The next day, we go back to Moscow just to fly to Sochi the morning after - as if we haven’t had enough of a crazy jet-setting week already.
Akbar has an important agenda so I spend the evening shopping for suspenders and getting my bangs cut like Demi Moore in Ghost. They tone my hair black and fix it behind into a bun, so it really looks short like hers in the film. I know I have to keep surprising him all the time - I can’t let him get bored.
Looking like a giant lollipop himself in a red and white polyester tracksuit, Akbar picks me up from home very early in the morning.
‘You look different,’ he says in his low, serious voice, greeting me with a peck on the cheek.
‘Do I remind you of someone?’ I ask, playfully turning around to show off the suspenders underneath my gray snakeskin jacket.
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs, letting me into the Maybach.
‘Suspenders, the white T-shirt … maybe if my hands were covered in clay it would be easier?’ I hint, flattening my heavy bangs down over my eyes, but he still does not get it. I hum the infamous theme music, an idiot-proof clue … which doesn’t work either. ‘Your favorite actress, for Christ’s sake,’ I snap, disappointed.
‘Oh, Ghost,’ he says dryly. ‘Will your hair go back to blonde again?’
‘Yes, after I wash it.’
‘Good,’ he says, already stuck on his phone again, typing energetically.
Soon enough, after speeding through the unusually empty Moscow streets, we get to the good old private jet terminal, which, in contrast, is very busy. The identikit hookers in vulgar dresses are getting loaded into planes big and small, together with boxes of champagne and Louis Vuitton luggage.
We promptly make our way up the stairs to the freshly-cleaned Boeing.
After a few lines, Akbar gets up and stumbles to the loo, leaving his phone on the table. Sensing something is wrong and worried he might be losing interest, I discreetly grab his iPhone and check who he has been messaging all this time … and see the first message in the list, sent to his wife: ‘On the way to Sochi. Feeling better?’ In her profile picture, she is looking a bit … heavy.
The liar. The freaking liar!
Just as the plane goes into a turbulent zone, Akbar returns to the couch and kisses my numb lips.
‘All good, Demi?’ he asks, playing with my bangs.
‘Yeah,’ I nod, feeling like I might erupt, snorting another line to control my emotions.
Shortly after, we land at the brand new, empty airport, where a bunch of daunting-looking bodyguards follow us through to the exit, as if there were a crowd we needed to be protected from. They ominously pack themselves into three black jeeps, ABBA’s “Happy New Year” blaring from the nearest one. Meanwhile, Akbar and I get into a black Mercedes Geländewagen that looks more like a tank.
I quietly get into the scratched black leather seat and look out of the tinted window at a run-down landscape filled with ancient heavy machinery in a dark, acrid cloud of exhaust gas.
‘So this is the future Olympic site?’ I ask sulkily, as we shudder over yet another pothole.
‘If it was an autobahn it wouldn’t be Russia anymore,’ Akbar says, diving into his phone … probably texting his wife again.
‘So you’d prefer to keep it in the Middle Ages?’ I smirk, pestering him.
‘No,’ he counters. ‘As you can see, we’re rebuilding it. It’s better to build where there was nothing before,’ he says, as we drive past a massive crane tearing down an apartment block. Bags, boxes, TVs, fridges and washing machines are strewn all over the place, while people watch the demolition of their homes in despair.
‘It doesn’t look to me like there was nothing before,’ I challenge, catching the eye of a little girl glaring with deep hatred at our convoy.
‘Look, I know about the shit I live in and the shit I do and I don’t like it to be pointed out to my face,’ he says, aggressively pressing his fist into the leather of his seat.
‘You know, one of the reasons Peter and Ekaterina were great is because they knew how to get European hands to build their roads,’ I push further, as we get stuck in yet another traffic jam.
‘It’s getting annoying, you trying to be clever,’ Akbar immediately reproaches. ‘European contractors won’t provide you with a fifteen-meter road when its actual width is fourteen and a half.’
‘Just saying, European contractors could do a better job,’ I say, although I know he won’t want to hear it.
‘Why does everyone keep telling me about European contractors!’ he barks, losing his temper. ‘You and that ungrateful sheep, my daughter, who doesn’t want to marry who she should.’
