Sila's Fortune (26 page)

ELK needed two hundred million dollars if the business was to ride out the crisis. The world was desperate for oil. The world economy, beset by local crises, was guzzling energy, plundering the earth to fuel development. From everywhere, money flowed. Vast loans. The crises in Asia, in South America, in Russia, the famines and the massacres in Africa, nothing could curb the enormous energy of the planet, awash with money, with consumption, with unquenchable desire. The great body needed oil, gas, it needed energy, even wars and massacres required energy, death drawing on deep wells of greed. Burning up with money fever, inflamed by each new revenue stream, the world economy was going through one of its greatest periods of prosperity. All these furnaces crammed to bursting point were bound to explode, but while it lasted, Lev was convinced he could get the money.

He left for London. Bored one day long ago he had – for an absurd sum – bought a huge house there that he never stayed in, one Elena occasionally used when she went clothes shopping. She was fascinated by the change in Britain's capital, irrigated by money and a constant influx of people, where wealth and opulence were now so common that a city which had always been a rather eccentric old maid was now hiking up her petticoats to get down and dirty in sports cars and five-star restaurants.

Lev was happy to leave the stifling atmosphere of his empty palace. He took Oksana with him. His private jet was waiting and he noted with amusement that bankrupt men are still rich.

The London house, some 1,000 square metres, seemed to him an ideal size since he did not get lost in it. Oksana liked it.

‘You need to forget about business, Lev. By all means go to your meetings, but the rest of the time we're spending in restaurants and nightclubs.'

This they did. Lev spent staggering sums which, given he was bankrupt, meant nothing. Bouncers queued up to escort them and get a tip. He ordered the most expensive vintages and his extravagance was so talked about, no one could have imagined the true nature of his financial situation. Oksana herself succeeded in making some saleswoman's year, buying all the dresses she had tried on in an hour. The Russian billionaire and his girlfriend were mobbed by the paparazzi. Lev knew that this would do him no harm. True, the British wrote in clichés and the handful of articles he read were pathetically trite, rehashing platitudes about ‘the oligarch's fabulous wealth', ‘the madness of Russia', ‘the oil prince'. But at least he was being talked about, and he acquired a celebrity status he had not previously had in Britain, where other oligarchs were considerably more famous. Once or twice, the alcohol, the darkness and the throb of the music brought him peace in the tangle of crowds, of lights, of dancing. He watched the moving figures, revelled in the youthful faces, the emptiness of pleasure. He was no longer thinking about anything and the mindless state that came over him, disturbing in its serenity, was a wonderful drug.

At a meeting at Kelmann, he noticed a brilliant young
English woman. She reminded him of Elena. The same intelligence, the same distinguished features. She was much less pretty, but it was Elena just the same. He felt a tightness in the pit of his stomach. Everyone else at the meeting seemed to disappear. There was only this woman. In the terrible slow motion where negotiations seemed to hang motionless, the figures melded and as a vague bitterness welled inside him, Lev felt the crushing wave of time: his life closed in on him, his youth disappeared in a flash. Suddenly, nothing had meaning.

He froze. Words died away. If he could, he would have grabbed this woman on the other side of the table, this ghost of his youth, but he simply sat staring as he experienced, like a whirlpool, the terrifying swiftness of loss, not of his fast-disappearing fortune, but simply, ineluctably, of his life.

Zadie had never felt remotely attracted to a client. She dealt with portfolios, not people. But during the meeting with this Russian client, she felt herself quiver. This despite the fact that she was surrounded by her team and the catastrophic situation of the business they were discussing should have precluded all other considerations. The man was not handsome. He was short and she did not find his somewhat Asian features attractive. He needed two hundred million dollars. And suddenly, she sensed he was no longer listening to them. She glanced at him; he was staring at her. It was not an intimidating stare, he was not trying to impress her, nor was it a look of curiosity or attentiveness. Nor was it desire, or if it was it was a desire so particular that the man seemed almost desperate, teetering over an abyss.

And it was at this point that she began to tremble. From the depths of her harshness, her biting sharpness, welled a stifling feeling, an overpowering emotion. And suddenly this short man in the black suit, this man she had never met before, became closer, more important to her, than all the members of her team.

