Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  ‘Santa prefers rich kids,’ I quietly comment.

  ‘Money can solve ninety-five per cent of the problems which make you unhappy …’ he says, failing to notice my sarcasm. ‘Look,’ he commands, before carelessly dropping his fork on the floor. The waiter immediately rushes to pick it up and brings a new one. ‘See, I’ve just made him dance. I can make anyone succumb to my will without even saying a word,’ he says with a tipsy superiority.

  ‘So, whose will do you succumb to?’ I say after a pause, moving my cutlery further to the middle of the table.

  ‘We are all puppets in someone’s hands, so to speak,’ he reflects. ‘I’m completely in your hands now. You could make me dance,’ he says buoyantly.

  ‘I’m a very good dancer,’ I say, playfully.

  ‘We shall check that out,’ he booms with authority. ‘If you’re lucky, I’ll introduce you to Prince Albert,’ he winks.

  ‘Oh my God, that would be great!’ I exclaim, all smiles.

  ‘But we’ll go to the casino first,’ he states.

  ‘The infamous Monte Carlo casino? I always wanted to go there,’ I say, clapping my hands in elation, anticipating the best of the best VIP experience.

  ‘I’m going to have to change. They don’t let you into the private salon without a black tie … you could change too. There’s a Dior dress, size S, if you want,’ he says casually.

  ‘A Dior dress? For me?’ I ask, astonished.

  ‘Yes, it’s in the Hotel de Paris … I booked a suite there … just for us to change, so to speak.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ROULETTE

  The suite is probably the size of half a stadium, and sparkles with authentic luxury.

  The scent of fresh flowers, together with the light notes of Duke Ellington’s jazz, create a posh, sophisticated ambience. Some prominent monarch could definitely chill on one of these snug blue and white couch sets, enjoying the original Impressionist painting hung tastefully under the high ceiling.

  An enormous terrace overlooks the prince’s palace across the harbor. Akbar explains this is also part of the Formula One circuit. ‘I should bring you next year,’ he says casually, thrilling me with the thought that he wants to extend our acquaintance at least for that long.

  ‘I always dreamt of seeing the Monaco Grand Prix,’ I say with excitement.

  ‘Well, if you behave … who knows what might happen?’ he says, taking my hand and leading me to the master bedroom.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask, on my guard.

  ‘To get you your present,’ he says intriguingly, opening the doors of the big white closet. ‘Oh look, there’s a dress here,’ he exclaims in mock surprise, offering me a hanger with a chic leopard-print dress.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, stroking the soft, sheer fabric. ‘Thank you.’ I rise on my tiptoes to give Akbar a kiss on the cheek. I can feel the joy in his face.

  ‘There are sandals for you too, in a couple of sizes. I didn’t know which ones would fit you.’ He points to the lower part of the closet.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I scream, dazzled with delight, clapping my hands at the sight of three pairs of diamond-studded heels. ‘I’m not sure if it fits with the bank’s client gift regulations,’ I playfully snigger.

  ‘Nah, don’t worry about that. Trust me, this is the least you can do to counter-offer your colleagues, so to speak,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve never received such an expensive gift in my life,’ I say, somewhat timidly.

  ‘Well, we all had a rough start but at some point one should stop dwelling on the past and accept the presents of fate. Maybe the time is now?’ he winks, gently stroking my face.

  ‘Maybe,’ I say, bashfully holding a pair of shoes, edging my way back to the more capacious living room, where we won’t have to stay so close to each other.

  Gradually, I end up where I wanted to be – the absolutely stunning marble bathroom - to try on the dress. I struggle for a good few minutes to zip it up, stretching it to the moon to squeeze my rib cage in … and my breasts. My behind looks irresistible in it though.

  Taking great care, so as not to lose a single diamond, I put on the tallest platform-heeled sandals I’ve ever seen, with slender toe and ankle straps. My classic red pedicure is a perfect match.

  The shoes turn out to be quite painful to walk in - but hey, it’s Dior.

  By the time I get out of the bathroom Akbar is already waiting for me, dressed in black tie, sitting with a glass of whiskey in the Renaissance-style living room, in the twilight of the azure evening.

