The rain outside is getting heavier and the night in the hospital is getting darker. Somewhere between a dream and a fantasy, I hear Akbar’s voice very close to me, sounding unusually kind:
‘Your smile, your sparkling eyes are so striking - so painfully beautiful to me. How am I to close my eyes without seeing yours?’ he whispers, holding me tight in the middle of a lush green meadow under the bright morning sun. ‘You’re in a league of your own. I hold a part of you in my very core, lighting me up inside …’ He gets down on one knee. ‘I never thought I could feel this way about anyone,’ he says, revealing a small black velvet case from his pocket, bearing the Graff logo.
‘What is it?’ I ask excitedly.
All of a sudden a gust of heavy wind blows, covering the field with a snowy powder. It turns out to be a rocky plateau - and we are standing right at its edge.
Cautiously, I look down the gorge and see that the entire ravine is full of caves. Grimy, poverty-stricken people watchfully peep out from the caves as if they want to tell me something … my father is amongst them.
All those faithful people who were gazing at the cross … must have felt that all their hopes and almost all their faith had been shattered at a blow.
I turn to Akbar and ask if we can help them … but he wordlessly rises from his knee, puts the diamond ring back into his pocket and walks away, leaving me standing at the edge … I know I need to go down there …
‘Porridge?’ the brash, plump woman grudgingly asks, pushing her cart with its massive pot smelling of oatmeal right up to my bed.
‘Yes please,’ I say with a weak smile.
‘There.’ She offhandedly flops the sticky porridge into an aluminum bowl and gives it to me,
Moments later, an attentive young doctor enters the room and examines my head and leg. ‘By no means are you fit enough to check out today.’ He declines my request to leave. ‘You need to stay under medical supervision.’
‘I’ll go to the best clinic in Moscow, I’ve got very good insurance … the guys there will get me on a private jet.’ I gesture at the bodyguards by the door. ‘Please, I really need to be in Moscow, my father’s life depends on it,’ I plead.
‘OK, but it’s your own responsibility,’ he eventually agrees. ‘Keep the brace on at all times; get lots of rest, keep taking the antibiotics and change the bandages daily,’ he says, signing off the release papers and giving me the green light to get ready.
The bolts sticking out of my knee are too big to fit into my jeans … so I cut the jeans into shorts with the nurse’s scissors and carefully put my leg through. The big, hard beige brace and the foam collar on my neck make me look like some kind of alien monster, especially with the bruises and burns all over my body.
Wobbling on my crutches, I try to walk out of my room towards the elevators, but it appears to be a lot more painful than anticipated.
Seeing me struggling, the young doctor brings me a huge wheelchair. ‘Get in,’ he says, letting the bodyguards wheel me down to the black Mercedes waiting at the entrance.
They silently help me over the puddles into the brand-new car and as soon as the driver starts the engine I rivet my eyes on my phone, trying to look busy so that I don’t have to talk to them.
Amongst hundreds of urgent emails, alerting margin calls and panic revaluations caused by the market collapse, I find the one interests me the most – from Akbar’s events manager, Tatiana.
She has checked with the secretaries of the potential high-profile guests and it seems that Saturday is the best night to hold a charity auction. To raise more money she suggests putting one of Madonna’s old G-strings under the hammer … it is unclear whether or not this is an authentic item. ‘For the venue we recommend the basement of the Christ the Savior cathedral,’ she says. ‘It is the most popular, luxurious and exclusive location.’
Leaning back in my seat, I start picturing dirty underwear being sold in the galleries of Moscow’s main cathedral, built and rebuilt at a tremendous human cost …
‘We’ve got a crate of vodka,’ the driver says to the bodyguards. ‘Natasha will make the salads: gherkins, salami, etcetera. We should buy beer on the way back after we drop her off,’ he says, indicating me. ‘We’ll need it in the morning …’
Feeling revulsion at myself for having been a part of this ‘ignorant flock’, I respond to Tatiana: ‘Please send me a list of all the available venues for Saturday evening. Let’s not go with the Christ the Savior.’
Soon, after passing a few checkpoints, we approach a lonely private jet in the middle of the runway. The sun is setting in the background, a dazzling red warning sign.
A cute Swiss pilot courteously helps me in my laborious climb up the narrow stairs, with my leg that will not bend. We enter the monochrome gold interior, which now feels like plastic.
One thought runs back in forth in my head throughout the flight above the rain clouds: ‘Shall I just drop everything and go to see my dad?’ But if I did so, I would lose the momentum to get Akbar to fix the leakage … and that’s the only way to convince my dad to get proper treatment.
At around 8 p.m. we land in Moscow. The attentive pilot helps me to Akbar’s black Maybach, and emphatically gives me his card, in case I should require his services again. I quickly thank him and ask the driver to bring me home, then dial the only person I want to talk to. ‘Dad, how are you feeling?’