‘To be fair, it’s good to have a choice when it comes to marriage.’ My point adds heat to the already-rising temperature in this tank.
‘In Muslim culture,’ Akbar says with a daunting gaze, ‘daughters are supposed to obey their father’s will. She’s going to marry who I tell her to,’ he affirms, brandishing a pointed finger, ‘… and she wants a practising guy. Where am I supposed to find one of those, who’s also a billionaire?’
‘So billions is the only criteria? Money marries money?’ I ask, looking him in the eye, not wanting to believe something obvious that I think I’ve just heard. ‘It means you’ll … never marry me?’ My voice is barely audible.
‘Katya … Of course I want to be with you,’ he says in a gravelly voice.
‘But you’ll never divorce …’ I say melodramatically.
‘Katya, let’s try to have a nice weekend, OK?’ he smiles sympathetically, while checking his phone again.
Soon we approach a massive private gate with an arabesque decoration, opening onto a vast meadow behind it.
‘Have you ever driven a collection Ferrari?’ Akbar asks, suddenly in a more cheerful mood. ‘She’s one of a kind, a GTO Gran Turismo,’ he says with the delight of a little boy getting a new toy.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, without excitement.
‘The Katya I know wouldn’t think twice about jumping into a new adventure,’ he says beguilingly.
‘I don’t care,’ I sigh.
‘OK. Buy me a hundred million dollars’ worth of Lehman shares,’ he orders in his authoritarian baritone as we park in front of an exquisite, titanic palace with Arabic-style stucco, surrounded by orange and palm trees more typical of the beaches of the Costa Brava.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘You’re my banker, I’m giving you an order to buy a hundred million dollars’ worth of Lehman shares … three times leverage,’ he says, emphasizing every word.
‘It’s Saturday,’ I retort. ‘The bank is closed.’
‘There’s no such thing as a bank holiday for a bank, you know that.’
‘You sure? There’re all sorts of rumors about Lehmans going bust …’ I give him the heads-up, as a good banker should.
‘They are saying the same about other banks too - and so what? If I didn’t take risks I wouldn’t be here. Lehman’s equity costs almost nothing at the moment but it still has intrinsic value,’ he lectures. ‘Please take my order and buy the shares.’
‘OK, I’ll try,’ I say, and dial Bruno in London, where it is around 7 a.m. on Saturday morning. My boss, no doubt half-asleep, immediately gets alerted and accepts the order. Seconds later, he calls back and confirms the execution. ‘You’ve just saved us millions of dollars, we’ve cleared all the Lehman stock from our books,’ he happily imparts. ‘Good job! Give the client a flat rate, we will pay you.’
‘You’re all done. You’ll get the confirmation and the stock shortly,’ I confirm, turning to Akbar as we pass through the tropical garden towards the endless, sun-filled meadow, guarded by fir trees on the hills.
‘It isn’t exactly very snowy,’ I comment, with typical British understatement.
‘There’re enough snowmaking machines on the slopes,’ he says calmly.
After a few moments, we stop at an iron-shod gate and finally get out of our tank onto the field, where the overwhelming scent of pine trees takes me back to my childhood. A few yards away there is a security gate, letting us into the vast area with its extensive array of sports cars and chicks with fake boobs in red bikinis, serving drinks to unfit, serious-looking men.
‘They all wear the same kind of polyester tracksuits as you? What is this, a pioneer camp?’ I mock, surveying the red-and-white masses milling about on the green pasture.
‘It’s a future Olympic site and hence the future Olympic suits,’ Akbar explains, as we approach a large table with all sorts of food and a lamb roasting on the side, filling the air with an appetizing smell, mixed with the sea breeze from down the mountain.
‘Akbar Nikolaevich, you promised me you’d arrive earlier!’ exclaims a voice that makes my heart sink. Though she has replaced her cheetah-dot dress with an ostentatious pink velvet tracksuit, I immediately recognise the Head of Distribution from the Ministry of Defence, last seen at the Casino de Monte-Carlo. ‘Your wife isn’t coming?’ she asks amiably, taking his elbow, pushing me out into the hostile crowd. The important men in tracksuits fix me with their cruel gaze, making me shrink deeper into my insubstantial jacket.
