Sila's Fortune

by Fabrice Humbert

  Over his head the sky was burning. Nothing in his face betrayed the least flicker of emotion. The workers were impressed by his calm. Lev Kravchenko, on the brink of the abyss, seemed unmoved. No anger, no determination, no despair. Apathy perhaps, mingled with shock. They’d been quick to act … They’d made an offer; he had refused and immediately the punishment. Naked violence, he had thought last time. The time had come.

  I want to be independent.

  Lev had talked like Riabine; he had been treated like Riabine. But he was not like the farmer. He was not an animal holed up in his lair. Standing on an embankment before the fire-ravaged landscape, he had nothing in common with the muzhik. He felt none of the primeval terror the man must have felt when threatened. Obviously, his complete indifference was simply a facade. No one can remain completely indifferent when his property is being destroyed. This bubbling oil slick creeping across the ground, stippled with flame and smoke, was eating away his money, his only protection in these troubled times. He himself was being diminished there, but the real danger would come at the critical moment when he would stand alone, naked in the face of danger, protected only by the fragile rectitude of his body. The moment when he would simply be himself, Lev Kravchenko, the man he had once been, with no support, no money, no men.

  Already, though he did not realise it, his figure standing on the hillock, a dark twig silhouetted against the wall of fire, displayed his tragic weakness in the face of the elements. Even as he stood thinking that his empire was beginning to shrink, it was his body that seemed to have been weakened by the attack. And in the thunderous roar of the fire, Lev was no more than an inconsequential silence.

  It took three days and nights to extinguish the blaze. The well was not capped. Soon the mechanical insects would be able to resume their ballet, though a considerable number of them had been amputated. And Lev did not have the money for the repairs.

  Back in Moscow, Lev spent the better part of his days with bankers. They were not unresponsive to his overtures, proof that the Seven had not yet reached an agreement. The reason for this was clear. They feared Lianov and were reluctant to put him at the head of the vast multinational that would result from the merger of Liekom and ELK. Nor had they united against the head of the Brotherhood, for several reasons: because Litvinov was still head of the company, officially at least, and Lianov did not yet have complete control. Because their interests were linked inasmuch as the Brotherhood’s activities, especially in the field of investments, were becoming more legitimate. Lastly, because they had their own disaster to deal with. Russia was bankrupt. As expected, the IMF provided money. Traces of it could be found the very next day in the offshore accounts: part of the manna had been misappropriated by the oligarchs. In Russia, however, the same oligarchs were still in a difficult position and the political future remained uncertain. Who would replace Yeltsin?

  In all the chaos, the confusion of insolvency and embezzlement, in the midst of all the trafficking in power, money and influence, Kravchenko’s problems were of little consequence. So the banks had not closed their doors to him. Instead cold-faced men simply informed Lev that their own positions were too tenuous and that, with the bank liable to collapse at any moment, they were in no position to lend such large sums.

  In August 1998, the Saniak hedge fund declared bankruptcy. No one had had an inkling they were in trouble. The management of the fund had always been obscure, focused primarily on the founder and CEO, a Ukrainian of dubious background who had suddenly become rich, and the fund had been too exposed to Russian debt. While the monthly newsletter gushingly boasted unprecedented earnings, increasingly risky investments, intended to shore up losses, had finally led to its collapse. By the time the investors realised what was happening, they’d already lost everything. And the Ukrainian vanished as swiftly as he had appeared.

  It was a serious body-blow. The company’s losses amounted to almost a billion dollars besides which Lev had lost a third of his personal fortune. Everything else was salted away in tax havens and seemed to be safe. But even tax havens could be dangerous. Nauru, an island grown rich from mineral deposits and money laundering, had also gone bust. Its inhabitants now lived in rusty Mercedes, with no wheels, no petrol, trying to live off the remnants of an island devastated by strip mining.