‘I’m OK, Katyusha, and so glad you’ve called. How’s your knee?’
‘It’ll be fine,’ I assure him. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘You know, lying here in the hospital, with my heart pumping out of my chest, I started thinking that it’s hard to understand why things happen the way they happen, but I’ve come to accept that somewhere out there, in this confusing labyrinth of life, there has to be a reason for all this and a purpose that somehow ties us to that equation, whatever that equation may be,’ he mumbles.
‘Dad, are you OK?’ I ask, preoccupied, barely understanding what he is saying.
‘You know I’m not an emotional type … Never in my life did I allow myself to cry, but today I cried,’ he admits. ‘Katyusha, please promise me you’ll marry a good, loving, caring guy and have two children - or better, three. There’s no greater happiness than being a parent. I remember the moment when you were born. The nurse brought you out to weigh you. That was when I first saw you, a little miracle, a part of me, my flesh and blood; giving out ripples of love, intensifying with every minute. How could I ever have been so lucky as to create you?’ he says blissfully. ‘They put you on the scales and you grabbed my finger with your tiny little fingers. That was the first time I felt that I hadn’t lived for nothing.’ My eyes are wet with tears again.
Pulling myself together, I realize he has just said something really unusual about himself - something he never used to be able to do. ‘Why did you cry, dad?’ I ask.
‘Katyusha, you don’t want to know … You live in this glamorous world … I don’t want to scare you with stories of God-forgotten Siberia,’ he sighs.
‘Dad, please, tell me,’ I beg. ‘I’m not that glamorous after all,’ I add, realizing he won’t tell if I don’t come down to him … down into the ravine. ‘I did my toilet-cleaning stint when I was a penniless student in Italy … I know what it means to get my hands dirty. Tell me.’
‘Well, it’s nothing unusual, really - workers from our factory went to the new director, demanding that he fix the meltdown … and help our women and children,’ he finally says. ‘He didn’t even listen to them.’ His voice sounds hopeless. ‘This new management just doesn’t care … just like the old one.’
‘Dad,’ I exhale, trying to control my overwhelming emotions. ‘I’ll fix the leakage and provide the aid … I know the new owner.’
‘You do?’ he asks, stunned.
‘Yeah, unfortunately,’ I say guiltily.
‘Katyusha, please be careful. Those kinds of people just want to make quick money, while they can, and don’t give a damn about others,’ he appeals.
‘How much money do you think is needed to fix the damage?’ I ask.
‘Too much, Katyusha, don’t even go there … more money than any of us could even imagine,’ he says humbly.
‘Five … ten million dollars?’ I prompt.
‘Something like that,’ he says reticently. ‘Depending on how much they steal … the core needs to be covered with a lead shield as they did at Chernobyl, to stop the reaction … at least back then they evacuated the civilians,’ he says remorsefully.
‘Yeah, months later,’ I say, recalling the smelly buses and people in masks.
‘I’m worried for Elena,’ he sighs. ‘She’s always ill … and very pale … they won’t be able to afford the red meat she needs when I’m gone.’
‘What do you mean, when you’re gone?’ I shout into the terrifying silence on the other end. ‘Dad, please, don’t say that. I’ll make them fix the meltdown, I promise.’ All of a sudden I feel an enormous sense of responsibility for my little stepsister.
‘You’re a great girl,’ he says.
‘Not so great,’ I mutter, ashamed to tell him the truth, letting my dad go off for a rest as we arrive at Leontievsky Lane.
Feeling determined, I give my keys to the driver, tell him to carry my things up to my apartment and take me to the office. I don’t even try to walk up the stairs, knowing every step would be agony.
As I wait for the driver, I type a message to Richard: ‘I was wrong on so many levels, never thought of the consequences. There’s no excuse. For what it’s worth, I’m trying to fix it and I’m going to Seversk.’
Minutes later we arrive at the office. I slowly get out of the car and, fighting the overriding pain, hobble up to the dark, empty dealing room. Loading the list of Akbar’s loans with the Swiss Bank on my computer, I find out there is about two billion dollars, converted into roubles to earn a higher interest rate. Provided it is five times leveraged, it is losing hundreds of thousands of dollars per day with the current dynamics of the Russian currency depreciation.
For the next couple of hours, I work to restructure the debt, so it stops losing money … and gradually converts back into dollars at a preferential rate, earning one per cent on the loan. Feeling the need to run Akbar through the structure so as to execute it as soon as possible, I dial his number.
‘Hello,’ I say calmly.
‘Is this a new habit of yours, calling me after midnight?’ he asks, with loud music playing in the background, obviously in some bar.
‘I’ve found a way to restructure your debt,’ I say.