Simon Jude had placed a hand on her forearm. She felt the pressure, realised she had to come back to reality, that several people around the table had noticed she was no longer paying
attention. This was an important business deal, she could not afford to make a mistake; she had just been promoted, given greater responsibility, there could be no question of easing up.

She closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them again, she was no longer trembling. She was once again steady, confident, despite the combination of fear and longing lodged deep inside her.

They arranged a second meeting in New York at head office.

The man took his leave. His handshake lingered a fraction too long. Zadie was taller than he was, yet once again she had a feeling of weakness simply from being near him.

‘It would be a pleasure to see you again,' said the man. ‘You're a brilliant woman and I like working with brilliant people.'

There was no trace of despair in him now. He had composed himself, he was as he had been at the start of the meeting. She nodded, unable to say a word. She knew she should say something, if only ‘thanks' or ‘see you again'.

‘Impressive guy,' said Simon after Lev had gone. ‘I got the impression I've seen him somewhere before.'

‘It's possible,' said Zadie. ‘It's a small world, and the financial world is tiny. I mean, you're dating Hilland's daughter.'

Jane Hilland had wanted to see him again. They had met up in a pub and, once again, Simon had been inordinately awkward, but the young woman seemed to like him all the more. She laughed a lot at his unwitting jokes.

‘What I find striking about you is your naivety,' she teased him.

She did not know how right she was. No one in the London financial world had ever been as innocent as Simon, so much
so that his survival in the City was a purest miracle, owing perhaps to the subtle magic that innocence sometimes gives rise to. Far from being crushed, he floated like a bubble, protected as always, admittedly, by the chainmail of mathematics that was his armour. But what was most surprising was that any woman should ever be fascinated by his survival mechanism, this curious solution, a combination of blindness and innocence which he adopted in the face of a hostile world. But Jane Hilland herself was an extraordinary woman. Her father's vast fortune meant she had absolute freedom. And since the money was wedded to a keen intelligence and a certain personal eccentricity, she was little influenced by prejudice. So this goldfish no woman had ever found interesting had managed to pique her curiosity. They went to the cinema to see one of those English films that defy common sense. In fact, the goldfish was part of this world. He wasn't French, he was English, funny English.

Jane wanted to discover his world. Simon invited her home, taking care to ensure Matt cleared out. They had a very pleasant evening. They drank, they talked, had a quick bite.

Late in the evening, Simon gave a start. He could hear the key turn in the lock. Why was he worried about his friend coming home? Because Matt enjoyed making him uncomfortable, because Matt would love to look down on Jane, but most of all because Matt could seduce any woman.

But Jane surprised him. Everything about her father's wealth that might translate into a sense of superiority, a glacial indifference, she demonstrated now. Hardly had Matt said hello, with a casual wave and that aura of booze and contentment he had, than this charming woman became haughty. Her eyes
grew cold, her smile vanished, her whole body seemed to be armoured with steel and detachment.

Matt started boasting about the restaurant he'd just been to.

‘I find it rather pretentious,' she said.

She asked him what he did for a living.

‘I used to work for a Russian hedge fund that's just gone belly up. But it won't take me long to find something else.'

‘A trader?' she asked condescendingly.

‘Yeah.'

‘That's strange. I know a lot of traders, I've been around them my whole life. My father's a banker. I don't see you as a trader.'

‘And where do you see me?' asked Matt.

‘In the dole queue.'

The quip was fired off without a trace of a smile. Then Jane got to her feet and said: ‘I'm sorry, I have to go.'

She kissed Simon on both cheeks and left with a wave, without even saying goodbye to Matt.

He blushed. The door slammed.

‘Friendly, your girlfriend,' he commented.

‘She's not usually like that. I don't know what got into her. She was being so charming.'

‘It doesn't surprise me. The Hillands – all silver spoons and self-importance. Apparently her father fucks every whore in London. Well, the expensive ones at least.'

Matt was so humiliated he forgot to say that she was ugly. Never had he felt such contempt. This woman had tapped into all his insecurities and his fears. He felt as though he had just come out of a job interview where instead of smiles, he'd been spat on.

‘I've never met such a complete bitch.'

Slowly the spite machine ground into gear again.

‘I don't know what you're doing with her,' he went on, ‘London's full of charming girls but, oh no, you have to pick the worst of the lot. A complete bitch.'

