Akbar checks me out with a stern, impassive face in the deafening silence, making me feel like the elevator shaft is about to swallow me up.
‘Let’s have a bite at the Ritz,’ the oligarch suddenly suggests, confidently marching out, his bodyguard at his heels.
For a moment I stall, but then rapidly catch up, trying to keep up with their wide strides all the way around the corner to the sleek, glassy entrance of the luxury hotel.
‘Good evening, Mr Gromov.’ A polite butler bows to Akbar, letting us through the beeping metal frame into a gorgeous gilded interior. Is he going to take me to a room? My whole body involuntarily tenses. No, he is an important client, he stood up for me … Impudently, Akbar proceeds to the private glass elevator at the back of the hall, and with a palpitating heart I totter behind him.
The elevator takes us to the rooftop restaurant, my sense of relief increasing with every floor we pass.
Once we arrive, the bodyguard discreetly disappears. At the door we are offered a traditional appetiser of bread and salt, with a vodka shot, which Akbar ignores, going over to a remote table in a leafy oasis by the little lake, with an even better view of the Kremlin than from our terrace … what’s the deal with the snipers then?
He takes an open posture in a comfortable chair with lots of room for his long legs.
‘What do you drink?’ he asks with dogmatic seriousness, leaning towards me so I can see his wrinkles.
‘Mm, I don’t know. Same as you, I guess,’ I say timidly.
‘Nineteen ninety-eight Chateau Lynch-Bages,’ Akbar offhandedly orders to a complacent sommelier. ‘… And some food … carpaccios, tartares … as usual.’
He looks at me as if he has almost figured me out, with only a couple of puzzle pieces missing. I am anxiously thinking of a way to start the conversation but afraid to say something stupid. The only thing that comes to my mind is to comment that if anyone snored loudly enough in this hotel, they might wake up Lenin in the mausoleum right across the street, but that’s probably not the most appropriate thing to say to such a serious man.
‘If you aren’t prepared to fight, you do not deserve to win,’ Akbar says authoritatively, tasting the wine. ‘I slept in the hangar of a metallurgical plant for months,’ he continues after a pause, studying the wine in his glass. ‘I began losing my teeth because of fluorine and scurvy. It did not kill me. I withstood. Even though there were attempts,’ he says, grinning more to himself. ‘If I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be who I am today, so to speak.’
‘You did very well,’ I say with admiration.
‘If you’re forty, that means you’ve been doing commodities since the nineties, and if you are not a billionaire you are a loser.’ He leans back on his chair and it wobbles, almost tipping him to the floor. Two waiters, apologizing profusely, quickly seat him in another chair.
For a while we sit in silence. As Akbar checks his phone, I look away in bewilderment at the timeless moon in the gooey haze rising from the twilit horizon.
‘I also slept in a factory,’ I say quietly.
‘What?’ Akbar asks, as if I’ve woken him up from a dream.
‘I slept in a car plant near Milan,’ I say louder. ‘I worked there as a product controller for screws,’ I say, nervously putting my blonde locks behind my ears so the light wind does not tangle them.
Akbar turns to me with interest. ‘You?’ he asks in disbelief.
‘Yes … my shift started at 2 a.m. and I had to be back at university by 8.30,’ I say, slightly more confidently.
‘Interesting,’ Akbar pushes my untouched glass of wine towards me. ‘Why did you go to Milan?’ he asks.
‘It’s a long story,’ I say as a cold-faced model-type waitress in a gold minidress brings us the food, smiling broadly at Akbar.
‘We have time,’ he says, ignoring the haute cuisine plates on the table.
‘Well, I guess I was a kind of rebel,’ I say, slightly more relaxed, sipping some wine.
‘You were?’ he asks, with the emphasis on ‘were’.
‘Yes … I was the lead singer in a local rock band … well, as much as it was possible in the early nineties. I was regularly sent back home from school for wearing leather pants and Metallica’s Justice-For-All T-shirt. The other one I had was “kill’em all”.’ I smile nostalgically.
‘I used to listen to Metallica too … and I dop zee unforrgiven,’ he clumsily sings out of tune with a strong Russian accent, but somehow it sounds very cute.
‘Amazing,’ I laugh and sing the line from the refrain.
‘Great voice,’ he compliments me. ‘You should have gone ahead with your singing career.’
‘My mom would never have let me … she wanted me to have a ‘good job’. So instead of taking vocal and acting classes at music college I ended up as a yardbird at the tax police academy in Kiev,’ I say, trying to smile.
‘You should always stand your ground!’ he reasons.
‘She broke my nose when I tried to stand my ground,’ I say pitifully.
‘There is only one way to deal with those people … Unless your dad was a minister, he didn’t last long,’ Akbar says, chewing a chunk of meat.
I shake my head. ‘He went to Siberia to work in a factory … It was a good deal at the time. In Kiev he was making, like, five bucks a month.’
‘So how did you end up in banking?’
‘First, an exchange program in Italy … but I stayed there for the entire Master’s … then a graduate program at Lehman for two years, and now Moscow.’ I drink most of the wine from my glass, which Akbar immediately refills until it almost overflows.