‘Nice of you … so what are the cash flows?’ he asks, getting out of the noise to a quieter place.
‘At this rouble rate, pledging KazyMak’s liabilities with your cash, the Swiss Bank can restructure your debt at four per cent and give you back one,’ I explain.
‘Well done, let’s do it,’ he says, sipping his drink.
‘There’s one condition though.’
‘What is it?’ he asks sternly.
‘There are several tranches,’ I begin, hearing him snuffling with dissatisfaction. ‘The first tranche the Swiss Bank will lend you is fifty million dollars. I’ll execute the rest when you fix the meltdown in Seversk and provide help to the people,’ I say firmly, for the first time without any hesitation.
‘Someone has grown some teeth, eh, my little shark,’ he sneers. ‘Do you think you’re that indispensable?’
‘Akbar, one per cent on two billion is twenty million dollars,’ I say calmly. ‘Covering the reactor with a lead shield will cost you maximum five million, since you don’t have to bribe anyone to do that,’ I explain. ‘You’ll be fifteen million up, and be able to close all your loss-making positions. In a situation like this, it’s a deal no other banker can offer. I am putting my career on the line here. The best you could get elsewhere would be to increase your stake in their respective banks, by buying more shares in return for not having margin calls.’
‘I’d much rather use the funds from the charity ball to fix that leakage.’
‘With the rouble in freefall, the cost of carry is very much against you,’ I argue. ‘I can’t guarantee the same conditions after Saturday.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ he mutters. ‘Did you have a nice flight?’
‘Yes, thank you … very kind of you to arrange,’ I say.
‘I’m always kind to those who are kind to me,’ he says. The background music tells me he is back in the bar; I hear him talking to some girls with his low, loud voice, until eventually he hangs up.
Part of me wants to shout and curse him for being such a dick … out partying when people are dying because of him … but instead I find Tatiana’s email with venue suggestions, including the Tretyakov Gallery, Pushkin Museum, various churches and theaters, and one nightclub – The Rolling Stone … Without a second thought, I choose the club.
At around 1 a.m. I sluggishly limp out of the office into a yellow taxi with a bad-tempered driver, who has waited outside for forty minutes just to take me less than a quarter of a mile to Leontievsky Lane … but the rouble equivalent of fifty bucks puts a stop to his grumbling.
Once I’m through the entrance of the building I used to admire, it now feels painful and stupid to crawl up all the flights of stairs.
Finally, completely exhausted, I crash on my couch …
Suddenly, my phone rings, prompting me to wake up, thinking Akbar has changed his mind and wants to execute the deal - but I’m wrong, it is Richard:
‘Salut,’ he says.
‘Salut, ça va?’ I respond.
‘Ça va bien, merci,’ he says, strangely chewing the words. Eventually he mumbles: ‘Look, Katya, I’m … God knows I didn’t want that … she did it … I didn’t know … I’m … sorry.’
‘Richard, are you drunk?’ I ask, not believing my ears. ‘Since when have you been drinking?’
‘Yes, I know, that makes me a hypocrite too, right?’ he scoffs.
‘What happened?’ I ask anxiously. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Well, the article you asked me not to publish is going to come out tomorrow … front page … I guess your beau’s not going to like it …’
‘Damn it, Richard, what the hell?’ I exclaim. ‘Is this some kind of a sick joke?’
‘I wish it was,’ he sighs. ‘I wasn’t going to make such a big story out of it … but I couldn’t ignore it completely … I wrote a small article … but she picked up on it and put her own spin on the story.’
‘Who did?’
‘Sophie,’ he says bitterly. ‘She got her hands on the picture you sent from my phone.’
‘Did you know about it?’
‘No,’ he sighs. ‘I only found out when I saw the blueprint for tomorrow’s paper.’
‘Damn it, Richard!’ I fume. ‘I knew the bitch would play you one day.’
‘Katya, I’m sorry. If there was a way to fix it, I would - but I can’t.’
‘I almost got Akbar to fix the leakage and now all that effort is going down the drain!’ I howl in desperation. ‘He’s going to go ballistic. He might even call off the charity event. For Christ’s sake, Richard, why did she have to fuck all that up?’
‘What she’s done is unpalatable,’ he says reluctantly. ‘Guess she just wanted to boost her career …’
‘Your whole fucking high-flying career in London is at the expense of people’s health and living conditions in less fortunate countries.’ I hang up, unable to control my overwhelming emotions …
My gaze, blurred with tears, falls on the never-opened Sotheby’s bag right behind the couch … if I sold it back to Sotheby’s, it might give me enough money to buy at least some of the lead for the reactor shield.
Feeling bold, I check with Google how much my version of the Great Whore might cost, but the first search result strikes me with its blinding wisdom: ‘Pay her back as she herself has paid back others, and repay her double for her deeds.’