Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  ‘Katyusha, don’t throw missiles at me. You provoked it yourself.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I whisper furiously, and storm off to the bathroom.

  With the hot, foamy bath and aromatic essential oils my mood gradually improves, and now I am almost hoping he did not hear me say the f-word.

  All pampered with luxurious crèmes and conditioners and wrapped in a cozy white bathrobe, I venture out to check on Akbar. He is washed and clean-shaven and wearing exactly the same robe as me, calmly sitting and drinking his whiskey on the white sofa, aka demon-killing altar. In front of him, a white tray table has appeared as if by magic, laden with all sorts of expensive-looking food.

  ‘This place has the best fusion cuisine, so to speak,’ he says, pouring me a glass of red.

  ‘Nice location,’ I say, trying to sound casual. ‘My dream is to own an apartment here.’

  ‘That’s a rather narrow-minded strategy,’ he retorts, cracking open a lobster clam.

  ‘Why? That’s what everyone wants!’

  ‘That’s exactly the reason why you shouldn’t do it,’ he reasons. ‘We are living through a major power paradigm shift. Trust me, there’ll be even more unimaginable things happening very soon all around the world,’ he says, eagerly tearing apart the rest of the lobster. ‘The current technological developments in nuclear, biological, biochemical and pilotless weapons are there to create more managed chaos … and good old Europe will go first …,’ he smirks, spilling mayonnaise over the rest of the truffle chips, making the dish unfit for human consumption.

  ‘Do you always blame the US for everything?’ I ask, sipping a rather acerbic Bordeaux from my glass.

  ‘It’s just a country … a puppet show, pretty much like any other,’ he says, grabbing a fancy-looking sushi roll with his thick fingers and tossing it into his mouth.

  ‘Who’s the bad guy then?’ I ask, taking a plate with what seem to be two square brownie cakes stacked on top of each other.

  ‘There’s no good or bad country, government or president … just business interests,’ he says, as I cut into the brownie, but instead of chocolate, red blood spills out, revealing it to be a rare steak chateaubriand.

  ‘How’s that?’ I ask, feeling cheated.

  ‘The people behind the various multinational companies across the globe … often have conflicting interests, because of the nature of the projects they invest in,’ he explains. ‘I’m actually meeting some of them tomorrow with regard to the gas pipeline from Qatar to Europe. Can you imagine how much steel they’ll need? And those people want to work with me because I’m a world-class businessman.’

  ‘You certainly are,’ I say, with all the admiration I can muster. ‘But won’t it squeeze Russia out of business with its biggest trading partner and lead to mass unemployment and lower wages?’

  ‘Katyusha, darling - who in Russia lives on wages?’ he asks rhetorically. ‘Even a janitor on three hundred dollars a month, cleaning a high-class building, would get creative.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘For example, he’d forbid the residents to put garbage outside their doors, and then he’d charge them for every sack they throw out.’

  ‘Not every janitor works in a high-class building,’ I retort.

  ‘True. The other ones would sweep up around any office buildings nearby, to get some extra cash,’ Akbar explains, educating me in Russian undercover survival tactics.

  ‘So what’s criminal about that?’

  ‘That he should do it for free. The office pays the city tax but the janitor can sabotage the system, even shit outside the office door.’

  ‘Pretty entrepreneurial janitor,’ I remark.

  ‘The entire country is like that, so to speak,’ he continues. ‘It’s impossible to do anything without some kind of a scheme. If you have borehole-drilling equipment you can’t just sell it to an oil company without an offshore firm, to which you’d sell your equipment for one rouble first, and then sell it to the oil company for ten. Thanks to that nine-rouble difference, you can buy a villa on the Côte d’Azur, and a couple of mansions in London.’

  ‘And luxury apartments in Moscow where the forward-thinking janitor takes out the trash,’ I quip.

  ‘Yes, that too,’ Akbar snorts.

  ‘But what about the pensioners?’ I ask, downing my glass of wine. ‘They might be too old to devise those kinds of schemes …’

  ‘Darling, I’m very tired. Let’s talk about it tomorrow,’ he pleads, throwing his ketchup- and mayo-stained napkin over the unfinished dishes, and getting under the golden silk sheets on the majestic, supersized bed. ‘This is heaven … Come over here.’

