‘It would not be fair to say I got married because I fell in love with my wife,’ Akbar says, as the waiter replaces our almost-full champagne bottle with a far more subdued bottle of red. ‘It’s just that her family could provide me with protection. The local mafia from Dagestan were after me … I had no choice, so to speak,’ he says, looking down at the bulwark. ‘She was a nice girl from a very respectable Moscow family with a good dowry. She never really shared my views or interests … I tried to break up with her a couple of times. I even went back to Derbent but she came after me. She cried and she begged me to stay … so I stayed,’ he says, downing a glass of the pungent Cabernet Sauvignon.
Bitterly exhaling, Akbar explains that, at the beginning, it worked rather nicely. Her family gave them a big house in Moscow and subjugated the local mafia.
With his hands untied and his business growing, he finally felt the freedom to do whatever he wanted, enjoying his life of carousing and adventure.
But from the first months of his wife’s pregnancy, something changed … it was something unpleasant and heavy, something one could not expect and could not get rid of.
Out of the blue, she started to interfere with her husband’s venturesome behavior - in Akbar’s eyes, without reason. She was jealous, found fault in everything he did and made very uncomfortable scenes even in the most inappropriate circumstances.
It cost Akbar a lot of effort to extricate himself from these situations light-heartedly and avoid losing face in front of important people.
He tried hard to ignore her mood and show her a good time: arranged the most exclusive entertainment, invited her family and friends for gourmet dinners, sent her on fabulous vacations … but all this made her even unhappier.
‘She never acknowledged any of this, and never said thank you,’ he sighs.
She was listening to him less and less, and never supporting or praising him for his achievements. So, Akbar found the admiration he craved elsewhere. He spent more and more time on business trips or at important dinners … and strip clubs.
One day she came down on him really hard, shouting and swearing. From then on she became increasingly stubborn, and would give him an earful every time he did not do what she wanted.
‘I realized there and then that family life was not for me. At least not with this wife of mine,’ he says glumly.
Akbar’s instinct was to run away.
He installed a couch in his office and bought a private jet, a yacht and a few villas around the world, in order to see his wife as little as possible.
To compensate for the lack of intimacy, he even got into a scandalous relationship with a famous actress. But every time he began to get closer to her, his wife would do something really nice and it would feel like they had a happy family … until she lost her temper yet again, and he’d run away to his mistress.
When the baby was born, Akbar had to spend more time at home with her elite family, playing the good husband.
Numerous frustrations came with attempts at breastfeeding, and a series of illnesses - real and imaginary - that afflicted both mother and daughter. Akbar wanted to be a part of it, but was left out most of the time.
As his wife became more and more crabby and demanding, he got busier than ever at work. He developed a love for work, even for overwork - giving himself hypertension in the process.
Akbar soon realized that married life was in fact a fairly complicated matter, and that he would have to adopt a particular attitude in order to maintain his status in high society.
He asked from his wife only one thing – that to outsiders they look like a perfect family, so he could stay on good terms with her father and continue growing his business and multiplying his wealth. At home she could be as grumpy as she wanted - at the end of the day it was her choice, which had nothing to do with Akbar.
Having freed himself from this emotional burden, he threw himself into the pursuit of pleasure and excitement, often justifying it with business.
Akbar soon established himself as a very respected businessman; however, his wife kept reproaching him that he never could have gotten there without her family, which prompted him to work even harder to prove her wrong.
With the birth of his son, his wife became even grumpier and angrier; she blamed her husband for every little thing, but Akbar’s attitude made him almost impervious to it.
When their daughter turned seventeen he bought her an apartment in London, where her mother was supposed to spend a few months a year.
But even with such a comfortable arrangement she managed to accuse Akbar of ruining her life, which only caused him more stress, driving him to seek solace in alcohol and drugs.
‘Eventually, most of our conversations got narrowed down to two topics: the kids’ education and memories of past fights,’ he smirks, drinking his whiskey. ‘She even stopped asking uncomfortable questions … well, I stopped having affairs, so to speak … in Moscow at least,’ Akbar says, looking at the grim, black sea with the pale city lights blinking above.
He could have been afflicted by feelings of alienation, if he hadn’t managed to accept his role in the family as a normal, even desirable state of affairs. His aim was to liberate himself more and more from all these inconveniences, whilst maintaining the illusion of a happy family for his father-in-law.