  As soon as he sees me, he gets up, ruining the ludicrously perfect harmony of hues. ‘Beautiful!’ he says, enraptured.

  Smiling with joy, I turn around so he can see my juicy bottom, knowing he will like the view.

  ‘Very nice,’ he comments, gently approaching me from behind, putting his hand on my hip. ‘If I had met you eighteen years ago I would’ve offered you something and you would’ve agreed,’ he says, stroking my back. ‘I would’ve convinced you to move in with me. You’d be mine.’ He pointedly bites his lower lip and moves towards me.

  ‘I was nine …’ I say sultrily.

  ‘Well … that makes me fifteen years older,’ he says, getting frisky, closing in on me. I want to step back, but I force myself to stand still, right in front of him.

  ‘What will you do if I fall in love with you?’ I ask, resisting his intense gaze.

  ‘We will only do what you want to do,’ he says, looking lustfully at my lips. ‘I promise … so to speak.’

  ‘OK,’ I retaliate, keeping in mind the ‘unfinished business’ strategy - especially with a hard-boiled man like him.

  Soon enough we leave our opulent suite and take a long, almost uncomfortable ride in a cramped mechanical elevator. It is a test of my willpower to resist Akbar’s intense lascivious glare, full of a carnal plea as he stands at arm’s length from me.

  Eventually, we are released into the expansive, lavishly-decorated hotel lobby, filled with exquisite antiques. Several random tourists snap pictures of us, thinking we must be celebrities.

  Basking in the attention, we walk across the bustling street to the beautiful, floodlit Grand Casino. High-end cars are parked on all sides of the building; a showy, suntanned chap, with a few too many shirt buttons undone, poses by his red Ferrari.

  ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Gromov.’ A polite doorman lets us in ahead of the line of tourists and we enter the grandest of all casinos, our heads held high.

  The magic and old-world charm welcome us from the minute we pay the twenty-euro entry fee and step into the extravagant interior. We find ourselves in a relatively small space with swathes of slot machines and about a dozen table games, and a handful of players, mostly in jeans and shorts.

  ‘Disregard all of this zoo,’ Akbar says, to appease me as he parades me through the nondescript crowd towards an old, wrought-iron elevator cage that takes us to the second floor. I immediately recognise it from the movies - far more impressive and sophisticated than the floor we’ve just left.

  My fantasy turns out to have been absolutely spot-on: everything in this place oozes wealth, glamor and excitement. The chandelier alone is an icon. This is where I belong …

  ‘These are the famous prostitutes who used to be regulars here.’ Akbar’s statement confuses me slightly, and I start looking around for the aging hookers, before realizing he is talking about the Belle Époque frescoes that adorn the towering walls.

  ‘They’re always where the money is.’ He sounds somewhat tricky, making me wonder whether he counts me as one of them.

  We continue our graceful walk across the room, passing a sumptuous mosaic bar and an outdoor area smelling of beer and cigars, with traditional gaming tables on a patio.

  ‘This is beautiful!’ I exclaim. ‘The view of the Mediterranean is absolutely stunning. Thank you for bringing me here.’

  ‘Any time,’ Akbar says, looking around distractedly. He orders me a glass of champagne at the r
oulette table.

  The big golden tables with comfy chairs are not so crowded. Unlike downstairs, everyone here is appropriately dressed, illustrating their status.

  Next to me sits a Mafioso-looking Italian in his late fifties with impeccably gelled hair, dressed all in black. He covers a few numbers on the table from the messy heap of chips in front of him, looking like Al Pacino’s Godfather. Seconds later, he loses to seventeen red. Without emotion, he takes a slow sip of mineral water and throws more chips on the table.

  Meanwhile, Akbar brings me a pack of colored nickel chips and invites me to put them anywhere I like.

  The reds have just lost twice in a row, which really ought to mean its luck should change, prompting me to spread my bets throughout the black numbers. I coquettishly blow on the chips like the protagonist in Dostoyevsky’s The Gambler would do, and execute my plan. Is it really not possible to touch the gaming table without being instantly infected by superstition?