  ‘Just a second,’ I shout, rolling the tray table over to the fridge, so I can give the leftovers to Richard tomorrow … he’ll be delighted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  DO WHAT THOU WILT

  Room service breakfast consists of poached eggs, a board of charcuterie and fresh brown bread.

  ‘You see, for me to get the same quality in Moscow I need a private butler, even a private dishwasher … and it still won’t taste as good as here,’ he says, sipping his latte.

  ‘Or you could just get one loving wife,’ I say, teasingly letting one shoulder peep out of my robe.

  ‘You are such a seducer.’ He leans over to me, kissing my neckline with his tensed lips, before getting up to get ready.

  ‘Which one do you think?’ he asks, trying on a pale paisley tie.

  ‘Mm, maybe the darker one would go better with the dark blue suit,’ I say, checking out the selection of ties in the closet.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says, picking out one with an Indian pinecone design.

  ‘Where’re you meeting your business partners?’ I ask, selecting a couple of the more stylish ones.

  ‘In the suburbs … at some old Masonic lodge,’ he chuckles.

  ‘Oh, really - so you’re gonna get stoned, summon the evil spirits and screw some chick on a ritual altar, and then kill the baby inside her in the name of the prince of darkness?’ I mock, holding my breath and a bunch of ties.

  ‘You’re funny,’ he laughs, taking the blue patterned necktie from my hands. ‘Those kinds of stories are for peasants, to give them food for not-too-extensive thought, and something to talk about.’

  ‘But clearly there are grounds for such beliefs? And if there was no truth in them, they wouldn’t be so popular,’ I say, handing him the next tie.

  ‘I’ll tell you a secret, my darling: if you want to sell an idea, then you do indeed require it to be authentic … so to speak, but it doesn’t have to have one hundred per cent verity. Anything beyond half will do. After that, you can deform your truth any way you like – peasants will still buy it.’ He throws away the patterned tie and takes a striped one.

  ‘So “do as thou wilt” is not entirely true?’ I ask, considering these words to be the ultimate manifesto for freedom.

  ‘It is true, so to speak, but the way it is presented is more about sex, alcohol, gluttony, drugs and whatever. The Brits did well to popularize it – the market for selling shit.’ He shoves away the pile of ties and pulls from his pocket a pink one studded with gold and diamonds.

  ‘So everything out there is no more than half-truth?’ I ask, disappointed.

  ‘Everything,’ he affirms. ‘Peasants don’t have the balls to do what they want; they always need an excuse not to take responsibility for their own fucking lives … that’s why they buy into all those media stories … by the way, remind me to renew my subscription to the Moscow Business Paper … I don’t want any negative press, so to speak,’ he says, appreciating my care and attention as I place the tie around his neck.

  ‘You mean, so they don’t write any bad stuff about you? How much does that cost?’ I ask, curious.

  ‘Two hundred thousand dollars a year … but that’s because they are the most respected paper in Russia. Usually it’s a lot cheaper,’ he says, checking out his very expensive-looking reflection in the
mirror.

  ‘Good luck, darling,’ I say, coming over to kiss him.

  ‘We’ll need it … it’s just a matter of convincing the Syrian government … they have no choice, anyway.’ He kisses me goodbye. ‘See you in the evening, I won’t be too late back from dinner,’ he says, already halfway out the door.

  Half an hour later, I step outside in skinny jeans, a white t-shirt and flats, catching a couple of teensy rays of sunlight as I walk down busy Knightsbridge.

  A polite concierge immediately gets me a black cab, which takes me to see Gabi in the hospital in Docklands. Knowing she can’t eat any regular food and that handbags have moved to the bottom of her list of priorities, I have gotten her a bunch of colorful flowers that a courteous assistant of Akbar’s delivered earlier.

  The taxi stops at a yellowish Georgian building that feels dismal and lackluster, with sash windows and a flat roof, surrounded by down-at-heel apartment blocks and shady-looking people.

  Gabi’s bed is in the middle of a large room with at least a dozen other patients, isolated only by a thin curtain. The place reeks of disinfectant. She has greasy hair and no makeup but still looks pretty in hospital pajamas under her drip.

