Sila's Fortune (28 page)

Big smile, thumbs up.

‘Señor Ruffle is our benefactor,' chorused the kids.

‘Her achievement is all the more impressive when you consider that Dolores here owns another house that she rents out and makes an income from.'

The reporter was surprised.

‘A cleaning woman with a second house? When she's already got a mortgage on this house and a loan on her car? You don't think that's a bit over the top?'

‘No sir,' said Mark patronisingly, ‘it's the miracle of the modern economy. There's no risk here. Worst case scenario, she just sells off the house and makes a fat profit. But she won't need to do that. This is just the beginning for her happiness, take my word for it.'

‘But what about her monthly payments? They must be astronomical.'

‘Nope. Not a cent,' said Ruffle. ‘It's an interest-free loan. At RUB we lend because we want to make people happy. The repayments don't start until later and by then Dolores won't be a cleaning woman any more, she'll have more money, she'll have no problem meeting the repayments. This is the new economy, my friend, the infinite growth economy.'

The reporter stared at him intently. Ruffle had the unpleasant feeling he used to have back in high school when he'd come out with a particularly dumb answer. But he wasn't in high school any more, and he was the one who was rich. So
he simply patted the reporter's shoulder and went back to join Dolores's family.

‘Señor Ruffle is our benefactor.'

This time, he'd made it. All he had to do now was ride the wave. The pictures would put up the statue. It was all over. In the shimmering light of day, a man in a white suit had triumphed over his contemporaries. The end zone was just in front of him and no linebacker now could stop him making this winning touchdown. Mark Ruffle, his life, his work.

In the Cadillac driving him back to his house, to which he had invited the TV crew for lunch in order to win them over, since he was suspicious about their political sympathies, the founder and Chief Executive of RUB savoured his perfect performance. Within this thick layer of complacency, no pothole could bother him, no detours or delays, and so the journey back seemed very short.

He got out of the car. The crew had not yet arrived. They should have come in his car. He looked at the house. For a fleeting instant, after the trailer and the suburban house, he thought about his wealth, then he pushed open the door.

Inside there was a man waiting for him. He was sitting on the sofa with Ruffles' wife bolt upright next to him. Shoshana looked so rigid that at first he wondered if someone had died, if there were some terrible news.

‘Hi Mark.'

He didn't answer.

‘I wanted you to meet Sila,' she went on, a lump in her throat.

‘Good to meet you,' said Ruffle curtly. ‘What's going on?'

‘Nothing. It's just …' Shoshana seemed a little breathless. ‘I really think you should talk to him.'

Ruffle studied the man on the sofa more carefully. He was a young black guy, twenty, twenty-five, elegantly dressed, he seemed serene and not in the least aggressive.

He walked over. The man got to his feet. He was taller than Ruffle and much slimmer.

‘Sila works in a French restaurant on Lincoln Road.'

What was this about? Why bring a waiter back to their house? If he was looking for a job with RUB, let him send in his CV.

‘That's nice. But what's that got to do with me? Look, I don't have much time and …'

‘I really need you to talk to him,' Shoshana interrupted, almost trembling. ‘It's important, for you and for me. Please.'

‘I think I know you,' said the black guy.

Unconvinced, Ruffle stood rooted to the spot.

‘We met at a restaurant in Paris.'

Then suddenly Ruffle remembered.

‘You're the waiter! The waiter who yelled at my son!'

‘I didn't yell,' Sila said quietly. ‘I never shout, certainly not at a child. But you hit me. You broke my nose. Because I asked your son to go back to his seat.'

Ruffle stared at him in silence, then mumbled: ‘I guess.'

He sniffed.

‘Okay. I've got a lot on,' he said, ‘there's a TV crew turning up here any minute. This isn't really the time to rehash old memories.'

Shoshana hesitated. ‘Oh? I thought you'd finished with the TV people.'

‘I asked them over for lunch.'

He took a step.

‘Why did you hit me?' asked Sila.

‘You shouted at my son. I flipped out. Any father would have done the same.'

‘I didn't shout,' Sila said again gently.