  After what feels like ages, the roulette stops at one of the blacks I covered.

  ‘Twenty-four! Oh my God!’ I exclaim, hugging Akbar in excitement.

  ‘Well done! I’ve never managed to win here,’ he says flatly, drinking his conventional dry martini.

  ‘Just a simple allocation of probability … like in financial derivatives.’ I smile widely, grabbing what turns out to be a few grand’s worth of chips, which the croupier indifferently gives to me.

  ‘Darling,’ Akbar says, looking at his watch. ‘I’ve got a business meeting.’

  ‘Now?’ I ask, stepping away from the table, not sure if I should follow him.

  ‘Yes, with my Indian business partner.’

  ‘Here?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s a private blackjack room in the left wing,’ he explains.

  ‘You’re going to discuss who gets to twenty-one first?’ I ask cheekily, moving further away from the table.

  ‘Sort of … I need to teach him to subdue his dominatrix,’ he says, checking something on his phone.

  ‘Dominatrix?’ I ask, confused, imagining some kind of pervert orgy.

  Akbar lightly bends down to my level, realizing he has to explain. ‘He likes to deserve sex,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘His parents made him plow a field or something before giving him food, so now he has to beg for his basic needs.’

  ‘OK … but what do you have to do with it?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘That he put his new BDSM mistress in charge of one of his businesses, and now the bitch is coming up with human rights and environmental claims,’ he says, slightly aggravated.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask, moving away from two men who look like Uncle Sam, puffing ghastly cigar smoke right next to me.

  ‘When you have a business in an emerging market, you can pollute as much as you want, so to speak. It’s business, Katyusha … Here.’ He gives me one of two envelopes from the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘Twenty thousand euros. It should keep you busy for half an hour or so, while I’m away.’

  ‘I don’t need it,’ I cut in. ‘I can win more. I’ve got probability on my side,’ I say arrogantly.

  ‘My dear, no need to put so much pressure on yourself,’ he says, softly stroking my face. ‘Roulette is unpredictable. You’ll lose, and most likely you’ll lose it all.’ He looks at me as if he was going to kiss me. ‘So enjoy the win, because it’s always temporary,’ he smirks, straightening his chest, becoming unreachably tall.

  ‘OK,’ I concede, walking with him to the till to change the money into chips. Twenty grand, in my hand …

  ‘Money is for spending, Katyusha.’ Seeing my frustration, Akbar tries to comfort me. ‘The easier you let it go, the easier it comes back. It’s a circle - like anything in life, really … Anyway, I have to go,’ he says, quickly kissing me on the temple.

  As soon as he is out of sight, I change half of the chips back into cash and put it into my bra - like a good courtesan would do. As long as it looks like I am still holding the chips when he gets back …

  Back at the table, I cover the most of the black numbers with fifty-euro chips, and a miracle happens again. The crazy probability math of random numbers is working in my favor. Woo-hoo!

  What does not work in my favor are two skinny Russian dolls, with the usual pumped-up lips and boobs, in animal-print dresses similar to mine. Damn them …

  They heedlessly take a seat right in front of me. Sitting like two moldering trees, blocking my access to the table, they continue their conversation, loudly condemning the French for not tolerating the hideous habits of the Russian elites, especially in the light of recent sex and drugs scandals in their ski and beach resorts.

  ‘It’s just so hypocritical,’ says one with a low, croaky voice in a dress identical to mine, but in red and turquoise. ‘I think they still feel humiliated that we kicked Napoleon out.’ She stares at me disapprovingly, realizing I understand everything they’re saying, whilst covering the reds with chips, ostentatiously betting hundreds of euros, as if it were peanuts.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says the one in a cheetah-dot dress, with an obvious nose job. ‘How dare they call it an orgy – the Russian people’s traditional love of joyful celebrations? And just because our women are beautiful and exquisitely-dressed doesn’t mean everyone has the right to call them whores,’ she continues, taking a couple of lower-value chips out of her bra.