Matt fell silent. He ran his tongue over his lips. He was still flushed with humiliation.

‘And ugly as fuck to boot.'

Finally. He'd said it.

Two days later, Simon saw Jane at her place.

‘I was a bit offhand with your friend.'

‘A bit, maybe.'

‘I hope I didn't embarrass you. I have to say I didn't like him. That smugness … That second-rate Casanova look he's got going … You're nothing like each other. He hates you, doesn't he?'

‘Hates me?' Simon repeated, flabbergasted. ‘No, he's my friend, my best friend.'

‘That doesn't preclude hate. Quite the contrary.'

‘I don't think he hates me, no, I don't think so,' Simon stammered.

Late in the evening, as they were sitting on the sofa, a terrifying thing happened: Jane kissed him. Not urgently, passionately, but a fleeting playful kiss. In spite of his terror – what was he supposed to do, how could he be sure not to do it wrong, not to seem ridiculous? – Simon kissed her for a longer time.

‘You kiss like a cat,' said Jane.

Meaning a vague wet nuzzle, he supposed. He tried harder, she tried harder. The kiss continued, melted, lingered, Simon
forgot to be afraid. Jane pulled away and smiled at him, a red mark on the corner of her lips.

‘You've never kissed a girl before?'

‘Of course I have.'

She stared at him like a clinical case.

‘Really very special,' she murmured.

She didn't seem to dislike it. She went to get a glass of water, her high heels clacking across the floor. Her hips were narrow, her body slender. Every detail was etched on Simon's memory. The sound of the fridge being opened. The clack of heels again. The mounting terror: what was he supposed to do now? What did she expect of him?

Jane came back with two glasses of water. As soon as she sat down, he lunged at her, not feeling the least desire, almost out of a sense of duty. She looked shocked, but leaned towards him nonetheless. They kissed again, somewhat laboriously. Then she looked at him, stroked his hair. It felt like he was still a child. She opened the top button of his shirt. He felt a pain in his stomach. He took it as a sign. He placed a hand on her breast, as though opening a door. She looked at him in astonishment then took his hand. He stayed like this, motionless. Simon was wondering: what should I do? What would Matt do? Thinking of his friend troubled him even more. Matt would be in bed by now. But how did you get from sofa to bed? By what impossible journey? This was all so terrifying. He felt no desire, nothing but fear and a flicker of humiliation, sensing impending failure that would make another date impossible. She seemed so experienced to him. She had probably already had several serious relationships with handsome, intelligent young men like her friends. After
all, she was a Hilland. His eyes widened in fear. Jane watched all this, guessed the agonies he was going through. Shaking her head sympathetically, she set Simon's hand down again on the sofa and kissed him slowly, tenderly. This gentle pressure, this confusion of tongues, and of bodies since she was pressing herself against him, began to blind Simon. This dispelled the images, the fears, there was nothing now but the warm, pleasant contact which drew down an intimate darkness. Eyes closed, he gave himself up to the warmth. He wished it would last for ever.

And then suddenly, Jane got to her feet, as though she had made a decision. She led him into a dark room and pulled him onto the bed and the kissing began again. Jane took off his shirt. He fumbled with buttons and by some miracle managed to take off her blouse and, fingers shaking, tackled her bra, failed. But with a patient smile, a faint outline in the darkness, her hands moved behind her back, unhooked the fractious clasp, releasing her breasts that he kissed and sucked, taking no pleasure in doing so but realising what he had to do. Jane's breathing came faster now. She unhooked her skirt. He slipped it off her, aware of the rustle of her tights, of the warmth radiating from the centre of her body. Then he peeled off her panties, though it took several attempts to get them past her cold feet. She was naked. He did not feel close to this woman who worried him so much, who was nothing but a task he had to accomplish, who called into question everything in his life. He could barely see her in the darkness. This reassured him somewhat: she seemed less human, less conscious. He no longer wanted to escape, he wanted it to be over. So he entered her, feeling no pleasure, and was surprised to discover that it seemed to work. The young woman beneath him
was moaning, he didn't know whether she was doing it simply out of kindness but it was reassuring nonetheless, he felt better, in fact he felt more brave. Jane's breath came faster now, this was a good sign, things were going well. Then her body tensed.