‘I’ll divert all my business to you. Your bosses will like that.’ He wipes off his nose. ‘Of course, there’ll be some nice commission for you personally.’ He passes the board to me.
You needn’t be afraid; everybody knows what your worst action is without the need of any lies on your part.
‘Good stuff,’ I say with a Mona Lisa smile on my face, as I am filled with a stellar sense of freedom.
‘You are a superstar,’ he says, watching me snorting the fat rails.
A giant plasma screen on my left becomes a real fireplace … it even smells and sounds like burning wood … just like the barbecues dad used to make in our yard …
‘It’s not even a question of kickbacks anymore,’ he says exuberantly. ‘Rates are so low, treasuries’ yields are through the roof like they were in 1998, gold is at its peak, and I’m sure it will go higher as everyone will start buying it as protection against inflation. I know it, Katya, I know it … so to speak.’ He continues to hold forth, with a distinct air of supremacy. ‘In 1997, I predicted that yields would go up by fifty per cent but no one believed they would … and they did! I have built the largest metallurgical company in the world with my own hands, and was the first to establish proper corporate governance in the post-Soviet business space. I’m not going to sell it to anyone, especially not at a ridiculously low price … no, no. They’re not going to take it away from me.’ He makes a finger gun as he speaks.
Suddenly, the lights go out and the plane starts to tremble, with only the fireplace burning brighter and bigger. It becomes a man, growing from the menacing heat of the logs. He hugs me with fiery arms, stirs the flames over my lips …
He must know that if he ‘broke off everything,’ first, by himself, and without telling me a word about it or having the slightest hope on my account, that in that case I should perhaps be able to change my opinion of him, and even accept his—friendship. He must know that, but his soul is such a wretched thing.
‘You are a great man,’ I say quietly, clearing my throat.
‘What?’ Akbar asks sardonically.
‘You are a great man,’ I say, louder.
‘Thank you,’ he says, pleased. ‘I want to keep as much cash as possible in my Swiss accounts and preferably in gold. You know metallurgical prices are slumping. The futures are down the toilet. It isn’t cost-effective to sell alloys to Europe anymore. Import taxes just kill it.’ He restlessly snorts more blow. ‘I cannot optimize the cost because, apparently, it will create unemployment,’ he continues after a pause. ‘You know, I would happily get rid of half of the people. They do fuck all anyway. They are drunk at work, they are late, and they don’t care … all they want is cheap vodka and dope, plasma screens, you name it. Whatever they see in commercials,’ he says with disgust, taking a superior tone.
‘Sounds like a herd of sheep,’ I say, cooling myself down with a glass of cold champagne.
‘They are worse!’ Akbar exclaims, soaking a scallop in flambé. ‘The hungry flock is easier to manage, though … But they choose to be managed this way, even if they don’t realize it … so it’s their problem,’ he scowls. ‘It’s not even interesting any more. Those lazy bastards deserve their poverty – no pride, guts, no passion, no ambition, no balls to do anything! We learnt to take responsibility for our own lives and think with our own heads. They can’t even buy a toilet without being told which one!’ He takes a generous spoonful of black caviar, followed by a long sip of Macallan.
‘Why don’t you retire?’ I ask. ‘You could live comfortably for the rest of your life … I guess.’
‘My dear, Katyusha, if I said I had enough money for the rest of my life, then I’d have to die on Tuesday,’ he sneers.
‘Please don’t …’ I plead.
‘But seriously, I do not think one can preserve money. Wealth has continually been redistributed throughout history and it can happen again, especially if you live in Russia,’ he says, ‘Do you really think I need my Maybach?’ he asks, getting worked up. ‘I don’t give a damn. I’d happily drive a BMW X6 or something like that, which would actually have enough legroom for me … But any decent business negotiations in my country require you to arrive in a new Maybach or Bentley. You can never relax,’ he says, shuffling more coke. ‘In Los Angeles or Switzerland, having money means you can enjoy life, play tennis, chill by the pool. In Russia, your surroundings will only let you rest in peace.’