  Lev’s divorce seemed likely to hasten his bankruptcy. When they met with the judge, Elena was thinner and more beautiful than ever. She gazed at her Hun with a last flicker of tenderness and a lot of hostility.

  ‘You were to blame for Riabine,’ she whispered to him.

  She didn’t know how right she was.

  ‘And I hear you’ve been seeing a lot of some prostitute. Congratulations.’

  Lev did not react. But in private, when the audience was over, he quickly explained the situation to her. He was in desperate straits. Elena listened in silence. As always, she was quick to understand and he wondered whether she already knew all about his problems. But she did not waver.

  ‘I already told you, I want half your fortune – or what’s left of it. It’s not for me, it’s for the children. They have to be protected. And I want them to be schooled abroad. They need to get out of this country. Just look at what you’ve become.’

  She was a different woman. Or perhaps she was revealing a part of herself which had been masked by her love for him. The force of her intelligence made her stiff and cold and if, now and then, Lev thought he caught a glimpse of the woman she had once been, a sudden reversal revealed to him the icy face of his enemy.

  Dreams of fire haunted the oligarch’s nights. Sheets of flame that had him waking up in a sweat. In the depths of sleep, towards 3 am, in that perilous moment of weakness and fear, Lev would tear himself from his nightmares as though ripped from sleep by sheer terror. He gazed at the room, the bed, the windows, probing the depths of his solitude.

  During one such wakening, he remembered something Elena had said: ‘You were lost the day you did nothing to help that black waiter in the restaurant in Paris. That day was your downfall. And it was mine too.’

  The accusation had seemed totally unjust to Lev. He remembered nothing about what had happened. How was he responsible for this waiter?

  So, he would also have to fight his wife. Unless she was prepared to accept half of his debts. This was a fortune he was more than happy to give to her.

  As he struggled, back to the wall, the curious pleasure of defeat carried him forward. Life was no longer that strange boundlessness of time made up of a thousand exertions and hazy with uncertainty and patience; now it was a swift jolt where everything was at stake: his fortune, his reputation, his life. For a man tormented by the absurd, hounded by self-doubt, danger was the promise of action. It was now or never.

  ELK needed two hundred million dollars if the business was to ride out the crisis. The world was desperate for oil. The world economy, beset by local crises, was guzzling energy, plundering the earth to fuel development. From everywhere, money flowed. Vast loans. The crises in Asia, in South America, in Russia, the famines and the massacres in Africa, nothing could curb the enormous energy of the planet, awash with money, with consumption, with unquenchable desire. The great body needed oil, gas, it needed energy, even wars and massacres required energy, death drawing on deep wells of greed. Burning up with money fever, inflamed by each new revenue stream, the world economy was going through one of its greatest periods of prosperity. All these furnaces crammed to bursting point were bound to explode, but while it lasted, Lev was convinced he could get the money.

  He left for London. Bored one day long ago he had – for an absurd sum – bought a huge house there that he never stayed in, one Elena occasionally used when she went clothes shopping. She was fascinated by the change in Britain’s capital, irrigated by money and a constant influx of people, where wealth and opulence were now so common that a city which had always been a rather eccentric old maid was now hiking up her petticoats to get down and dirty in sports cars and five-sta
r restaurants.

  Lev was happy to leave the stifling atmosphere of his empty palace. He took Oksana with him. His private jet was waiting and he noted with amusement that bankrupt men are still rich.

  The London house, some 1,000 square metres, seemed to him an ideal size since he did not get lost in it. Oksana liked it.

  ‘You need to forget about business, Lev. By all means go to your meetings, but the rest of the time we’re spending in restaurants and nightclubs.’

