Snow Job

by Jenni Ferchenko

  Pulling myself together, I realize he has just said something really unusual about himself - something he never used to be able to do. ‘Why did you cry, dad?’ I ask.

  ‘Katyusha, you don’t want to know … You live in this glamorous world … I don’t want to scare you with stories of God-forgotten Siberia,’ he sighs.

  ‘Dad, please, tell me,’ I beg. ‘I’m not that glamorous after all,’ I add, realizing he won’t tell if I don’t come down to him … down into the ravine. ‘I did my toilet-cleaning stint when I was a penniless student in Italy … I know what it means to get my hands dirty. Tell me.’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing unusual, really - workers from our factory went to the new director, demanding that he fix the meltdown … and help our women and children,’ he finally says. ‘He didn’t even listen to them.’ His voice sounds hopeless. ‘This new management just doesn’t care … just like the old one.’

  ‘Dad,’ I exhale, trying to control my overwhelming emotions. ‘I’ll fix the leakage and provide the aid … I know the new owner.’

  ‘You do?’ he asks, stunned.

  ‘Yeah, unfortunately,’ I say guiltily.

  ‘Katyusha, please be careful. Those kinds of people just want to make quick money, while they can, and don’t give a damn about others,’ he appeals.

  ‘How much money do you think is needed to fix the damage?’ I ask.

  ‘Too much, Katyusha, don’t even go there … more money than any of us could even imagine,’ he says humbly.

  ‘Five … ten million dollars?’ I prompt.

  ‘Something like that,’ he says reticently. ‘Depending on how much they steal … the core needs to be covered with a lead shield as they did at Chernobyl, to stop the reaction … at least back then they evacuated the civilians,’ he says remorsefully.

  ‘Yeah, months later,’ I say, recalling the smelly buses and people in masks.

  ‘I’m worried for Elena,’ he sighs. ‘She’s always ill … and very pale … they won’t be able to afford the red meat she needs when I’m gone.’

  ‘What do you mean, when you’re gone?’ I shout into the terrifying silence on the other end. ‘Dad, please, don’t say that. I’ll make them fix the meltdown, I promise.’ All of a sudden I feel an enormous sense of responsibility for my little stepsister.

  ‘You’re a great girl,’ he says.

  ‘Not so great,’ I mutter, ashamed to tell him the truth, letting my dad go off for a rest as we arrive at Leontievsky Lane.

  Feeling determined, I give my keys to the driver, tell him to carry my things up to my apartment and take me to the office. I don’t even try to walk up the stairs, knowing every step would be agony.

  As I wait for the driver, I type a message to Richard: ‘I was wrong on so many levels, never thought of the consequences. There’s no excuse. For what it’s worth, I’m trying to fix it and I’m going to Seversk.’

  Minutes later we arrive at the office. I slowly get out of the car and, fighting the overriding pain, hobble up to the dark, empty dealing room. Loading the list of Akbar’s loans with the Swiss Bank on my computer, I find out there is about two billion dollars, converted into roubles to earn a higher interest rate. Provided it is five times leveraged, it is losing hundreds of thousands of dollars per day with the current dynamics of the Russian currency depreciation.

  For the next couple of hours, I work to restructure the debt, so it stops losing money … and gradually converts back into dollars at a preferential rate, earning one per cent on the loan. Feeling the need to run Akbar through the structure so as to execute it as soon as possible, I dial his number.

  ‘Hello,’ I say calmly.

  ‘Is this a new habit of yours, calling me after midnight?’ he asks, with loud music playing in the background, obviously in some bar.

  ‘I’ve found a way to restructure your debt,’ I say.

  ‘Nice of you … so what are the cash flows?’ he asks, getting out of the noise to a quieter place.

  ‘At this rouble rate, pledging KazyMak’s liabilities with your cash, the Swiss Bank can restructure your debt at four per cent and give you back one,’ I explain.

  ‘Well done, let’s do it,’ he says, sipping his drink.

  ‘There’s one condition though.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asks sternly.

