It is Saturday morning. My iPhone is still showing nothing but the blue lagoon wallpaper, with no message from Akbar across it. Mikhail from the VIP customer service at Akbar’s bank has already sent me a dozen messages confirming my accounts and deposits at absolutely unreal premium rates.
My mood could not be better. Beauty is everywhere, and once you have it in your heart you attract more of it. Even as I am getting my hair done, I am struck by the fact that the salon is full of flowers - something I’ve never even noticed before. The smell of white roses brings my attention to how beautiful and unique each petal is. Every single one has a distinctive image of its very own, which is a miracle.
I am conscious of an irresistible desire to remind you of my existence, especially you.
On the way back home I leave a thousand-dollar donation at St Katherine’s Church, whirling in my colorful bell-shaped dress, which makes me feel even more like a fairy.
By 2 p.m. the lagoon is still empty … and my stomach starts swirling.
My tune changes from “If you wanna be my lover” to “All by myself” …
Just when I am about to down a shot of vodka, a text arrives: ‘Still up for dinner tonight?’
‘Yes, looking forward to it,’ I text back, pouring myself a glass of cold bubbly, controlling the urge to jump around like a fool and scream with excitement.
‘I’ll pick you up at five. Bring your passport.’
‘OK,’ I respond, guessing we are probably going to an administrative or a government building, maybe even to the Kremlin … those kinds of places always require a passport.
My little DVF dress might be too much for this … or maybe too little? OK, now I don’t know what to wear. The classic black Alexander McQueen is probably a better choice … This baby has never let me down.
‘Do what you have to do,’ I recall Bruno saying when I told him what happened with Akbar.
Just to feel feminine and confident, I choose sexy Agent Provocateur underwear to wear underneath. At the end of the day, nothing gives a bigger boost than beautiful lingerie … not to mention having a Saturday night dinner date with one of the Forbes Richest …
At five sharp the phone rings: ‘Katyusha. It’s Gromov. I’m downstairs,’ he says in a deep, solid voice.
‘Hi, Akbar,’ I exhale, to sound sexy. ‘Give me five minutes. I’ll be right there.’
‘See you in a bit,’ he says calmly.
Gosh, which shoes? I rummage through the pairs and find the ones with the highest heels, so as to be closer to Akbar’s height. After adding the final touches - red lipstick and diamond earrings - I am ready to rock.
Gracefully, I walk out of the building and see a big, tall man, looking more like an oversized teenager in dad-like designer jeans and a slightly-too-small gray T-shirt with large wet stains. He is proudly standing in front of a bright orange Lamborghini.
For a second he freezes, looking at me with a moderate smile. ‘Hi,’ he says radiantly.
‘Hi,’ I say modestly. ‘Why are you all wet?’ I ask under the weight of his mesmerized glare.
‘I went to sanctify my car,’ he says, bored. ‘The damn monks poured gallons of water on it.’
‘The monks?’ I ask, dumbfounded. ‘Why would they sanctify your car?’
‘Oh, don’t ask … it’s just something people do. To protect against accidents, so to speak,’ he smirks.
‘So is there anyone who has been in a crash after a sanctification?’ I ask, curious.
‘Well, Rabinovich was … but apparently he didn’t pay for the whole car to be sanctified, so the parts they skipped got crushed … or so they say.’ Akbar carelessly wipes the passenger seat for me with a rag that looks like an Hermès scarf.
‘So we are protected by God now?’ I ask cheekily.
‘Definitely, for the fifty grand I’ve paid,’ he grins, opening the door and letting me into the still-wet front passenger seat, which smells strongly of incense.
‘So where are we going?’ I ask excitedly, moving my feet away from the dripping dashboard. ‘I’m intrigued. Why do I need my passport?’
‘The fishermen had a very nice catch today,’ he says cryptically, starting the engine, straight away overtaking a couple of lazy cars.
‘OK,’ I say musingly, as we pass the endless red walls along the Moscow River.
‘Do you have a Schengen visa?’ Akbar asks, turning into an uglier industrial site.
‘Sure,’ I say, realising we might be going out of town.
‘Good,’ he says, without giving too much away.
‘So where are we going?’ I ask impatiently as we drive further and further away from the nice parts of Moscow.
‘Monte Carlo,’ he eventually says. ‘My bizjet is ready. Always better than polluted Moscow.’
‘Really?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘You aren’t joking?’