  This they did. Lev spent staggering sums which, given he was bankrupt, meant nothing. Bouncers queued up to escort them and get a tip. He ordered the most expensive vintages and his extravagance was so talked about, no one could have imagined the true nature of his financial situation. Oksana herself succeeded in making some saleswoman’s year, buying all the dresses she had tried on in an hour. The Russian billionaire and his girlfriend were mobbed by the paparazzi. Lev knew that this would do him no harm. True, the British wrote in clichés and the handful of articles he read were pathetically trite, rehashing platitudes about ‘the oligarch’s fabulous wealth’, ‘the madness of Russia’, ‘the oil prince’. But at least he was being talked about, and he acquired a celebrity status he had not previously had in Britain, where other oligarchs were considerably more famous. Once or twice, the alcohol, the darkness and the throb of the music brought him peace in the tangle of crowds, of lights, of dancing. He watched the moving figures, revelled in the youthful faces, the emptiness of pleasure. He was no longer thinking about anything and the mindless state that came over him, disturbing in its serenity, was a wonderful drug.

  At a meeting at Kelmann, he noticed a brilliant young English woman. She reminded him of Elena. The same intelligence, the same distinguished features. She was much less pretty, but it was Elena just the same. He felt a tightness in the pit of his stomach. Everyone else at the meeting seemed to disappear. There was only this woman. In the terrible slow motion where negotiations seemed to hang motionless, the figures melded and as a vague bitterness welled inside him, Lev felt the crushing wave of time: his life closed in on him, his youth disappeared in a flash. Suddenly, nothing had meaning.

  He froze. Words died away. If he could, he would have grabbed this woman on the other side of the table, this ghost of his youth, but he simply sat staring as he experienced, like a whirlpool, the terrifying swiftness of loss, not of his fast-disappearing fortune, but simply, ineluctably, of his life.

  23

  Zadie had never felt remotely attracted to a client. She dealt with portfolios, not people. But during the meeting with this Russian client, she felt herself quiver. This despite the fact that she was surrounded by her team and the catastrophic situation of the business they were discussing should have precluded all other considerations. The man was not handsome. He was short and she did not find his somewhat Asian features attractive. He needed two hundred million dollars. And suddenly, she sensed he was no longer listening to them. She glanced at him; he was staring at her. It was not an intimidating stare, he was not trying to impress her, nor was it a look of curiosity or attentiveness. Nor was it desire, or if it was it was a desire so particular that the man seemed almost desperate, teetering over an abyss.

  And it was at this point that she began to tremble. From the depths of her harshness, her biting sharpness, welled a stifling feeling, an overpowering emotion. And suddenly this short man in the black suit, this man she had never met before, became closer, more important to her, than all the members of her team.

  Simon Jude had placed a hand on her forearm. She felt the pressure, realised she had to come back to reality, that several people around the table had noticed she was no longer paying attention. This was an important business deal, she could not afford to make a mistake; she had just been promoted, given greater responsibility, there could be no question of easing up.

  She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, she was no longer trembling. She was once again steady, confident, despite the combination of fear and longing lodged deep inside her.

  They arranged a second meeting in New York at head office.

  The man took his leave. His handshake lingered a fraction too long. Zadie was taller than he was, yet once again she had a feeling of weakness simply from being near him.

  ‘It would be a pleasure to see you again,’ said the man. ‘You’re a brilliant woman and I like working with brilliant people.’

  There was no trace of despair in him now. He had composed himself, he was as he had been at the start of the meeting. She nodded, unable to say a word. She knew she should say something, if only ‘thanks’ or ‘see you again’.

  ‘Impressive guy,’ said Simon after Lev had gone. ‘I got the impression I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Zadie. ‘It’s a small world, and the financial world is tiny. I mean, you’re dating Hilland’s daughter.’

  Jane Hilland had wanted to see him again. They had met up in a pub and, once again, Simon had been inordinately awkward, but the young woman seemed to like him all the more. She laughed a lot at his unwitting jokes.

  ‘What I find striking about you is your naivety,’ she teased him.