He achieved it by filling the house with all sorts of support staff, from nannies and gardeners to security agents and bodyguards, freeing him from the necessity of being alone with his wife.
‘I’m worried about my son, though,’ Akbar says, pensively playing with the silver fork. ‘His mother puts pressure on him all the time: he does this wrong and that wrong. I understand how difficult it’ll be for him when he turns fourteen … fifteen. He is already afraid of women,’ he mutters in an unusually feeble voice. ‘I was afraid of them too … Back in the day, no one ever told me I was cute or good-looking. I had to try hard.’
‘You’re a great role model for your son!’ I try to comfort him.
‘He is a lot smarter than me. I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. I was not the brightest, smartest or the most hard working. I’m lazy and self-centered,’ he says, asking for another whiskey. ‘If the people I started my career with were in my place, they’d be a lot more effective.’
‘You’re too hard on yourself,’ I say, kindly.
‘He’s very gifted but needs a bit of development on the physical side,’ Akbar downs his glass. ‘He could easily become a rocket scientist, but I’m worried he won’t have the opportunity to acquire the masculine qualities he needs.’
‘Couldn’t you teach him swimming or something?’ I ask.
‘Yes, but he doesn’t like it … and I don’t like to play tennis, and I’m no good at rock climbing. I’m six foot six … and I want it to be interesting for me too. He’s slim and tall, taller than his classmates - just like I was. They tease him - just like I was teased. I realize now how hard it’ll be for him to come out of his shell. I know how he feels … I never felt special as a kid,’ he says bitterly.
‘I never felt special either,’ I sigh. ‘My mom never gave me a choice about anything … If I ever opposed her, she’d beat me up.’
‘Being able to make one’s own choices is one of the biggest luxuries a human can have,’ Akbar muses. ‘My wife tried to control me, to make me do things I didn’t want to do. I didn’t like it. I don’t like anyone to control me. Yes, I’ve succeeded in life more than others have, I got richer and richer and richer, which brought new responsibilities - and now I don’t know how to get rid of them!’ He points at his empty glass in irritation, signalling for Laurent to bring a new one.
‘I’ve got to hold everyone’s hand!’ he exclaims. ‘Even my sister’s husband – a downtrodden teddy-bear of a man. I gave that wanker a house, business … now they’ve got this baby with Down’s syndrome and somehow it’s my problem.’ He downs a third glass. ‘They’re completely incapable of dealing with it, and that’s just one of hundreds, if not thousands of things I have to deal with!’ He scowls defiantly. ‘I’m stuck amongst all these people I’m responsible for … If I shouted, “Hey, is anyone working out there?” the answer would be “you”. They suck my energy. But it’s OK. I just hope my son gets some confidence,’ he sighs. ‘Look at the life-size transformer I bought for him.’ He shows me a picture on his phone.
‘Santa prefers rich kids,’ I quietly comment.
‘Money can solve ninety-five per cent of the problems which make you unhappy …’ he says, failing to notice my sarcasm. ‘Look,’ he commands, before carelessly dropping his fork on the floor. The waiter immediately rushes to pick it up and brings a new one. ‘See, I’ve just made him dance. I can make anyone succumb to my will without even saying a word,’ he says with a tipsy superiority.
‘So, whose will do you succumb to?’ I say after a pause, moving my cutlery further to the middle of the table.
‘We are all puppets in someone’s hands, so to speak,’ he reflects. ‘I’m completely in your hands now. You could make me dance,’ he says buoyantly.
‘I’m a very good dancer,’ I say, playfully.
‘We shall check that out,’ he booms with authority. ‘If you’re lucky, I’ll introduce you to Prince Albert,’ he winks.
‘Oh my God, that would be great!’ I exclaim, all smiles.
‘But we’ll go to the casino first,’ he states.
‘The infamous Monte Carlo casino? I always wanted to go there,’ I say, clapping my hands in elation, anticipating the best of the best VIP experience.
‘I’m going to have to change. They don’t let you into the private salon without a black tie … you could change too. There’s a Dior dress, size S, if you want,’ he says casually.
‘A Dior dress? For me?’ I ask, astonished.
‘Yes, it’s in the Hotel de Paris … I booked a suite there … just for us to change, so to speak.’