Soon we land at the cozy Nice Côte d’Azur airport. The warm, humid air with a hint of sea breeze gently enfolds us, as if welcoming us into the new venture. I can almost hear it whispering a faint refrain: ‘what happens in Monaco stays in Monaco’.
A tall, curly-haired, Middle Eastern-looking customs officer in a white uniform waits for us at the bottom of the passenger stairs to stamp our passports. ‘Welcome to France, Monsieur Gromov,’ he says professionally, with a strong French accent.
‘Merci,’ Akbar says in a very Russian way, barely looking at the guy.
‘Merci,’ I say with asmile, getting the stamp from the official, and following Akbar to a helicopter standing nearby.
‘It’s the quickest way to get to the yacht,’ Akbar shouts through the roar of the engine, helping me to climb in.
‘To the yacht?’ I shout back.
‘Thought you wanted to have dinner outside.’ He smiles, offering me his hand as I enter the big black cabin with massive windows on all three sides, making me feel more and more like Cinderella, about to become a princess.
We take off into the dark emerald sky, with the sun winking its last rays. The faraway navy blue horizon is stretched like a clothesline above the serpentine mountain road, further illuminated by the shine of the cars as they crawl around its curves.
The sunset washes over the white coastal houses on the cliffs to the crystal-clear blue of the seafront, crowded with numerous white yachts, boats and palm trees.
As we start to descend, and the sun eventually disappears behind the gray mountain … the shape of the sleeping monster in my nightmare … it keeps looking at me, even after we have landed in town and begun our walk along the marina, full of luxury yachts with Porsches and Maseratis parked next to them.
‘My other vessel has a helicopter pad, but this one is a real pedigree … just like you,’ he flatters. Though my hair is a total mess after the helicopter flight and urgently needs fixing, I still can’t help basking in his sweet talk.
‘If someone had asked me this morning where I’d be in the evening, I’d never have guessed Monaco,’ I say, happily breathing the air of luxury.
‘That’s the beauty of it,’ Akbar gently puts his hand around my waist, leading me, wreathed in smiles, to one of the beautiful white yachts. ‘Meet my princess,’ he says, helping me to get on board. ‘She’s just arrived from Antibes.’ He takes me on a tour of the vessel, showing off its refined full-beam exterior design.
‘Is it a thirty-meter?’ I ask, following him to the fly bridge, which overlooks a Jacuzzi and sun pads.
‘Just under three hundred feet,’ he says, helping me to climb up the stairs in my heels, right onto the spacious aft deck, bathed in candlelight, with white and orange sofas around a dinner table set for two.
‘It must be great to enjoy the stunning Mediterranean views,’ I say as we start drifting into the dusking sea.
‘Yeah … that’s what you have to do … Escape the stultifying conformity of provincial life,’ he says unenthusiastically.
‘Bonsoir Monsieur, bonsoir Madame; I’m Laurent, your waiter for tonight.’ A friendly, tall, blond Frenchman in a white shirt helps us to the table, which is already laid for dinner. From the ice bucket, he takes a dark bottle with a gold label in the shape of a diamond, encrusted with a blue crystal. ‘Le “Goût de Diamants”, Taste of Diamonds, made with one hundred per cent brut grapes. The collection bottle,’ he says with an unashamedly heavy French accent, pouring it into our crystal glasses, accented with gold.
‘To your exciting new begi
nning in Moscow.’ Akbar raises his glass. ‘I’m sure it will be a great success … and I’ll help you with it.’ He gives me a benign smile.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and we clink our glasses. ‘This is delicious,’ I say, taking a little sip of the diamonds, which taste like a very nice but slightly-too-bitter Chardonnay with a bit of carbonation. ‘It’s one of the funniest drinks I’ve ever had!’ I exclaim.
‘One of the most expensive, for sure,’ he remarks. ‘But I wanted to make this a very special night,’ he says, moving his towering hands off the table as Laurent brings us a platter of oysters.
‘In my hometown you could probably buy a house for the price of this glass,’ I reflect.