  ‘There are several tranches,’ I begin, hearing him snuffling with dissatisfaction. ‘The first tranche the Swiss Bank will lend you is fifty million dollars. I’ll execute the rest when you fix the meltdown in Seversk and provide help to the people,’ I say firmly, for the first time without any hesitation.

  ‘Someone has grown some teeth, eh, my little shark,’ he sneers. ‘Do you think you’re that indispensable?’

  ‘Akbar, one per cent on two billion is twenty million dollars,’ I say calmly. ‘Covering the reactor with a lead shield will cost you maximum five million, since you don’t have to bribe anyone to do that,’ I explain. ‘You’ll be fifteen million up, and be able to close all your loss-making positions. In a situation like this, it’s a deal no other banker can offer. I am putting my career on the line here. The best you could get elsewhere would be to increase your stake in their respective banks, by buying more shares in return for not having margin calls.’

  ‘I’d much rather use the funds from the charity ball to fix that leakage.’

  ‘With the rouble in freefall, the cost of carry is very much against you,’ I argue. ‘I can’t guarantee the same conditions after Saturday.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he mutters. ‘Did you have a nice flight?’

  ‘Yes, thank you … very kind of you to arrange,’ I say.

  ‘I’m always kind to those who are kind to me,’ he says. The background music tells me he is back in the bar; I hear him talking to some girls with his low, loud voice, until eventually he hangs up.

  Part of me wants to shout and curse him for being such a dick … out partying when people are dying because of him … but instead I find Tatiana’s email with venue suggestions, including the Tretyakov Gallery, Pushkin Museum, various churches and theaters, and one nightclub – The Rolling Stone … Without a second thought, I choose the club.

  At around 1 a.m. I sluggishly limp out of the office into a yellow taxi with a bad-tempered driver, who has waited outside for forty minutes just to take me less than a quarter of a mile to Leontievsky Lane … but the rouble equivalent of fifty bucks puts a stop to his grumbling.

  Once I’m through the entrance of the building I used to admire, it now feels painful and stupid to crawl up all the flights of stairs.

  Finally, completely exhausted, I crash on my couch …

  Suddenly, my phone rings, prompting me to wake up, thinking Akbar has changed his mind and wants to execute the deal - but I’m wrong, it is Richard:

  ‘Salut,’ he says.

  ‘Salut, ça va?’ I respond.

  ‘Ça va bien, merci,’ he says, strangely chewing the words. Eventually he mumbles: ‘Look, Katya, I’m … God knows I didn’t want that … she did it … I didn’t know … I’m … sorry.’

  ‘Richard, are you drunk?’ I ask, not believing my ears. ‘Since when have you been drinking?’

  ‘Yes, I know, that makes me a hypocrite too, right?’ he scoffs.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask anxiously. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Well, the article you asked me not to publish is going to come out tomorrow … front page … I guess your beau’s not going to like it …’

  ‘Damn it, Richard, what the hell?’ I exclaim. ‘Is this some kind of a sick joke?’

  ‘I wish it was,’ he sighs. ‘I wasn’t going to make such a big story out of it … but I couldn’t ignore it completely … I wrote a small article … but she picked up on it and put her own spin on the story.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Sophie,’ he says bitterly. ‘She got her hands on the picture you sent from my phone.’

  ‘Did you know about it?’

  ‘No,
’ he sighs. ‘I only found out when I saw the blueprint for tomorrow’s paper.’

  ‘Damn it, Richard!’ I fume. ‘I knew the bitch would play you one day.’

  ‘Katya, I’m sorry. If there was a way to fix it, I would - but I can’t.’

  ‘I almost got Akbar to fix the leakage and now all that effort is going down the drain!’ I howl in desperation. ‘He’s going to go ballistic. He might even call off the charity event. For Christ’s sake, Richard, why did she have to fuck all that up?’

  ‘What she’s done is unpalatable,’ he says reluctantly. ‘Guess she just wanted to boost her career …’

  ‘Your whole fucking high-flying career in London is at the expense of people’s health and living conditions in less fortunate countries.’ I hang up, unable to control my overwhelming emotions …

  My gaze, blurred with tears, falls on the never-opened Sotheby’s bag right behind the couch … if I sold it back to Sotheby’s, it might give me enough money to buy at least some of the lead for the reactor shield.