‘No, she’s sick,’ Akbar bluffs, and then, in a quieter tone: ‘Will you lobby for that arms dispatch for me?’
‘Certainly - but remember, everything comes at a price,’ she says sleazily, taking him further aside, making my blood boil within. The thought that he is talking to her for business reasons only - to get the Afghan part of the deal through - gives me some elusive comfort.
I take a few deep breaths of the very fresh air and, recalling my promise to Richard, start taking pictures of the area, the array of Jaguars, Maseratis, Ferraris, Aston Martins, and the entrance to the snow rally course in the woods, with snowmaking machines roaring to cover the bare ground.
About sixty feet away from me there is a big cage with a balding gray ostrich, cautiously trying to stick its head into the snow.
Astonished, I take a picture and send it to Richard.
‘Ha! What’s the ostrich doing there?’ he immediately responds.
‘No clue … looks like some dude got government funding to “finance” an ostrich farm in Siberia. The usual Russian crap, just a front for laundering state money.’
People often speak about the ‘bestial’ cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts; no animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.
A few moments later, Akbar appears, stumbling over the ostrich cage. ‘Come on, the Ferrari is waiting,’ he says, putting his hand - which reeks of cognac - on my shoulder, leading me towards the cars. ‘It’s the best car I’ve ever owned,’ he raves. ‘Those Aston Martins are good, solid cars, but they’re boring. A gentleman needs a little diversity in his life.’ He winks, making me wonder if his attitude to cars applies to women too.
‘Is that why they get a wife and a mistress?’ I snap.
‘The best and most exclusive,’ he croons, elatedly stroking the low roof of the flashy red car, deliberately ignoring what I’ve just said.
‘You aren’t listening to me,’ I whinge, not sharing his affection for this lump of red metal.
‘I am … and of course you’re right about everything.’ He twiddles my ear as if I were a dog. ‘I just want you to be happy.’ He presses the button on the keychain, making the Ferrari’s side doors open up like a Transformer. ‘I want you to be the first to drive it, so you appreciate how much you mean to me,’ he says proudly, offering me the driver’s seat.
‘Well, I must admit, driving a rally car has always been on my bucket list,’ I say spiritedly, appreciating his effort. ‘But it might be tricky on the snow on a tiny path in the woods,’ I hesitate.
‘Just try a test lap, see how you go,’ he suggests, buckling up in the passenger seat.
‘OK … but I’ve never done this before,’ I say, getting into the car and adjusting the seat so I can reach the rather stiff pedals.
‘Just go slowly. It’s like with cycling … once you’ve learnt to stroke the pedals, you can ride any type of bicycle.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I concede, nervously switching on the engine and immediately stalling. Powerless, I watch my cheetah-dot nemesis overtake me in a Jaguar, drive confidently across the field and start down the wooded path. Brushing against the trees with hostile purpose, she triggers a minor snowstorm that falls directly onto us.
‘You can do this,’ Akbar says, caressing my hand, which I instinctively remove. ‘You’ll need to press the clutch aggressively, all the way down, for the handbrake turn.’
‘Whatever,’ I say dismissively, starting the car again, feeling its shudder and the loud engine responding to my footwork.
‘It’s much easier in extreme conditions. G-forces help. When the car slides sideways, just release the handbrake while you accelerate,’ he explains.
‘OK,’ I nod, starting to drive up the hill towards the entrance to the narrow pathway, flanked by angry snowmaking machines clapping their jaws.
‘Could the Ferrari GTO Evoluzione please come forward for a test lap,’ the loudspeaker announces, provoking tremors in my lower belly.
‘It’ll automatically put the weight on the back wheels,’ Akbar shouts over the engine’s thrum, typing on his iPhone. Nervous and disoriented, I drive over the hump, so the car jumps and I catch sight of Akbar’s phone screen, revealing a message to his wife: ‘Rallying:)’.
The next second, I look straight ahead again at the blurred snowdrifts, clawing the steering wheel to restrain my anger.
