Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  ‘What other crash?’ he asks, curious.

  ‘At the plant in Siberia … that I advised Akbar to acquire,’ I say, anxiously observing the nurse soaking cotton pads in a big, menacing bottle of iodine.

  ‘M&A in Russia without something getting blown up is like an English tea without cucumber sandwiches. Let’s see,’ he says, searching. ‘The Western media didn’t report anything on that front …’

  ‘Does that mean it didn’t happen?’ I tense all my muscles as she applies the iodine to my gashes.

  ‘Oh wait, Al-Jazeera reported an explosion in Seversk,’ he exclaims.

  ‘In Seversk?’ I shout out my pain, shifting my leg so iodine gets right into the wound, burning me to the core.

  ‘Yes, in Seversk, Tomsk region, Siberia,’ he confirms, his every word thundering like a storm, through the agony of my flesh and my soul.

  ‘Are you OK?’ the nurse asks, looking at me with concern as my blood pressure sharply drops below the low level on the screen next to my bed.

  ‘Papa,’ I sob.

  ‘What?’ I hear in stereo from both ends, in two languages.

  ‘My dad,’ I wail, powerlessly covering my eyes with my hands, ignoring the glucose injection the nurse performs into the catheter in my hand.

  ‘Is that where your dad works?’ Richard poses a question I have got no nerve to answer. ‘Bloody hell, Katya, what kind of person have you become, that you’re willing to do this kind of shit?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  140 DECIBELS OF SILENCE

  ‘Hello?’ I ask hopefully.

  ‘Katya? Thank God. I’ve just been thinking how good it would be to hear from you.’ The kind voice on the other end of the line makes me feel calmer.

  ‘Dad, are you OK?’ I ask anxiously.

  ‘All good, not to worry … a bit tired, but that’s OK … I’ll have recovered by the wedding,’ he says cheerfully.

  ‘Your Paleolithic old-Soviet jokes,’ I smile. ‘Recovered from what, dad?’ I ask suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing, just some chest pain … and my lymph nodes,’ he says distressingly.

  ‘Dad, there’s no need to play partisan … I know about the explosion,’ I say guiltily. ‘Was it your shift?’

  ‘Well … yes,’ he exhales.

  ‘Did you go to the hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, Katyusha, you know how I feel about those places …’

  ‘Do you still treat all diseases with vodka and garlic?’ I tease.

  ‘And onions …’ he says hopelessly.

  ‘Dad, what did the doctors say?’ I ask, apprehensive.

  ‘They drilled into my bone marrow to get a sample for analysis.’

  ‘That’s not a usual test. What do they suspect?’ I ask uneasily.

  ‘Leukemia.’ This word shakes my entire being like a shockwave.

  ‘Leukemia? As in - blood cancer?’ I ask, hoping I’ve misunderstood.

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’ I can tell he’s trying to sound optimistic.

  ‘They’ll cure it, right?’ I ask, forcibly lifting up my injured leg to put it down on the floor and walk, run to him, at last … after eighteen years … now!

  ‘Katyusha, I’ll be fine. It’s under control,’ he says calmly.

  ‘There are people who’ve gotten better from it, you just need chemotherapy …’ I powerlessly sob into my diamond-covered iPhone, fighting the urge to crush it. ‘I can arrange a helicopter to the nearest decent clinic. I can get you to the best hospital in Switzerland - or wherever the best cancer treatment facilities are. Is your passport up to date? Do you have a Schengen visa?’ I ask deliriously.

  ‘Katyusha,’ he says after a pause. ‘I’m really grateful for everything you’ve done for me and I’m sorry I couldn’t be the dad you wanted me to be. You deserved a much better upbringing and I’m really, really sorry I couldn’t be there for you,’ he sighs. ‘I hope you’ll understand me - and maybe forgive me - one day.’

  ‘I forgive you, dad,’ I say, choked by my sobs, tears filling my eyes. ‘I waited for you to come back every day … but I forgive you.’ I’m trying to say something that makes sense, despite my overflowing emotions. ‘I’ll get you out of it. Just be prepared. You’ll be treated by the best doctors.’ The searing pain in my knee threatens to overpower my feelings of guilt at how stupid I’ve been all these years, shutting myself away from him, sending him a pittance …

  ‘I won’t go,’ he says firmly.