‘Do I look like someone who’s joking?’ he says, driving into the private airport.
‘No, but yeah, but no, but …’ I find myself sounding like Vicky Pollard from Little Britain.
‘Don’t worry about anything,’ he interrupts. ‘We’re only going for dinner. You can fly back anytime you want,’ he says, confidently maneuvering through the endless luggage carts loaded with Louis Vuitton suitcases and Veuve Clicquot boxes, hookers vulgarly exhibiting their silicon-Botox parts in tiny leopardskin outfits, and bodyguards tasked with packing all this into the jets.
‘Thank God they don’t have to sanctify planes yet.’ Akbar pulls over by the biggest private jet.
‘This is huge! Is it yours?’ I exclaim, catching Akbar’s eloquent glare as he stops the car.
‘No, I use a private jet company. They always send me the best they’ve got, so to speak,’ he ambiguously smirks, and walks out of the car to cordially open the door for me, so his enormous groin is the only part of his body I can see from my low passenger seat.
Stepping out of the sports car, I feel like a Hollywood star. Akbar leads me to his plane, which looks bigger and bigger with every step. If it was a commercial aircraft, it could accommodate hundreds of passengers.
The giant cabin shines with luxurious trim, making it look more like a Middle Eastern palace with sumptuous golden leather chairs and sofas.
‘I’m a tall guy, so my legs don’t fit into those small Falcons,’ Akbar says with a satisfied smile, collapsing onto the nearest L-shaped couch and spreading his enormous arms. ‘This baby has one of the widest fuselages in the world,’ he brags.
‘This is stunning,’ I say, modestly perching on the chair in front of him, with no seatbelt to be seen and no mention of health and safety.
As if by magic, a bottle of Cristal, a bottle of whiskey, a jar of black caviar and a tray with fancy appetizers appear on the low arabesque ivory table.
‘Try the lobster carpaccio,’ Akbar says, passing me a small plate with rose-shaped petals of lobster meat.
‘Thank you … but I don’t really get hungry on plane journeys, especially during take-off,’ I say, conscious of my shellfish allergy.
‘It has a very piquant sauce, which makes the flight more enjoyable,’ he says with a wink.
‘Oh really … how’s that?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘Nothing too dramatic … have you ever tried marijuana candies?’
‘Yes,’ I say, recalling my recent Caribbean vacation, which now feels like months ago.
‘Something like that … but very pure, and no side effects,’ he says, soaking a piece of fresh brown bread into it.
‘OK.’ I do the same.
The familiar smell, together with the tang of sweet and sour seafood, tickles my receptors and almost sends me to sleep in the most comfortable chair ever.
At some point I open my eyes and find Akbar’s hand stroking my lap as he gazes at me intensely, as if about to kiss me. ‘You make me so greedy … for you … that smile … how it teases me,’ he says, closing in on me.
‘So what about the deal you wanted to discuss?’ I ask, instinctively pulling away. It would probably have been a good idea to kiss him. A kiss is just a kiss. But the moment is gone.
‘Pfff,’ he exhales disappointedly, animatedly tossing his left hand like an unhappy Italian. ‘I think something’s going on,’ he says after a long pause. ‘Someone’s doing something against me in the Kremlin.’ He lowers his voice to a whisper, so that I have to lean toward him to hear anything. ‘I need to protect my personal finances, so to speak.’ Akbar scratches his broad cheek, the stress in his voice evident. ‘You - and only you - can help me,’ he continues, studying my unblinking face.
‘I’d love to,’ I kindly smile. ‘But what would you like me to do?’
‘There will be various cash flows to be directed via Swiss Bank, and I want you to arrange the settlement into various accounts … anonymous accounts, so to speak,’ he says, scratching his cheek again.
‘Well, I don’t know … it depends on the nature of the cash flows,’ I mumble, confused.
‘The anonymous accounts have already been opened within your bank,’ he says, pulling a fancy black glass board out of the mosaic drawer on the table, and dumping some white powder on it from a plastic pocket. ‘All you have to do is to transfer money to the accounts when booking a transaction … You can always blame it on human error,’ he says, shuffling a few grams of charlie with a golden card.
‘Blame?’ I ask, shocked, as I watch him making lines.
‘It’s all legal, don’t worry,’ he says. Is he talking about the transactions, or the cocaine in the air?
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, declining the right to the first line. He hungrily snorts a fair amount of blow with a five hundred euro bill.