  ‘Those are just double standards,’ says the cheaper one, conspicuously taking out a cigar and asking for a light. ‘The French claim to respect our culture but in reality we get absolutely no respect,’ she continues, negligently accepting the courtesy from a French waiter. ‘I think it’s hard for them to take - that there can be another nation but them dictating the fashion trends.’ Meanwhile, the only black number I was too stingy to cover wins.

  ‘Blyat.’ Fighting my temptation to yell at the bitches to shut up, I quietly, under the table, take out most of the notes from my bra and exchange them for chips.

  The blacks keep winning; it’s already been three times in a row. The Godfather calmly covers the reds, prompting me to do the same.

  ‘If you could only imagine how boring it is for them - dutifully chewing their turkey, gossiping about the neighbors,’ says the one with the annoying, shrill voice, who is obviously someone’s mistress and has never had a family Christmas dinner in Europe. ‘It’s just philistine envy. They don’t like us because we drink expensive wine they can’t appreciate. Did you see the sommelier’s hands shaking at dinner when I ordered that ten-grand bottle - or was it fifteen grand?’ she gloats. ‘It was so much fun to watch, even if it cost me half my weekly allowance.’

  ‘At the end of the day they’re just a bunch of boors,’ says the one with the fast-approaching expiry date, taking a drag on her cigar with vulgar ostentation.

  At some point, Akbar finally appears from the far left-hand corner, whilst the ball is still rolling around the circumference of the wheel. Eventually it loses momentum and falls on the red thirty-two, right next to the younger blonde’s zero … my heart falls into my feet, as I become conscious of my defeat … I did not cover it.

  ‘Can I pay for your bill?’ Akbar approaches her, not even looking across the table at me.

  ‘Well, let’s talk first,’ she answers, straightening her back, suddenly becoming Miss Charming.

  ‘Think I saw you at the Defense Convention?’ he asks in the tone he usually reserves for business.

  ‘Da, they seem to like buying our old military crap … I’m the new head of strategic distribution at the Ministry,’ she says in a sexy voice, sticking out her rubber cleavage.

  ‘So, you are actively expanding the customer base, so to speak … for our rockets?’ he asks, playing along, while I lose one of my last chips, but that quickly becomes the least of my concerns.

  ‘Stripping the assets,’ she tawdrily flirts. ‘‘Hard negotiating positions are my speciality.’ Her suggestive smile makes me want to punch her in the face.

  ‘You
seem to be perfectly capable of attracting a lot of liquidity,’ Akbar says calmly in his metallic baritone, as if it were a normal conversation – or is it just me hearing they are about to have sex?

  Here’s my card, in case you would like me to take care of your assets.’ She gives him the card, depicting a big double-headed eagle, the symbol of the Russian state.

  ‘Spasibo.’ Akbar takes it and wordlessly walks over the table to grace me with his presence behind my back.

  ‘Katyusha, shall we just put your last chip on some number and leave whilst it’s spinning?’ he suggests, slipping the business card into his pocket.

  ‘Whatever.’ I fling the chip on a random number, despising the savannah-print intemperance, and walk away in my aching shoes, out of the living museum, where time seems to stand still.

  ‘I want to change back out of the dress … and the shoes. They’re hurting me,’ I say firmly to Akbar.

  ‘OK,’ he says lightly. ‘They could have brought you another dress - but I suppose it would be too late now?’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Yes, the hotel people.’

  ‘The hotel chose this dress?’ I ask in disbelief, catching Ms Cheetah-Dot blowing Akbar a kiss from behind the roulette table. A slight smile on his face makes me lose my balance. I stumble on my sore, rubbing shoes and fall on my left knee.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Akbar asks without deviating from his official tone, bending over me to help.

  ‘You could have stayed for the takeover, you know,’ I taunt in pain, clumsily getting up.

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re getting stressed out about this talk,’ Akbar retorts, taking hold of my shoulders. ‘It’s always the same with her – very insipid, with no character, so to speak. She might be useful for some business schemes, that’s all,’ he says, stroking my back squeezed by the suffocating dress. ‘You’re different,’ he whispers into my ear. ‘You’re my only interest … tonight.’