  She did not know how right she was. No one in the London financial world had ever been as innocent as Simon, so much so that his survival in the City was a purest miracle, owing perhaps to the subtle magic that innocence sometimes gives rise to. Far from being crushed, he floated like a bubble, protected as always, admittedly, by the chainmail of mathematics that was his armour. But what was most surprising was that any woman should ever be fascinated by his survival mechanism, this curious solution, a combination of blindness and innocence which he adopted in the face of a hostile world. But Jane Hilland herself was an extraordinary woman. Her father’s vast fortune meant she had absolute freedom. And since the money was wedded to a keen intelligence and a certain personal eccentricity, she was little influenced by prejudice. So this goldfish no woman had ever found interesting had managed to pique her curiosity. They went to the cinema to see one of those English films that defy common sense. In fact, the goldfish was part of this world. He wasn’t French, he was English, funny English.

  Jane wanted to discover his world. Simon invited her home, taking care to ensure Matt cleared out. They had a very pleasant evening. They drank, they talked, had a quick bite.

  Late in the evening, Simon gave a start. He could hear the key turn in the lock. Why was he worried about his friend coming home? Because Matt enjoyed making him uncomfortable, because Matt would love to look down on Jane, but most of all because Matt could seduce any woman.

  But Jane surprised him. Everything about her father’s wealth that might translate into a sense of superiority, a glacial indifference, she demonstrated now. Hardly had Matt said hello, with a casual wave and that aura of booze and contentment he had, than this charming woman became haughty. Her eyes grew cold, her smile vanished, her whole body seemed to be armoured with steel and detachment.

  Matt started boasting about the restaurant he’d just been to.

  ‘I find it rather pretentious,’ she said.

  She asked him what he did for a living.

  ‘I used to work for a Russian hedge fund that’s just gone belly up. But it won’t take me long to find something else.’

  ‘A trader?’ she asked condescendingly.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s strange. I know a lot of traders, I’ve been around them my whole life. My father’s a banker. I don’t see you as a trader.’

  ‘And where do you see me?’ asked Matt.

  ‘In the dole queue.’

  The quip was fired off without a trace of a smile. Then Jane got to her feet and said: ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  She kissed Simon on both cheeks and left with a wave, without even saying goodbye to Matt.

  He blushed. The door slammed.

  ‘Friendly, your girlfriend,’ he commented.

  ‘She’s not usually like t
hat. I don’t know what got into her. She was being so charming.’

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. The Hillands – all silver spoons and self-importance. Apparently her father fucks every whore in London. Well, the expensive ones at least.’

  Matt was so humiliated he forgot to say that she was ugly. Never had he felt such contempt. This woman had tapped into all his insecurities and his fears. He felt as though he had just come out of a job interview where instead of smiles, he’d been spat on.

  ‘I’ve never met such a complete bitch.’

  Slowly the spite machine ground into gear again.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing with her,’ he went on, ‘London’s full of charming girls but, oh no, you have to pick the worst of the lot. A complete bitch.’

  Matt fell silent. He ran his tongue over his lips. He was still flushed with humiliation.

  ‘And ugly as fuck to boot.’

  Finally. He’d said it.

  Two days later, Simon saw Jane at her place.

  ‘I was a bit offhand with your friend.’

  ‘A bit, maybe.’

  ‘I hope I didn’t embarrass you. I have to say I didn’t like him. That smugness … That second-rate Casanova look he’s got going … You’re nothing like each other. He hates you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Hates me?’ Simon repeated, flabbergasted. ‘No, he’s my friend, my best friend.’

  ‘That doesn’t preclude hate. Quite the contrary.’

  ‘I don’t think he hates me, no, I don’t think so,’ Simon stammered.

  Late in the evening, as they were sitting on the sofa, a terrifying thing happened: Jane kissed him. Not urgently, passionately, but a fleeting playful kiss. In spite of his terror – what was he supposed to do, how could he be sure not to do it wrong, not to seem ridiculous? – Simon kissed her for a longer time.