‘I’ll divert all my business to you. Your bosses will like that.’ He wipes off his nose. ‘Of course, there’ll be some nice commission for you personally.’ He passes the board to me.
You needn’t be afraid; everybody knows what your worst action is without the need of any lies on your part.
‘Good stuff,’ I say with a Mona Lisa smile on my face, as I am filled with a stellar sense of freedom.
‘You are a superstar,’ he says, watching me snorting the fat rails.
A giant plasma screen on my left becomes a real fireplace … it even smells and sounds like burning wood … just like the barbecues dad used to make in our yard …
‘It’s not even a question of kickbacks anymore,’ he says exuberantly. ‘Rates are so low, treasuries’ yields are through the roof like they were in 1998, gold is at its peak, and I’m sure it will go higher as everyone will start buying it as protection against inflation. I know it, Katya, I know it … so to speak.’ He continues to hold forth, with a distinct air of supremacy. ‘In 1997, I predicted that yields would go up by fifty per cent but no one believed they would … and they did! I have built the largest metallurgical company in the world with my own hands, and was the first to establish proper corporate governance in the post-Soviet business space. I’m not going to sell it to anyone, especially not at a ridiculously low price … no, no. They’re not going to take it away from me.’ He makes a finger gun as he speaks.
Suddenly, the lights go out and the plane starts to tremble, with only the fireplace burning brighter and bigger. It becomes a man, growing from the menacing heat of the logs. He hugs me with fiery arms, stirs the flames over my lips …
He must know that if he ‘broke off everything,’ first, by himself, and without telling me a word about it or having the slightest hope on my account, that in that case I should perhaps be able to change my opinion of him, and even accept his—friendship. He must know that, but his soul is such a wretched thing.
‘You are a great man,’ I say quietly, clearing my throat.
‘What?’ Akbar asks sardonically.
‘You are a great man,’ I say, louder.
‘Thank you,’ he says, pleased. ‘I want to keep as much cash as possible in my Swiss accounts and preferably in gold. You know metallurgical prices are slumping. The futures are down the toilet. It isn’t cost-effective to sell alloys to Europe anymore. Import taxes just kill it.’ He restlessly snorts more blow. ‘I cannot optimize the cost because, apparently, it will create unemployment,’ he continues after a pause. ‘You know, I would happily get rid of half of the people. They do fuck all anyway. They are drunk at work, they are late, and they don’t care … all they want is cheap vodka and dope, plasma screens, you name it. Whatever they see in commercials,’ he says with disgust, taking a superior tone.
‘Sounds like a herd of sheep,’ I say, cooling myself down with a glass of cold champagne.
‘They are worse!’ Akbar exclaims, soaking a scallop in flambé. ‘The hungry flock is easier to manage, though … But they choose to be managed this way, even if they don’t realize it … so it’s their problem,’ he scowls. ‘It’s not even interesting any more. Those lazy bastards deserve their poverty – no pride, guts, no passion, no ambition, no balls to do anything! We learnt to take responsibility for our own lives and think with our own heads. They can’t even buy a toilet without being told which one!’ He takes a generous spoonful of black caviar, followed by a long sip of Macallan.
‘Why don’t you retire?’ I ask. ‘You could live comfortably for the rest of your life … I guess.’
‘My dear, Katyusha, if I said I had enough money for the rest of my life, then I’d have to die on Tuesday,’ he sneers.
‘Please don’t …’ I plead.
‘But seriously, I do not think one can preserve money. Wealth has continually been redistributed throughout history and it can happen again, especially if you live in Russia,’ he says, ‘Do you really think I need my Maybach?’ he asks, getting worked up. ‘I don’t give a damn. I’d happily drive a BMW X6 or something like that, which would actually have enough legroom for me … But any decent business negotiations in my country require you to arrive in a new Maybach or Bentley. You can never relax,’ he says, shuffling more coke. ‘In Los Angeles or Switzerland, having money means you can enjoy life, play tennis, chill by the pool. In Russia, your surroundings will only let you rest in peace.’
Soon we land at the cozy Nice Côte d’Azur airport. The warm, humid air with a hint of sea breeze gently enfolds us, as if welcoming us into the new venture. I can almost hear it whispering a faint refrain: ‘what happens in Monaco stays in Monaco’.