  ‘Dad, please, I’m begging you. I need you. I have enough money to pay for it,’ I helplessly whimper, sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping my snivel on the hospital bedclothes.

  ‘Katyusha, I’m sixty-five years old,’ he says after a moment’s thought. ‘For better or for worse, I’ve lived my life. I don’t want to take your money. I must admit, it’s humiliating for me … always has been. I only accepted it because it was the only way of keeping in touch with you. I’ve put aside every kopek of what you’ve sent me. It’s in an envelope below the second brick from the left, on the floor by the entrance to my basement. I can’t let you spend all your money on chemo for an old fool like me.’

  ‘But dad, it’s not about the money.’ My voice is getting more and more desperate. ‘I just want you to live,’ I plead. ‘I know some very influential people, they can help …’

  ‘Then ask them to stop the radiation leakage before a lot more people require chemotherapy,’ he says decisively.

  ‘What radiation leakage?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘Nobody stopped the reactor from going into meltdown when it exploded,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean, the reactor exploded? There were no missiles?’

  ‘No one is going to let any missiles into a closed atomic city,’ he smirks. ‘There are enough explosives here without it.’

  ‘I was told something different …’ I say, stunned.

  ‘You wouldn’t know about Chernobyl either if the radioactive gas cloud hadn’t reached Finland … here you could have an explosion every day – no one would ever find out about it,’ he says bitterly.

  ‘I never realized …’ I say, sinking back into my pillow. A loud, rapid beeping starts up from the monitor next to my bed.

  ‘Katyusha, it’s not your fault,’ he says, making my heart feel like it is being cut out with a sharp knife. ‘Are you OK? What’s that beeping?’ he asks, anxious, hearing my pulse detected on the monitor. ‘Are you in a hospital? What happened?’

  ‘I had knee surgery, I’ll be fine,’ I say, trying not to worry him too much. ‘I’ll come to see you, dad, very soon. Just hold on!’ I’m welling up with tears.

  ‘Katyusha, it would be great to see you,’ he says warmly. ‘Please be careful with your leg. Knee injuries are incredibly long to heal …’

  ‘I’m so sorry, dad,’ I weep, realizing how much I have missed him.

  ‘I love you,’ he suddenly says, something he has never told me before. ‘I never stopped loving you and never will.’ I can hear that he is crying too, although he covers up the receiver so as not to let me hear. ‘I must hang up now.’ He sounds very far away.

  ‘I love you too, dad,’ I snuffle through my tears.

  Detaching the cardiac monitor wire from my chest, I slowly stand up, desperate to get to the airport and take the first flight to Seversk. Resisting the constant dull pain in my left leg, I take a couple of steps, trying to put weight on the injured leg, and for a moment it feels OK … but no. Unbearable pain gains the upper hand, making me struggle to catch my breath, as if I’ve been sprinting for miles …

  … I deserve it.

  Akbar.

  You, with your jesuitical soul, your soul of sickly sweetness, idiot, beneficent millionaire—I hate you worse than anything or anyone on earth! I saw through you and hated you long ago.

  Falling back onto the bed on one leg, I grab my phone, releasing it from the abhorrent diamond cover, and call Mr. Gromov.

  ‘D
id you know there’s a radiation leakage at the Seversk plant?’ I ask. My voice comes out cold and metallic.

  ‘It’s past midnight, what the hell?’ Akbar retorts.

  ‘Did you know?’ I insist.

  ‘It’s an atomic city, there’s always a radiation leakage, they’re used to it.’

  ‘They are real people!’ I exclaim.

  ‘Oh, come on, there are seven billion people on earth,’ Akbar says, annoyed.

  ‘Those people have feelings and … families, and they want to live and not just spend their lives fighting for their health!’ I beg him.

  ‘OK, let’s talk about it tomorrow,’ he yawns.

  ‘Tomorrow there’ll be an article on the front page of the FT with pictures of Akbar Gromov and his mistress in a car crash,’ I confidently bluff.

  ‘Oh.’ He pauses. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Stop the leakage and provide people with aid now,’ I say dryly.

  ‘I don’t have the resources. It’s two thousand miles away from Moscow and I don’t have a single dollar to spare.’