‘A woman of many talents,’ he says, asking for another bottle.
‘Thank you,’ I say with a flirty smile. ‘So … what was your childhood dream?’
‘To survive,’ he says dryly. ‘Ibrahim is my only friend from back then.’ He looks at the bodyguard, sitting a few yards away from us by the bar, applying lip gloss. His black leather jacket is draped over the chair back next to him, revealing the shoulder holsters under his strong arms.
‘Did he always look so scary?’ I ask, trying to defuse the gloomy mood Akbar has introduced.
‘He got that scar in Chechnya. A splinter from the grenade he gave to his best friend, who got both his legs torn off in the battle,’ Akbar says without emotion, tearing the bread.
‘His best friend?’ I ask, shaken.
‘Yes, When you’re a Muslim fighting against Muslims on their land, the last thing you want is to be imprisoned,’ Akbar smirks.
‘He couldn’t carry him to safety?’
‘No,’ he sighs. ‘He married his dead friend’s wife and adopted their children. That’s a tradition.’
‘He never wanted to have his own?’
‘No. He believes that to fight fearlessly, you must have nothing to lose. That’s what makes him one of the best soldiers in the world,’ Akbar says, continuing to eat.
‘Does he have parents?’ I still haven’t satisfied my curiosity about this man’s mindset.
‘Yes … they looked after me when my parents died … I joined the army to save them the trouble, but they sent their own son to look after me … he went with me and never came back … I wish I’d never had to go there, but it was my only chance to survive, so to speak,’ he says, attacking his juicy steak.
‘You went to Chechnya to survive?’ I ask in disbelief.
‘In Dagestan, North Caucasus, back in the day the locals were ruthless and armed,’ he says as if it was common knowledge. ‘They hated the lying Slavs more than wild dogs stealing their chickens.’
‘But you’re a Slav?’ I ask shyly.
‘I adopted Islam,’ he says firmly.
‘What was your real name?’ I ask, curious about who he really is.
‘Akbar is my real name,’ he says persuasively, making it clear he has had enough questions. He pauses at length. ‘If I hadn’t had to fight for survival, I wouldn’t have made all that effort … I made my first serious money in Chechnya and eventually bought that plant I slept at,’ he proudly says, finishing his main course.
Suddenly, he pulls his vibrating iPhone out of the inner pocket of his jacket. ‘Da,’ he says in a pissed-off, metallic tone. ‘What are you doing?’ he yells in response to a high-pitched female voice on the other end. ‘Now?’ he yells, clenching his fist with a scowl on his face. ‘What about Ivan? Did you leave him with that old witchagain? I told you to never ever leave him alone with her, and find a proper nanny,’ he sputters.
The tiny female voice on the other end of the line protests avidly. Getting good nannies seems to be a real problem in this city.
‘Honey, I understand you had a busy day, but you can go to the hairdresser first thing tomorrow morning. Please, stay with Ivan tonight,’ he says, making a real effort not to shout. ‘OK, I’ll send Ibrahim now. Wait till he comes … I said, wait till he comes!’ he shouts, before hanging up.
‘My wife has completely forgotten about our son … it’s been like this for a while now,’ he says, giving a sign to Ibrahim, who quickly leaves.
‘That’s not good,’ I comment. ‘I could never imagine doingsuch a thing.’
‘There is nothing more important in my life than my children. Someone must always be with them, and yet she manages to leave our little son with her mom, who beats him up and threatens him if he tells me. It’s only when I see the bruises on his shoulders, elbows, legs …’ he sighs resentfully.
‘How old are your kids, if I may ask?’
‘My daughter is seventeen and my son is six … when my son touches me, I feel like the happiest man in the world. No matter how much money or how many people I’ve lost today, if I can see my son nothing else matters.’ He smiles with what looks like genuine warmth.
‘I’d be really good to my children,’ I say, but he does not seem to listen.
‘I never wanted to be with her … I still don’t understand why she was attracted to me and insisted on getting married. I didn’t even think I was good-looking or confident enough, so to speak. But now we’ve been together for so long, so she says I’ve messed up her entire life - and in a way, I have, so to speak,’ he says, ordering two cognacs as digestives.
‘No one can mess up anyone’s life … she’s only saying it to avoid taking responsibility for her own life,’ I try to comfort him with a Cosmopolitan line.
‘You’re right … I never should’ve married her. She’s just not my type of person. I can’t say I ever really loved her. You know, I always liked history, books, music, art and she’s not interested in any of that …’
‘I like art,’ I say, smiling. ‘And I think you’re a great man … and very interesting, and good-looking,’ I realise I am automatically flirting, and stop myself from going any further.
‘Thank you.’ His large pale face has softened up a lot. It now reflects kindness, integrity and something else I can’t quite place. The ‘something’ is a look one might notice in a puppy’s eyes when it is pining, or in pain; something imploring, childish. Shrewd, cunning people do not have such eyes. His personality is gradually revealing itself to me, and it is turning out to be totally lucid, open and straightforward. If eyes were the mirrors of the soul, I would conclude that this man could not betray anyone.