  Feeling bold, I check with Google how much my version of the Great Whore might cost, but the first search result strikes me with its blinding wisdom: ‘Pay her back as she herself has paid back others, and repay her double for her deeds.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHARITY

  The next day, my body decides to shut down on me. Fatigue takes over and I have absolutely no strength to get up. Pain from my neck spreads down through my spine, just like it used to feel sleeping on the floor near the central heating duct, without pillows or blanket.

  My dad would find me there, lift me up from the floor and say: ‘Poor Katyusha, get into your bed,’ making me really hope I could skip school that day.

  Drifting into a haze of antibiotics, I shuffle my phone under my pillow so as not to hear the vibration of incoming messages and calls … but an unknown number keeps on ringing again and again, making it impossible to ignore.

  ‘Hello,’ I say cautiously, fearing it might be Akbar demanding to know why we are splashed all over the front page of the FT.

  Instead, it is Ahmad who yells at me down the phone: ‘Katya, yakhta amrak, where is our lithium?’

  ‘Oh hi, Ahmad. How are you?’ I ask, relieved it is not Akbar. ‘As far as I know, it’s been dispatched and should be getting onto the ship to Tripoli soon.’

  ‘We read our contractor KazyMak Metallurg is bankrupt,’ he says firmly. ‘We want guarantees we receive the cargo.’

  ‘KazyMak Metallurg is owned by the Russian government and it’s a top ten company in the country,’ I retort. ‘Of course you’ll receive the cargo.’

  ‘The contract says we receive it in seven days, but it is not even in Genoa port yet!’ he exclaims. ‘You miss deadline … It never happened if we had buy it from Chile.’

  ‘You’d have paid a lot more tax and legal costs,’ I riposte.

  ‘Katya, habibi, we always find solution, especially when market is twenty per cent down.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, realizing he wants to renegotiate the price. I decide to change tack and play nice. ‘Let me find out where the cargo is.’

  ‘We want a very good deal with regard to the delay,’ he says, rolling his R’s.

  ‘Always the best deal for you,’ I sweet-talk, already dreading bringing up the subject with Akbar.

  ‘I wait your call,’ Ahmad says, hanging up.

  The next moment I load the Financial Times front page on my iPhone and immediately see the article in question: ‘Double Blow-up for Russian Shadow Tycoon’ with a picture of the burning Ferrari, which could only have been taken from the angle I was at … there is no way to get out of this alive.

  ‘On Saturday afternoon Akbar Gromov, owner of KazyMak Metallurg Holding, crashed into a snowmaking machine in Sochi during a snow rally with his glamorous private banker, from whom one of the richest men in Russia allegedly bought four–five times levered US financial sector shares, which were used as a pledge to other banks as collateral for loans. With the current market turmoil, Gromov’s losses from such dealings is about fifteen billion dollars, which is twice the value of the KazyMak Metallurg assets …’

  Damn Sophie.

  How am I supposed to get him to fix the leakage now?

  Damn it!

  The stone in my solar plexus is getting bigger and heavier. I nervously check my email inbox …

  Tatiana has not yet confirmed the venue.

  What if Akbar changes his mind about the charity ball and it doesn’t happen at all?

  Damn, what am I going to do?

  Bearing the pain, I keep my neck and left leg straight and hobble to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of vodka from the fridge. Resting my leg on the edge of the table, I cut off the dirty bandages and pour the vodka over the fresh stitches, trying not to look at them … This is what my soul must look like – scarred inside and out.

  Feeling slightly better with my new bandages, I carefully get up and start pacing around, expecting my phone to ring at any time, with Akbar on the other end yelling at me … but it is still silent. Maybe there is something wrong with the reception?

  However, it works perfectly when I call a taxi to take me to Sotheby’s.

  Having been told it will arrive in thirty minutes, I throw on a loose, short yellow dress and black flats, which work well with green plastic elbow-crutches and the huge beige brace.