  ‘You can get compensation for an environmental disaster at a strategic state enterprise,’ I suggest.

  ‘Come on, you know how it works. Even if I get enough money for the bribes and kickbacks, most of the funds will get distributed among the government officials’ pockets anyway,’ he says, yawning again.

  ‘What about a charity auction? You can get your friends to donate.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? Why would I want to do that?’ he asks precipitously, irritating me with his forced low voice.

  ‘Because it’s your fucking job!’ I want to yell, but instead only say: ‘Because I’ll arrange you a debt restructuring and a dollar loan.’

  ‘I borrow at actual four per cent, having five on paper.’ He immediately sets out his terms.

  ‘OK, I can do it,’ I say, intentionally agreeing to lose the Swiss Bank one per cent, which will most likely result in me losing my job … ‘It will have to be pledged by your private accounts, though,’ I say, trying at least not to create grounds for an FSA investigation.

  ‘These are anonymous private accounts. You can’t touch them,’ he says fiercely.

  ‘If you want your debt to be restructured in the current market, you’ll have to pledge it.’

  ‘My treasurers can do all that themselves.’

  ‘Your treasurer is your wife’s cousin, who doesn’t even speak any English,’ I retort. ‘You know that these sort of deals do not get done by treasurers.’

  ‘Why do you care so much about those peasants?’ Akbar suddenly asks.

  ‘Because … I imposed this misery on them.’ I try to sound firm.

  ‘You’re never gonna be one of us,’ he smirks. ‘But OK, charity auction it is. We’ll arrange one next week after having the debt restructured.’

  ‘This week,’ I say resolutely.

  ‘Impossible,’ he cuts in.

  ‘The FT is very keen to publish that article tomorrow,’ I riposte.

  ‘What a fine little negotiator you’ve become … Fine. I’ll put you in touch with my marketing department. Tell them what you need.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for their call first thing tomorrow,’ I say, businesslike. ‘Also, to start working on your restructuring I need to get back to Moscow.’

  ‘OK, I’ll ask the company to send a jet for you,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is that all? Can I go to sleep now?’ he says, exasperated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK, goodnight.’ He hangs up.

  The rain is pouring down outside … there is so much I could possibly poetically say about it – its drumming echoes in my empty chest; guilt and suicidal ideas prevail, but the truth is – I feel absolutely nothing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  WRECKED

  The rain outside is getting heavier and the night in the hospital is getting darker. Somewhere between a dream and a fantasy, I hear Akbar’s voice very close to me, sounding unusually kind:

  ‘Your smile, your sparkling eyes are so striking - so painfully beautiful to me. How am I to close my eyes without seeing yours?’ he whispers, holding me tight in the middle of a lush green meadow under the bright morning sun. ‘You’re in a league of your own. I hold a part of you in my very core, lighting me up inside …’ He gets down on one knee. ‘I never thought I could feel this way about anyone,’ he says, revealing a small black velvet case from his pocket, bearing the Graff logo.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask excitedly.

  All of a sudden a gust of heavy wind blows, covering the field with a snowy powder. It turns out to be a rocky plateau - and we are standing right at its edge.

  Cautiously, I look down the gorge and see that the entire ravine is full of caves. Grimy, poverty-stricken people watchfully peep out from the caves as if they want to tell me something … my father is amongst them.

  All those faithful people who were gazing at the cross … must have felt that all their hopes and almost all their faith had been shattered at a blow.

  I turn to Akbar and ask if we can help them … but he wordlessly rises from his knee, puts the diamond ring back into his pocket and walks away, leaving me standing at the edge … I know I need to go down there …

  ‘Porridge?’ the brash, plump woman grudgingly asks, pushing her cart with its massive pot smelling of oatmeal right up to my bed.

  ‘Yes please,’ I say with a weak smile.

  ‘There.’ She offhandedly flops the sticky porridge into an aluminum bowl and gives it to me,

  Moments later, an attentive young doctor enters the room and examines my head and leg. ‘By no means are you fit enough to check out today.’ He declines my request to leave. ‘You need to stay under medical supervision.’

  ‘I’ll go to the best clinic in Moscow, I’ve got very good insurance … the guys there will get me on a private jet.’ I gesture at the bodyguards by the door. ‘Please, I really need to be in Moscow, my father’s life depends on it,’ I plead.