‘We’d better be going,’ I say decisively. ‘I don’t want to be the one who prevents a dad from seeing his kids.’ I smile politely.
‘Yeah.’ Akbar nods and asks for the bill.
‘I’ll expense it,’ I say, drawing out my red Dior wallet.
‘Katya.’ Akbar looks me directly in the eye with that intimidating expression that gives me the shivers. ‘Let’s agree on one thing – when you’re with me, I pay,’ he says.
‘OK.’ I helplessly obey.
‘Where do you live?’ he asks.
‘Just around the corner, on Leontievsky Lane,’ I say. ‘I can walk there.’
‘I’ll take you home,’ Akbar states.
‘It’s really just a few minutes’ walk from here.’ I try to stand my ground.
‘I will take you home,’ he insists, slamming a handful of cash into the black leather bill holder. ‘Let’s go.’ He moves towards the exit and I tipsily follow him.
A beautiful black Maybach with a smooth, refined shape is waiting for us right at the exit of the building. Akbar walks ahead and, like an old-fashioned gentleman, opens the door for me to the to the luxury beige interior, smelling of new leather and concealed by black tinted windows.
‘To Leontievsky,’ Akbar shouts to the driver, getting into the other passenger seat from the opposite side of the car. He spreads his long legs and puts his big arm close to mine on the armrest. He looks at me somewhat suggestively, leaning towards me as if he was going to say something - but he remains silent. I slowly move my hand down, cross my legs and move back.
‘So who do you think really attacked South Ossetia, Russia or Georgia? The Western media is screaming from every corner that it was Russia.’ I ask the most debatable question of the moment, to break the silence and the tension.
‘Before one can say anything about South Ossetia, he should first find it on the map,’ Akbar says, irritated, pulling back into his seat. ‘Our American friends just spotted an opportunity to weaken Russia and immediately seized it, as they do. Georgia is just a puppet, skillfully guided to attack.’
‘Why would they do that?’ I ask.
‘So we get stuck in a resource-draining war for years, throwing more and more money into it, instead of developing our country. But we push back. One should believe in Russia. It’s a self-sufficient country, an isle of wellness in the sinking global economy,’ he proudly declares, looking into the darkness of the tinted window. ‘In any case, my dear Katyusha, you should think about transferring your savings here.’ He points his massive index finger at me. ‘Someone from VIP services at my bank will call you tomorrow,’ he says after a pause. ‘The way I see it, you’ll buy KazyMak Metallurg bonds with triple leverage, which should get you sixty per cent return pretty much risk-free, so to speak.’
‘Really?’ I ask in disbelief, not really understanding the mechanics but intrigued by the sixty per cent return part.
‘Yes. This is the way it works in this country these days.’
‘I never knew that,’ I say, eager to join the club.
‘Money likes silence, my dear,’ Akbar smirks.
‘I wish I was ten - or better, fifteen - years older, so I could have started earlier in business and had more capital to earn interest on,’ I say, wondering.
‘Many did not survive,’ he tells me. ‘However, some are still trying to prove they are better than others, and need to be told where to get off,’ he says with hostility, slapping the arm of the seat with his massive palm.
We sit in silence for the next couple of minutes until we reach the beautiful façade of my corporate apartment.
As soon as we arrive I open the car door to get out, but catching Akbar’s disapproving gaze, I quickly shut it again and wait for him to open it for me like a gentleman.
‘Let’s have dinner on Saturday. I have business to discuss,’ he says, as we approach my doorstep.
‘That would be nice,’ I say, restraining a huge smile, anticipating Sergey’s reaction when I close a deal directly with the client he just lost.
‘I’ll arrange,’ he says, in his usual authoritative baritone.
‘OK.’ I rise on my tiptoes to wish him goodbye. He gives me one kiss on the cheek and stands still as I move to offer a second, as I’m used to doing in London. His lips almost brush against mine. He slightly pulls me towards him as if to continue, but I instantly get back down on my feet and take a step back towards the front door.
‘Goodnight,’ I say firmly, entering the building,
‘Goodnight,’ he says, following me with his light blue eyes.
At home I make myself a camomile tea to calm my conflicted emotions.
The best I can do is keep him interested. .Alex’s dogma bells in my head: ‘If he likes you, he will do business with you.’ Men are most manageable while they have unfinished business – before you sleep with them …
Out of habit, I check my Facebook. Richard has commented on my picture post from the rooftop of the Ritz. ‘You did well moving to Moscow after all.’
‘Yeah, I can’t complain,’ I reply. In a private message, I add, ‘Just had dinner with Akbar Gromov: D’
‘No way! That’s incredible. You should infiltrate his inner circle!’ he responds.
‘Having dinner with him again on Saturday;-)’
‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from you:) Just don’t wear your heart on your sleeve straight away.’
‘Oh no, never again! Besides, he’s married to some moody bitch,’ I write back.
Richard continues messaging me, but I barely notice what he says. There is one message I’m reading over and over again, and it’s from Akbar: ‘I’m very impressed by you and your story … I’ve never met a girl like you. You are just unreal. It’s the energy in you. It’s like I’ve charged from a battery. Good we met. Gromov.’