A tall, curly-haired, Middle Eastern-looking customs officer in a white uniform waits for us at the bottom of the passenger stairs to stamp our passports. ‘Welcome to France, Monsieur Gromov,’ he says professionally, with a strong French accent.
‘Merci,’ Akbar says in a very Russian way, barely looking at the guy.
‘Merci,’ I say with asmile, getting the stamp from the official, and following Akbar to a helicopter standing nearby.
‘It’s the quickest way to get to the yacht,’ Akbar shouts through the roar of the engine, helping me to climb in.
‘To the yacht?’ I shout back.
‘Thought you wanted to have dinner outside.’ He smiles, offering me his hand as I enter the big black cabin with massive windows on all three sides, making me feel more and more like Cinderella, about to become a princess.
We take off into the dark emerald sky, with the sun winking its last rays. The faraway navy blue horizon is stretched like a clothesline above the serpentine mountain road, further illuminated by the shine of the cars as they crawl around its curves.
The sunset washes over the white coastal houses on the cliffs to the crystal-clear blue of the seafront, crowded with numerous white yachts, boats and palm trees.
As we start to descend, and the sun eventually disappears behind the gray mountain … the shape of the sleeping monster in my nightmare … it keeps looking at me, even after we have landed in town and begun our walk along the marina, full of luxury yachts with Porsches and Maseratis parked next to them.
‘My other vessel has a helicopter pad, but this one is a real pedigree … just like you,’ he flatters. Though my hair is a total mess after the helicopter flight and urgently needs fixing, I still can’t help basking in his sweet talk.
‘If someone had asked me this morning where I’d be in the evening, I’d never have guessed Monaco,’ I say, happily breathing the air of luxury.
‘That’s the beauty of it,’ Akbar gently puts his hand around my waist, leading me, wreathed in smiles, to one of the beautiful white yachts. ‘Meet my princess,’ he says, helping me to get on board. ‘She’s just arrived from Antibes.’ He takes me on a tour of the vessel, showing off its refined full-beam exterior design.
‘Is it a thirty-meter?’ I ask, following him to the fly bridge, which overlooks a Jacuzzi and sun pads.
‘Just under three hundred feet,’ he says, helping me to climb up the stairs in my heels, right onto the spacious aft deck, bathed in candlelight, with white and orange sofas around a dinner table set for two.
‘It must be great to enjoy the stunning Mediterranean views,’ I say as we start drifting into the dusking sea.
‘Yeah … that’s what you have to do … Escape the stultifying conformity of provincial life,’ he says unenthusiastically.
‘Bonsoir Monsieur, bonsoir Madame; I’m Laurent, your waiter for tonight.’ A friendly, tall, blond Frenchman in a white shirt helps us to the table, which is already laid for dinner. From the ice bucket, he takes a dark bottle with a gold label in the shape of a diamond, encrusted with a blue crystal. ‘Le “Goût de Diamants”, Taste of Diamonds, made with one hundred per cent brut grapes. The collection bottle,’ he says with an unashamedly heavy French accent, pouring it into our crystal glasses, accented with gold.
‘To your exciting new beginning in Moscow.’ Akbar raises his glass. ‘I’m sure it will be a great success … and I’ll help you with it.’ He gives me a benign smile.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and we clink our glasses. ‘This is delicious,’ I say, taking a little sip of the diamonds, which taste like a very nice but slightly-too-bitter Chardonnay with a bit of carbonation. ‘It’s one of the funniest drinks I’ve ever had!’ I exclaim.
‘One of the most expensive, for sure,’ he remarks. ‘But I wanted to make this a very special night,’ he says, moving his towering hands off the table as Laurent brings us a platter of oysters.
‘In my hometown you could probably buy a house for the price of this glass,’ I reflect.
‘In early nineties you could probably have bought your entire hometown,’ he sneers.
‘That was a dreadful time … no physical money … The food truck would arrive once a week and we had to stand in line for hours and hours to get one loaf of bread and one sausage per hand from a nasty plump woman …’ I say with a forced smile, looking at the full glass of champagne standing there as a reproof.
‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, trust me,’ he says, topping the oyster with ketchup – the only bright color on the washed-out palette of the shadowy gray sea, with no sign of with no sign of the horizon remaining behind the monster-mountain. behind the monster-mountain.
Gosh, how do I get out of eating the oysters?
Suddenly his phone rings. ‘Blyat, it’s my wife. I’m sorry Katya. I’ll be right back.’ Akbar gets up from the table and walks down the stairs.