Ruffle shrugged.

‘Why did you hit me?'

‘My guests are going to turn up any minute,' said Ruffle, his tone more menacing now. ‘I'd like you to leave.'

‘You need to answer my question,' said Sila, moving closer to him.

‘I don't need to do anything. And you can push off.'

Ruffle brutally shoved the man backwards. A moment later, his face contorted with pain, he was bent double. Drawing himself up to his full height, Sila had grabbed Ruffle's fist and was twisting it with considerable force.

‘Why did you hit me?'

Ruffle whimpered from humiliation and pain. Gradually, without realising he was doing it, he brought his knee to the floor. Sila's muscles tensed. He wanted to remain calm, he wanted to go on asking his question, to compel this man to answer him, to settle once and for all this question that had been nagging at him since that episode in the restaurant, but the problem, the real problem was that he was beginning to forget the question, his whole being was focused on the pressure he was inflicting on this man and the tension necessary to maintain his vice-like grip. He should have seen Shoshana, heard her begging him to stop, should have taken pity on her tear-streaked face, but he saw nothing, heard nothing. He felt nothing but
this rage inside him which, far from being appeased by the man's suffering, became incandescent and uncontrollable. He stood straight, jaws clenched, his large hand gripping the man's fist, wrenching it to the left, twisting his wrist which was now at a worrying angle. A small voice inside him whispered, but he was not listening because he could feel nothing but this rage, muted, menacing, rippling like a storm that swells and does not break. And he stared at the man's mouth, gaping on a terrifying silence even as his hand twisted at the wrist. Suddenly there was a cracking sound and the man on the ground began to howl.

Sila dropped his hand as though burned, backed away, then fled.

Out in the driveway, he ran into three people getting out of a car.

The day was dazzling.

October 12, 1998 was a holiday for the city of New York. No one realised this, they all went about their business, walking quickly or slowly, wearing suits or jeans or tracksuits, tall or short, rich or poor, shopping or strolling, happy or unhappy, clever or stupid, loving or indifferent. And yet they should have noticed it was a holiday by the very fact that nothing was happening. October 12, 1998 was a day on which nothing happened. An unimportant day, which means a day doubtless filled with the blaze of millions of destinies but shielded from the blows of history which leave people in peace, only to beat them senseless later.

And it was on this holiday that three men met, brought together in a fractured world by power and money. Their paths had crossed during dinner at a Paris restaurant; now they crossed again, though their lives had completely changed. Their fleeting reunion – fragments of time coinciding – took place in Manhattan in the lobby of Kelmann Tower and the neighbouring streets.

At 10 am, from the window of his hotel suite, Lev Kravchenko stared out on Central Park, his eyes expressionless. In another hotel two blocks from there, Simon and Jane were taking a shower. They were making the most of a business
trip to roam the streets of the city Jane loved above all others. One floor down, Zadie was putting the finishing touches to her make up. Her face inscrutable, she was determined to be ready to confront the source of her inner turmoil, the Russian with whom she was scheduled to discuss contractual terms at the Kelmann building. In a small hotel several blocks further south, Matt was simply sleeping. He had been clubbing until the early hours and, despite his aversion to Jane Hilland, was glad he had accompanied the couple on their trip.

Lev, Elena, Simon, Matt, Ruffle, Shoshana, Zadie, Jane, Oksana, Sila, all gathered in the labyrinth, doomed to bump into one another again and again in the interlacing metal branches of modernity. A soaring trunk of glass and steel topped with boughs and branches sprouting leaves ocellated in gold and silver, winking gently. A towering tree whose branches, stretching out infinitely, invariably cross in a knot of destinies.

Lev left his room. His bodyguard stepped into the elevator before him. The two men rode down to the ground floor. Their figures were reflected in the mirrors. The bodyguard was heavy-set and inexpressive, as was his wont. Lev himself, deep in thought, gave nothing away. In the hotel lobby, ELK's chief financial officer and an American attorney were waiting for them. Lev was wary about the forthcoming meeting. He greeted the two men briefly. A car was parked outside the hotel; they climbed inside and drove off.