‘There will be a left turn now,’ he says in his normal voice, as if nothing was wrong.
‘I’m not blind,’ I snarl, ruthlessly trying to hold on to the skidding car.
‘You should have signaled on the turn,’ he says, aggravating me, checking his phone again. ‘There’ll be another left turn after the snowmaking machine. Don’t forget the signal!’
‘You want me to signal in the middle of the forest?’ I ask irritably.
‘Yes, we’re turning, it’s logical. There could be other cars,’ he says, continuing to type.
‘Akbar,’ I scoff. ‘Having a mistress when you already have a wife is not logical either … even less logical is lying that you’re going to get a divorce.’ I say, boiling up. ‘But you fucking think you can get away with it, so I, blyat, also want to get away with not signaling on the turns in the woods. Is that fucking fair?’ I’m yelling hysterically now, and my freaking bangs are falling into my eyes.
‘Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?’ He grabs my hair and painfully yanks it down, so I can barely see the road.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I bellow, trying to release myself with one hand and drive with the other.
‘Don’t you ever talk to me that way,’ he hisses, sharply yanking me by the hair again. As a reflex, my foot presses the pedal, making the vehicle accelerate like hell. ‘Slow down!’ Akbar shouts, releasing my hair - but when I can look straight again, we have already started into the turn.
Instantly, I steer to the left, when the car’s weight has already shifted to the outside tires, lifting the car so that only the left side skids along the ground.
Disregarding Akbar’s commands, I quickly steer to the right, dropping the car back onto four wheels - but now it is careering off into the trees.
As if in slow motion, I harshly steer to the left and release the handbrake, locking the rear wheels.
‘Left-foot braking, left-foot braking,’ Akbar screeches.
‘I’m trying,’ I squeal, my left foot glued to the brakes, pushing so hard that as I steer frantically away from the snow machine up ahead, I sprain all the joints in my leg.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Akbar barks, grabbing the steering wheel but quickly losing control as the car sharply shudders, and cold glass hits my cheek.
An almighty bump -
… a heap of snow …
My knee cracks and I loudly moan from the pain as the airbag blows up into my face, suffocating me with my own tears and blood.
‘Shit!’ Akbar curses from behind his airbag, reaching to squeeze my thigh. ‘What have you done?’
‘Leave me alone,’ I yell, forcing his hand away like it is the plague, howling from the sharp pain in my knee.
The most terrible part of the whole punishment is not the bodily pain at all.
Blood is dripping from the cracked window on my left, letting the chilly air in … The asphyxiating smell of gasoline fills the cabin … No, it can’t be the fuel tank. The hit wasn’t that strong. I was braking … It’s all Akbar’s fault … if he hadn’t been pulling my hair down … if he hadn’t been cheating …
The certain knowledge that in ten minutes, then in half a minute, then now this very instant your soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a human.
Suddenly, a wave of petrol flame gusts into the right-hand side of the vehicle, reducing the airbags to ashes, which fall to the floor like feathers.
Covering my face with the sleeves of my snakeskin jacket, I instinctively hit all the buttons to open up the doors … but they won’t open. With freezing, sweaty fingers, I squeeze the key as hard as I can until the doors finally respond.
I fall out of the car, wailing from the pain in my knee, my entire body shaking. I crash onto the cold, hard blanket of snow, and as I lie there, the flakes from the snow machine pummel my face like tiny knives.
The flames from the Ferrari surrealistically dance with the white curtain of manufactured snowflakes. Breaking through my idyll, Akbar - his polyester tracksuit ablaze - throws himself into the snowdrift. He flails from side to side, getting rid of the flames before a backdrop of primordial pine trees, accompanied by a peaceful cricket chorus.
I try to get up to help him, but the agony of the sharp black rod inside my leg and spreading up my spine chains me to the ground … Even breathing hurts …
There’s suffering wounds, bodily pain, and it means that all that distracts you from inner torment, so that you only suffer from the wounds until you die.
The approaching ambulance siren is belling in my head, making it harder and harder to stay conscious … I make a last effort to take out my heavy iPhone, and blindly take pictures so that Richard will get his headline.