  ‘Hey,’ I whisper, coming over to her bed.

  ‘Katya!’ she feebly smiles, touching my hand. ‘I’m so glad you came.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, stroking her shoulder, overjoyed to be reunited with my friend.

  ‘I’m getting better - I should be able to start taking light food in a couple of weeks to replace this,’ she says, glancing at the drip.

  ‘Seems like you’re getting the massive detox you always wanted,’ I say, attempting a joke.

  ‘Yeah, be careful what you wish for,’ she smirks. ‘So how’s your man?’

  ‘Oh, we’re doing great. He’s totally in love with me. He wants to have kids with me,’ I say proudly.

  ‘You need to take his promises with a pinch of salt,’ she warns.

  ‘He bought me this twelfth-century painting at Sotheby’s - can you believe it?’ I gloat, disregarding her comment. ‘I didn’t even have to drop any hints. I just looked at it and he bought it!’

  ‘Omar used to do that kind of thing with handbags.’ She gazes at her bandaged stomach.

  ‘Did he come to visit?’ I ask carefully.

  ‘Yes, his father brought him in here … like a delinquent child,’ she smirks.

  ‘You must hate him,’ I say, brimming with emotion.

  ‘Hatred is such a negative feeling,’ Gabi says serenely. ‘As much as I might seem to have a right to hate him, I’m actually really glad it happened this way.’

  ‘What?’ I exclaim in disbelief.

  ‘I’m happy to have survived, my blood vessels miraculously weren’t touched and I’ve had proper and timely treatment. I’m happy I can walk, see, and talk. I wouldn’t have learnt to appreciate all these things if it hadn’t happened to me,’ she says joyfully.

  ‘That’s a bit of a change from the Gabi I used to know, who only dined in Michelin-starred restaurants and didn’t date anyone with a net worth of less than five million pounds,’ I remark skeptically.

  ‘This situation showed me how fixated on money I was,’ she says, trying to prop herself up on her pillow.

  ‘What’s wrong with wanting money?’ I ask, offering her my arm.

  ‘Nothing … as long as you don’t put it above God.’ She looks at my obviously confused face with mercy in her eyes. ‘Picture a commercial,’ she suggests, ‘where a hot girl sprays an expensive fragrance on herself and the next moment, a handsome, successful guy puts a rock on her finger. They want you to believe that having that fragrance will give you the same power. So you buy the perfume, but nothing happens. What’s the logical conclusion you’d reach …? To buy more … handbags, jewelry, you name it.’

  ‘An apartment in Knightsbridge would make me happy,’ I add with enthusiasm.

  ‘For a few weeks, maybe,’ she says cynically, ‘… then you’ll want a plasma screen, a sports car, a vacation home … it’ll never be enough.’ She pauses expressively.

  ‘What the hell, Gabi? Are you saying happiness is an illusion?’ I ask, suspecting she has had too much anesthetic.

  ‘I’m saying happiness doesn’t lie in acquiring or achieving things,’ she says thoughtfully, lying back in her gloomy bed.

  ‘What is it, then?’ I ask impatiently. If someone had asked me months ago what Gabi thought happiness was, I would probably have said: a Chanel handbag and a pair of Jimmy Choos. But after these revelations I am not sure anymore.

  ‘Two things.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Self-actualization and good, fulfilling relationships,’ she says with conviction.

  ‘I see you’ve had a lot of time to think,’ I say, incredulous about what I’ve just heard.

  ‘Well, I’m starting up a cat café, you know - where people can come and spend time with cats,’ she says, with a radiant smile she never used to have, even when partying at the most exclusive clubs, or dining at the most expensive restaurants. ‘I realized that’s what I’ve wanted to do ever since I visited one in Tokyo. I found a business partner on a crowdfunding website, he’s already found a place in Shoreditch.’

  ‘Shoreditch?’ I ask squeamishly. ‘You never go to the East End!’

  ‘Well, things have changed,’ she beams.

  ‘You seem very committed,’ I say, forcing a smile, still not getting how a broker with a six-figure salary would voluntarily give it up.