En route, it passed Simon, his arm through Jane's, chatting cheerfully but walking quickly so as not to be late for the meeting. He had insisted on walking. The weather was too beautiful to be shut inside a car.

Half an hour later, dressed in a tracksuit, hair dishevelled, Matt stepped into a branch of Starbucks to get some coffee and cookies, just as, at the top of Kelmann Tower, a short man with slightly Asian features sparked a timorous uneasiness in a young English woman anxiously watched by her assistant who stood directly over the void, next to the window of this immense glass skyscraper that towered above the city.

Lev sat down. A long-legged young woman in a short skirt asked if she could get him something to drink.

‘Coffee, please.'

Everyone was pleasant, indeed friendly. Lev feared the worst.

Around the board table five attorneys sat ready. For a business on the brink of bankruptcy. It promised to be a difficult battle.

‘We're here to discuss the proposed loan of two hundred million dollars to the company ELK, owned by Mr Lev Kravchenko.'

The associate who spoke first was a lean, thin-faced man of about forty-five. His name was Frank Shane. Almost bald, he was famous for constantly suing people, mostly recently a masseur who had injured his shoulder, a lawsuit he had won. His greatest joy was eating away at the lives of others. He was one of the most feared associates at the most feared bank in the business.

‘Mr Kravchenko …' Zadie began.

Lev looked at her curiously. He recognised her as a strong-minded intelligent woman. He remembered how much she had disconcerted him at their previous meeting, or rather how much, through her, Elena had disconcerted him, their faces
merging in the rubble of his ruined life. But now, he could think only of saving his company.

Zadie, on the other hand, felt the same awkwardness she had felt that first time. This little man, with his intense energy, his dispassionate intelligence, fascinated her. She had studied the ELK dossier carefully, she knew what desperate straits they were in and she knew what she should do. But just as battle was beginning, this feeling of unease unsettled her.

‘We've considered your application for a loan of two hundred million dollars,' she went on. ‘Given your company's extremely difficult circumstances, and the parlous economic situation in Russia, I have to say your request seems problematic.'

Her voice was quavering slightly. Probably the strange sensation of damning a man you find attractive and knowing that in doing so you damn yourself.

‘The economic situation is indeed difficult,' said Lev, ‘but ELK is sound because our oil reserves are extensive and easy to extract and global demand is constantly rising.'

Discussing the matter in English did not suit him. Only Russian suited him. In a foreign language he lost something of his intelligence, his perceptiveness, his subtlety. He was the same yet less sharp, as though using his left hand rather than his right. Besides, he realised that Zadie's opening remark was just a teaser.

Frank Shane was staring at Lev. As in every negotiation, he felt hostile. He despised this man who sat in front of him, demanding money he did not deserve since none of the oligarchs deserved the fortunes they had amassed, because Russia was completely controlled by the mafia. The man's Hunnish
face exasperated him, as did the bankrupt billionaire's self-confidence. The situation was clear: this man was in his power.

‘We're bankers, Mr Kravchenko, not philanthropists. Our objective is to make money.'

‘I couldn't agree more,' said Lev, somewhat surprised by the banker's aggressive tone.

He realised that battle had commenced.

The young woman set a coffee in front of him. He didn't drink it.

‘Let me be frank, Mr Kravchenko: we don't want to take risks. We would require your existing assets as collateral.'

A jaded expression tinged with scorn flashed across Lev's face. It was then that Simon recognised him: the Russian at Lemerre's restaurant. It was him. That same expression of indifference. Years later and several thousand kilometres away, here they were again.

‘What collateral?' said Lev. ‘ELK sells oil to Russia, to Europe, to the USA. Sales in every market are rising.'

Shane found Lev's scorn intolerable. Those soliciting loans had no right to be anything but meek, indeed humble, when they found themselves in such straitened circumstances.

‘Output from your principal oilfield,' he said, ‘has dropped significantly following an attack on the site, and there may be others. You have enemies, Mr Kravchenko, and you are well aware that they may attack again.'