‘In early nineties you could probably have bought your entire hometown,’ he sneers.
‘That was a dreadful time … no physical money … The food truck would arrive once a week and we had to stand in line for hours and hours to get one loaf of bread and one sausage per hand from a nasty plump woman …’ I say with a forced smile, looking at the full glass of champagne standing there as a reproof.
‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, trust me,’ he says, topping the oyster with ketchup – the only bright color on the washed-out palette of the shadowy gray sea, with no sign of with no sign of the horizon remaining behind the monster-mountain. behind the monster-mountain.
Gosh, how do I get out of eating the oysters?
Suddenly his phone rings. ‘Blyat, it’s my wife. I’m sorry Katya. I’ll be right back.’ Akbar gets up from the table and walks down the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AKBAR’S MARRIAGE
‘It would not be fair to say I got married because I fell in love with my wife,’ Akbar says, as the waiter replaces our almost-full champagne bottle with a far more subdued bottle of red. ‘It’s just that her family could provide me with protection. The local mafia from Dagestan were after me … I had no choice, so to speak,’ he says, looking down at the bulwark. ‘She was a nice girl from a very respectable Moscow family with a good dowry. She never really shared my views or interests … I tried to break up with her a couple of times. I even went back to Derbent but she came after me. She cried and she begged me to stay … so I stayed,’ he says, downing a glass of the pungent Cabernet Sauvignon.
Bitterly exhaling, Akbar explains that, at the beginning, it worked rather nicely. Her family gave them a big house in Moscow and subjugated the local mafia.
With his hands untied and his business growing, he finally felt the freedom to do whatever he wanted, enjoying his life of carousing and adventure.
But from the first months of his wife’s pregnancy, something changed … it was something unpleasant and heavy, something one could not expect and could not get rid of.
Out of the blue, she started to interfere with her husband’s venturesome behavior - in Akbar’s eyes, without reason. She was jealous, found fault in everything he did and made very uncomfortable scenes even in the most inappropriate circumstances.
It cost Akbar a lot of effort to extricate himself from these situations light-heartedly and avoid losing face in front of important people.
He tried hard to ignore her mood and show her a good time: arranged the most exclusive entertainment, invited her family and friends for gourmet dinners, sent her on fabulous vacations … but all this made her even unhappier.
‘She never acknowledged any of this, and never said thank you,’ he sighs.
She was listening to him less and less, and never supporting or praising him for his achievements. So, Akbar found the admiration he craved elsewhere. He spent more and more time on business trips or at important dinners … and strip clubs.
One day she came down on him really hard, shouting and swearing. From then on she became increasingly stubborn, and would give him an earful every time he did not do what she wanted.
‘I realized there and then that family life was not for me. At least not with this wife of mine,’ he says glumly.
Akbar’s instinct was to run away.
He installed a couch in his office and bought a private jet, a yacht and a few villas around the world, in order to see his wife as little as possible.
To compensate for the lack of intimacy, he even got into a scandalous relationship with a famous actress. But every time he began to get closer to her, his wife would do something really nice and it would feel like they had a happy family … until she lost her temper yet again, and he’d run away to his mistress.
When the baby was born, Akbar had to spend more time at home with her elite family, playing the good husband.
Numerous frustrations came with attempts at breastfeeding, and a series of illnesses - real and imaginary - that afflicted both mother and daughter. Akbar wanted to be a part of it, but was left out most of the time.
As his wife became more and more crabby and demanding, he got busier than ever at work. He developed a love for work, even for overwork - giving himself hypertension in the process.
Akbar soon realized that married life was in fact a fairly complicated matter, and that he would have to adopt a particular attitude in order to maintain his status in high society.
He asked from his wife only one thing – that to outsiders they look like a perfect family, so he could stay on good terms with her father and continue growing his business and multiplying his wealth. At home she could be as grumpy as she wanted - at the end of the day it was her choice, which had nothing to do with Akbar.
Having freed himself from this emotional burden, he threw himself into the pursuit of pleasure and excitement, often justifying it with business.