  Making my way downstairs turns out to be even more of a struggle than my way up: with only one leg in full working order, I have to devise a complex system of manoeuvres, taking it one step at a time.

  Finally I reach the bottom and, leaning on my crutches, clumsily get into the threadbare, rug-covered passenger seat of a Soviet-built Lada, acrid with the smell of petrol fumes.

  Five minutes later, we arrive at the auction house, an impressive building right next to the Swiss Bank office.

  A very Slavic-looking attendant with a put-on American accent ushers me into a space with towering acrylic walls, small-scale minimalist paintings, and vast modern art installations.

  ‘I would be happy to answer any of your questions about our upcoming sales,’ he smiles.

  ‘I would like to have a painting valued,’ I say politely, showing him the paper bag containing the precious cargo.

  ‘Oh, in that case you’ll need to speak to my colleague Irina,’ he says, somewhat disappointed. ‘Her office is just behind the wall.’ He shows me the way, across a slippery, indigo-dyed floor.

  Behind the glass wall I see the familiar face of the brunette Dolly Parton lookalike, who is sitting in a red egg-shaped armchair.

  She gazes spitefully at me as I hobble into her office, trying not to break anything with the crutches.

  ‘I would like to sell this Whore of Babylon at the next auction,’ I say cordially.

  ‘Is that the twelfth-century painting Akbar Gromov bought?’ she asks, her tone of voice as dry as the rest of her.

  ‘That’s right,’ I respond. ‘He gave it to me the moment he bought it. You saw it,’ I say firmly, trying not to reveal my mounting worry that she might not accept it.

  ‘We’d keep twenty-five per cent of the final price,’ she eventually says.

  ‘But that’s a quarter of its value!’ I protest. That very moment, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket; I quickly grab it to check if it is Akbar, and am surprised to see Richard’s number instead.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, feeling uncomfortable taking the call under Irina’s judgemental gaze.

  ‘Hey, I can’t really talk right now … is it something urgent?’ I ask, subduing my voice.

  ‘Your friend came over,’ Richard interrupts me in an unusually sad, grave tone.

  ‘What friend?’

  ‘The one with the scars all over his face and a gun under his black jacket,’ he says anxiously.

  ‘Ibrahim?’ I ask in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, he wants me to make friends with Akbar’s daughter at the Bulgari Hotel tomorrow and take her out on a Satu
rday night date,’ he recounts. ‘But do not spoil her,’ he mimics, irritatingly putting on a Russian accent.

  ‘What? Is this a joke?’ I ask, horrified.

  ‘He was very convincing.’ Richard breathes out heavily.

  ‘Oh my God, are you OK?’ I ask, ineptly limping out of the glass office, ignoring the pain in my knee.

  ‘Yes, I’m OK … I’m worried about you,’ he says. ‘Obviously, it’s all being done to put pressure on you … he’s even prepared to use his own daughter in his Machiavellian schemes.’

  ‘He wants me to restructure his debt at a huge discount,’ I say, feeling the invisible collar around my neck getting tighter and tighter.

  ‘He clearly wants a better deal now,’ Richard smirks.

  ‘Clearly …’ I say, frustrated. ‘It’s disgraceful to have gotten you involved in this.’ I realize it’s time to step up my game. ‘I need to go to him and deal with it myself.’

  ‘Please, be careful … he’s obviously very dangerous,’ Richard urges.

  ‘I know … I’ll do whatever I have to do to get you out of this mess,’ I say decisively. As soon as I get off the phone, I text Akbar: ‘When and where?’

  After limping back to the glass office, I agree to the extortionate twenty-five per cent fee. ‘Where do I need to sign?’ I ask.

  ‘Right here.’ The brunette gives me the pre-prepared paperwork, I immediately sign and, feeling somewhat liberated, leave The Whore behind me.

  Still with no answer from Akbar, I hobble outside to the busy, polluted Tverskaya, and try to catch a taxi by sticking my arm out, as is the common practice in Moscow … but no one stops.