  ‘OK, but it’s your own responsibility,’ he eventually agrees. ‘Keep the brace on at all times; get lots of rest, keep taking the antibiotics and change the bandages daily,’ he says, signing off the release papers and giving me the green light to get ready.

  The bolts sticking out of my knee are too big to fit into my jeans … so I cut the jeans into shorts with the nurse’s scissors and carefully put my leg through. The big, hard beige brace and the foam collar on my neck make me look like some kind of alien monster, especially with the bruises and burns all over my body.

  Wobbling on my crutches, I try to walk out of my room towards the elevators, but it appears to be a lot more painful than anticipated.

  Seeing me struggling, the young doctor brings me a huge wheelchair. ‘Get in,’ he says, letting the bodyguards wheel me down to the black Mercedes waiting at the entrance.

  They silently help me over the puddles into the brand-new car and as soon as the driver starts the engine I rivet my eyes on my phone, trying to look busy so that I don’t have to talk to them.

  Amongst hundreds of urgent emails, alerting margin calls and panic revaluations caused by the market collapse, I find the one interests me the most – from Akbar’s events manager, Tatiana.

  She has checked with the secretaries of the potential high-profile guests and it seems that Saturday is the best night to hold a charity auction. To raise more money she suggests putting one of Madonna’s old G-strings under the hammer … it is unclear whether or not this is an authentic item. ‘For the venue we recommend the basement of the Christ the Savior cathedral,’ she says. ‘It is the most popular, luxurious and exclusive location.’

  Leaning back in my seat, I start picturing dirty underwear being sold in the galleries of Moscow’s main cathedral, built and rebuilt at a tremendous human cost …

  ‘We’ve got a crate of vodka,’ the driver says to the bodyguards. ‘Natasha will make the salads: gherkins, salami, etcetera. We shoul
d buy beer on the way back after we drop her off,’ he says, indicating me. ‘We’ll need it in the morning …’

  Feeling revulsion at myself for having been a part of this ‘ignorant flock’, I respond to Tatiana: ‘Please send me a list of all the available venues for Saturday evening. Let’s not go with the Christ the Savior.’

  Soon, after passing a few checkpoints, we approach a lonely private jet in the middle of the runway. The sun is setting in the background, a dazzling red warning sign.

  A cute Swiss pilot courteously helps me in my laborious climb up the narrow stairs, with my leg that will not bend. We enter the monochrome gold interior, which now feels like plastic.

  One thought runs back in forth in my head throughout the flight above the rain clouds: ‘Shall I just drop everything and go to see my dad?’ But if I did so, I would lose the momentum to get Akbar to fix the leakage … and that’s the only way to convince my dad to get proper treatment.

  At around 8 p.m. we land in Moscow. The attentive pilot helps me to Akbar’s black Maybach, and emphatically gives me his card, in case I should require his services again. I quickly thank him and ask the driver to bring me home, then dial the only person I want to talk to. ‘Dad, how are you feeling?’

  ‘I’m OK, Katyusha, and so glad you’ve called. How’s your knee?’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I assure him. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘You know, lying here in the hospital, with my heart pumping out of my chest, I started thinking that it’s hard to understand why things happen the way they happen, but I’ve come to accept that somewhere out there, in this confusing labyrinth of life, there has to be a reason for all this and a purpose that somehow ties us to that equation, whatever that equation may be,’ he mumbles.

  ‘Dad, are you OK?’ I ask, preoccupied, barely understanding what he is saying.

  ‘You know I’m not an emotional type … Never in my life did I allow myself to cry, but today I cried,’ he admits. ‘Katyusha, please promise me you’ll marry a good, loving, caring guy and have two children - or better, three. There’s no greater happiness than being a parent. I remember the moment when you were born. The nurse brought you out to weigh you. That was when I first saw you, a little miracle, a part of me, my flesh and blood; giving out ripples of love, intensifying with every minute. How could I ever have been so lucky as to create you?’ he says blissfully. ‘They put you on the scales and you grabbed my finger with your tiny little fingers. That was the first time I felt that I hadn’t lived for nothing.’ My eyes are wet with tears again.