Akbar soon established himself as a very respected businessman; however, his wife kept reproaching him that he never could have gotten there without her family, which prompted him to work even harder to prove her wrong.
With the birth of his son, his wife became even grumpier and angrier; she blamed her husband for every little thing, but Akbar’s attitude made him almost impervious to it.
When their daughter turned seventeen he bought her an apartment in London, where her mother was supposed to spend a few months a year.
But even with such a comfortable arrangement she managed to accuse Akbar of ruining her life, which only caused him more stress, driving him to seek solace in alcohol and drugs.
‘Eventually, most of our conversations got narrowed down to two topics: the kids’ education and memories of past fights,’ he smirks, drinking his whiskey. ‘She even stopped asking uncomfortable questions … well, I stopped having affairs, so to speak … in Moscow at least,’ Akbar says, looking at the grim, black sea with the pale city lights blinking above.
He could have been afflicted by feelings of alienation, if he hadn’t managed to accept his role in the family as a normal, even desirable state of affairs. His aim was to liberate himself more and more from all these inconveniences, whilst maintaining the illusion of a happy family for his father-in-law.
He achieved it by filling the house with all sorts of support staff, from nannies and gardeners to security agents and bodyguards, freeing him from the necessity of being alone with his wife.
‘I’m worried about my son, though,’ Akbar says, pensively playing with the silver fork. ‘His mother puts pressure on him all the time: he does this wrong and that wrong. I understand how difficult it’ll be for him when he turns fourteen … fifteen. He is already afraid of women,’ he mutters in an unusually feeble voice. ‘I was afraid of them too … Back in the day, no one ever told me I was cute or good-looking. I had to try hard.’
‘You’re a great role model for your son!’ I try to comfort him.
‘He is a lot smarter than me. I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. I was not the brightest, smartest or the most hard working. I’m lazy and self-centered,’ he says, asking for another whiskey. ‘If the people I started my career with were in my place, they’d be a lot more effective.’
‘You’re too hard on yourself,’ I sa
y, kindly.
‘He’s very gifted but needs a bit of development on the physical side,’ Akbar downs his glass. ‘He could easily become a rocket scientist, but I’m worried he won’t have the opportunity to acquire the masculine qualities he needs.’
‘Couldn’t you teach him swimming or something?’ I ask.
‘Yes, but he doesn’t like it … and I don’t like to play tennis, and I’m no good at rock climbing. I’m six foot six … and I want it to be interesting for me too. He’s slim and tall, taller than his classmates - just like I was. They tease him - just like I was teased. I realize now how hard it’ll be for him to come out of his shell. I know how he feels … I never felt special as a kid,’ he says bitterly.
‘I never felt special either,’ I sigh. ‘My mom never gave me a choice about anything … If I ever opposed her, she’d beat me up.’
‘Being able to make one’s own choices is one of the biggest luxuries a human can have,’ Akbar muses. ‘My wife tried to control me, to make me do things I didn’t want to do. I didn’t like it. I don’t like anyone to control me. Yes, I’ve succeeded in life more than others have, I got richer and richer and richer, which brought new responsibilities - and now I don’t know how to get rid of them!’ He points at his empty glass in irritation, signalling for Laurent to bring a new one.
‘I’ve got to hold everyone’s hand!’ he exclaims. ‘Even my sister’s husband – a downtrodden teddy-bear of a man. I gave that wanker a house, business … now they’ve got this baby with Down’s syndrome and somehow it’s my problem.’ He downs a third glass. ‘They’re completely incapable of dealing with it, and that’s just one of hundreds, if not thousands of things I have to deal with!’ He scowls defiantly. ‘I’m stuck amongst all these people I’m responsible for … If I shouted, “Hey, is anyone working out there?” the answer would be “you”. They suck my energy. But it’s OK. I just hope my son gets some confidence,’ he sighs. ‘Look at the life-size transformer I bought for him.’ He shows me a picture on his phone.
Snow Job Page 11