  ‘Yes, I really feel like I’m finally fulfilling my dream now. Things are just miraculously coming together. I feel God’s love,’ she says with calm certitude.

  ‘So you won’t be going back to the trading floor?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course not!’ she says firmly. ‘It’s such a mechanical job. There’s no creativity … it’d be like burning my soul every day. I don’t want to betray myself anymore. No amount of money can buy that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t even have a clue what I could do other than banking.’

  ‘Try to look inwards: what is it that always made you happy while you were doing it? What would you do for free?’ she asks with genuine care, really encouraging me to stop and think about it.

  ‘Sex,’ I say with a mischievous smile.

  ‘What was there before you had sex?’

  ‘I started screwing very early on … at fourteen … hmm, let’s see … singing?’ I say quietly. ‘Making music.’

  ‘There you go. Start putting some energy into it and God will show you the easiest way,’ she says kind-heartedly.

  ‘Actually, I’m doing something which should allow me to make enough money to do whatever I want,’ I say mysteriously.

  ‘Is your man involved in it?’ she asks, with a slight air of disapproval.

  ‘Yeah, to a very large extent,’ I admit.

  ‘If you want it to touch other people’s hearts, you’ll need to open your own heart first … and that will take time and effort, rather than Akbar’s money,’ she says in a serious tone.

  ‘I don’t know … maybe,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘Becoming your authentic self is a hassle, but once you put it out to people in a product you’ve nurtured every day with your time and energy, they won’t remain indifferent to it … But it’s a lot easier to buy a new perfume, of course,’ she laughs, as a nurse comes to change her bedpan.

  Soon enough I leave the hospital, deeply convinced that Gabi has gone from one extreme to the other in her perception of the world.

  To distract myself from my uncomfortably deep thoughts, I visit some of the dazzling stores around the hotel to get a couple of new outfits for the weekend in Sochi.

  For the first time, I am in Harrods on a weekday – a completely different experience to Sunday mornings – the only time a full-time banker can feasibly go shopping. Whilst trying on a gray snakeskin jacket in the changing rooms, my iPhone vibrates with a new text message from my dad: ‘Katya, thank
you for the money transfer, but you didn’t have to. You might need it more than I do.’

  Offhandedly, I grab the jacket and go to pay, taking a picture of my receipt, which totals two grand, and send it to my dad … but it doesn’t go through, as he does not seem to have a smartphone.

  ‘It’s OK, dad - it’s not my last money,’ I text him instead, graciously carrying the shopping bags across the street back to the cold, dark, polished suite, where even the parka is miraculously clean - but by no means less loathsome.

  I quickly pull up the heavy drapes, take off my primitive T-shirt and jeans and courageously walk around the living room and terrace in my hot lingerie, imagining it is my own place …

  In no time it is already 6 p.m. – time to get going. Why the hell did I agree to meet Richard in the East End in a crappy restaurant, of all places? There is no point staying in the West End and going all the way to that shabby, dodgy area for dinner.

  Still, I carefully pack the leftovers from last night into the Gucci bag from my new jacket, attaching on the side a printout of the Valkyrie trades with the Swiss Bank, so he does not accuse me of God knows what.

  After over an hour of dealing with the rush-hour traffic, the restaurant’s crummy blue neon sign is finally in sight.

  A hubbub of voices and a strong smell of curry emanate from within. Expecting a hole in the wall, I am surprised to find a large and popular establishment, where I have to elbow my way through the crowd - getting some indignant looks as I do so. Richard is predictably dressed in his trusty T-shirt, waving at me from one of the tables packed as close together as sardines in a tin.

  ‘I’m gonna need a visit to the dry cleaner’s after this place,’ I say, squeezing between the tables in my polka-dot dress, carrying the Gucci paper bag over the heads of the rabbis at the table right next to us. ‘I know you hate to see good food go to waste.’ I pass him the heavy bag.

  ‘You know me so well! Thank you,’ he exclaims.

  ‘It should bring some variation to your tuna salad diet,’ I joke, sitting down on the shaky chair. One of the frantic Punjabi waiters rushes over to us and pours tap water into plastic and not very clean school-canteen-style glasses.