine plates on the table.
‘Well, I guess I was a kind of rebel,’ I say, slightly more relaxed, sipping some wine.
‘You were?’ he asks, with the emphasis on ‘were’.
‘Yes … I was the lead singer in a local rock band … well, as much as it was possible in the early nineties. I was regularly sent back home from school for wearing leather pants and Metallica’s Justice-For-All T-shirt. The other one I had was “kill’em all”.’ I smile nostalgically.
‘I used to listen to Metallica too … and I dop zee unforrgiven,’ he clumsily sings out of tune with a strong Russian accent, but somehow it sounds very cute.
‘Amazing,’ I laugh and sing the line from the refrain.
‘Great voice,’ he compliments me. ‘You should have gone ahead with your singing career.’
‘My mom would never have let me … she wanted me to have a ‘good job’. So instead of taking vocal and acting classes at music college I ended up as a yardbird at the tax police academy in Kiev,’ I say, trying to smile.
‘You should always stand your ground!’ he reasons.
‘She broke my nose when I tried to stand my ground,’ I say pitifully.
‘There is only one way to deal with those people … Unless your dad was a minister, he didn’t last long,’ Akbar says, chewing a chunk of meat.
I shake my head. ‘He went to Siberia to work in a factory … It was a good deal at the time. In Kiev he was making, like, five bucks a month.’
‘So how did you end up in banking?’
‘First, an exchange program in Italy … but I stayed there for the entire Master’s … then a graduate program at Lehman for two years, and now Moscow.’ I drink most of the wine from my glass, which Akbar immediately refills until it almost overflows.
‘A woman of many talents,’ he says, asking for another bottle.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a flirty smile. ‘So … what was your childhood dream?’
‘To survive,’ he says dryly. ‘Ibrahim is my only friend from back then.’ He looks at the bodyguard, sitting a few yards away from us by the bar, applying lip gloss. His black leather jacket is draped over the chair back next to him, revealing the shoulder holsters under his strong arms.
‘Did he always look so scary?’ I ask, trying to defuse the gloomy mood Akbar has introduced.
‘He got that scar in Chechnya. A splinter from the grenade he gave to his best friend, who got both his legs torn off in the battle,’ Akbar says without emotion, tearing the bread.
‘His best friend?’ I ask, shaken.
‘Yes, When you’re a Muslim fighting against Muslims on their land, the last thing you want is to be imprisoned,’ Akbar smirks.
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‘He couldn’t carry him to safety?’
‘No,’ he sighs. ‘He married his dead friend’s wife and adopted their children. That’s a tradition.’
‘He never wanted to have his own?’
‘No. He believes that to fight fearlessly, you must have nothing to lose. That’s what makes him one of the best soldiers in the world,’ Akbar says, continuing to eat.
‘Does he have parents?’ I still haven’t satisfied my curiosity about this man’s mindset.
‘Yes … they looked after me when my parents died … I joined the army to save them the trouble, but they sent their own son to look after me … he went with me and never came back … I wish I’d never had to go there, but it was my only chance to survive, so to speak,’ he says, attacking his juicy steak.
‘You went to Chechnya to survive?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘In Dagestan, North Caucasus, back in the day the locals were ruthless and armed,’ he says as if it was common knowledge. ‘They hated the lying Slavs more than wild dogs stealing their chickens.’
‘But you’re a Slav?’ I ask shyly.
‘I adopted Islam,’ he says firmly.
‘What was your real name?’ I ask, curious about who he really is.
‘Akbar is my real name,’ he says persuasively, making it clear he has had enough questions. He pauses at length. ‘If I hadn’t had to fight for survival, I wouldn’t have made all that effort … I made my first serious money in Chechnya and eventually bought that plant I slept at,’ he proudly says, finishing his main course.
Suddenly, he pulls his vibrating iPhone out of the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘Da,’ he says in a pissed-off, metallic tone. ‘What are you doing?’ he yells in response to a high-pitched female voice on the other end. ‘Now?’ he yells, clenching his fist with a scowl on his face. ‘What about Ivan? Did you leave him with that old witchagain? I told you to never ever leave him alone with her, and find a proper nanny,’ he sputters.
The tiny female voice on the other end of the line protests avidly. Getting good nannies seems to be a real problem in this city.
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