That was logical – as a good businessman, Konstantin identified precisely the right solution. There was only one ‘but’ – for Nina, becoming director of the company that had been snatched from her father was out of the question.
“That’s impossible,” said Nina.
Konstantin gazed at her silently for some time and then asked, “Is that your final word?”
“Yes,” Nina replied without hesitation.
Konstantin said, “I see.”
He lowered his eyes and started leafing through Nina’s papers again, stopping at particular fragments. On one of the pages, he pointed out something else to the accountant. Then Konstantin got up.
“If you’ll excuse us, we need to deliberate.”
Nina rose readily. “I can wait in the reception…”
“Absolutely not!” Konstantin checked her with a gesture as he and Revich were leaving the office. “Please stay here. We’ll be back soon.”
However, that was far from soon. Nina had to sit in the office of Gradstroiinvest’s leader for a good hour and a half trying to anticipate what arguments Konstantin was going to use to put pressure on her. Konstantin’s secretary looked in to ask if Nina wanted something to drink. To give herself an occupation, Nina asked for a coffee, but when the coffee was brought, she was unable to drink it – so great was her tension.
At last, the door opened and the men were back.
“You win,” said Konstantin. “We accept your terms without any reservations.”
Nina left the office walking on air. Victory! She accomplished what had seemed impossible – netted a sum on the sale of the company which hardly any buyer would have paid even before all those recent troubles. Her father was rescued from poverty. In fact, he had never had a fraction of the money that was going to be credited to his account now. Nina imagined him recovering completely from his illness and becoming a free man: he and Lydia Grigorievna could travel, pursue any hobbies – do whatever they liked. If he wished, her father could find an application for his professional skills, too, – such an experienced engineer would easily get employment on any project. Only he should not try starting his own business again…
She was flattered by the thought that she had fulfilled her duty. Once she had promised her mother not to leave her father but help him through the hard times. She lived up to her promise.
Nina called Lydia Grigorievna to break the big news and let the woman know that she was coming to the hospital the next day to tell everything to Yevgeniy Borisovich. Nina even started giving some details to Lydia Grigorievna on the phone but stopped short. Her father’s wife did not appear to share Nina’s joy – the woman did not display any great interest in the news at all, but said simply, “It’s just as well. I’ve always thought that we’d be better off without that company.”
On her way to the hospital, Nina was no longer in such high spirits. How was her father going to take the deal? It was not in Nina’s character to boast, neither was she going to put herself on a pedestal now, but after all, he had to understand that she had worked a miracle…
As on some previous occasions, Nina was intercepted in the hall by Lydia Grigorievna. This time the woman actually blocked Nina’s way.
“Sorry, Ninochka, you can’t see papa now.”
“What’s up?” asked Nina worriedly.
“Nothing, it’s simply… He’s just a bit tired and is having a rest now.”
Nina did not understand. “But, Lydia Grigorievna, I’m just going to drop in for a minute. I’ll give him the very gist of it – after all, he needs to know what…”
Still, her father’s wife did not budge.
“No, Ninochka, sorry. Some other time,” she said, averting her eyes.
It came home to Nina at last that her father did not wish to see her.
She was dumbfounded. After all that she had done for him he would not let her, his daughter, into his hospital room!
Nina had almost never cried – not even in her childhood – but this time two tears slid uncontrollably down her cheeks.
“There, there, Ninochka, don’t take it to heart so,” Lydia Grigorievna said hastily, trying to quiet her down. “You know what temper he has, and his condition doesn’t help either… Just give it time, and everything will sort out. I’ll call you.”
Lydia Grigorievna was not a bad woman and she meant well, but Nina had no use for her soothing talk.
“Here, give it to him.”
Nina shoved the documents into the woman’s hands, turned round and left.
Lydia Grigorievna did not call – either the next day, or the day after, or even after a month. Clearly, Nina’s father would not let her do that. So, after all the heroic deeds that Nina had worked he bore her a grudge – believed that she had done him wrong. What was her fault exactly? Saving him?
Nina was badly wounded by the injustice. But there was something else. Deep down she had another disturbing feeling which she could never quite figure out – being in the right by any reasonable judgment, she still felt a traitress. What exactly her treason was she could not define, but the feeling filled her with emptiness and cold.
Over the twenty-six years of her life, Nina had not had a blacker streak. Everything that had been her life before was over now. She had lost her only family. She was probably going to restore some contact with her father eventually, but their relationship would never be the same again – that much was clear.
Nina was taking a sad inventory of her life. She had no family of her own. She had no boyfriend, and all her experience with the other sex did not provide any reason for optimism. She had some achievements in her profession, but she did not have a decent job. She had a one-room apartment, a good computer with high-speed Internet, a case of work-related books, and a pile of English detective stories on the bedside table. There were some good clothes in her wardrobe. On the upper shelf of the closet were her tennis things and a pair of male trainers left behind by a former lover.
Also, she had hatred. She was full of hatred – not any longer towards Konstantin, who had finally proved to be a decent person, but towards the unattainable Gradbank and its director Samsonov who, while not being aware of the existence of her father or herself, had destroyed their life by one of his decisions. She hated the mean, heartless world of business which crushed people like ants.
Nina remained in a kind of permanent stupor, unable to do anything or plan anything. She hardly noticed the passing of days and quite often could not say how she had spent the previous day – whether she had gone to work or stayed at home.
So it was going on until destiny interfered in the most undisguised manner. In her prostration, Nina neglected everything – her work, her apartment, herself. Among other things, she forgot to empty her mailbox. The box got packed up with advertisement stuff so that new papers were sticking out and falling down onto the floor. One such paper landed at her feet just as she was passing by. Nina picked it up and scanned it absent-mindedly.
Gradbank! The word was printed in bold type. It took Nina some time to take in the message. It was a vacancy advertisement – the bank wanted an employee for its analytical department.
Once in her apartment, Nina sat at her computer and, hardly realizing what she was doing, sent off her resume at the bank’s address.
After two weeks she had a job in Gradbank.
What did she count on? What was she plotting? She could not explain it to herself. Really, she could not seriously plan to set the bank on fire. Still, the resentment in her heart had not at all quieted down – now that she was in her enemy’s camp, she had even greater hatred for that inhuman establishment and its principle monster, Director Samsonov. To Nina, he was evil itself.
Nina swore to herself that she would have her revenge. She had no idea when or how that was going to happen, but she was firmly set on dealing her blow. With luck, she would make Samsonov suffer as her father and herself had suffered.
Part II
Chapter 1
“You play tennis?”
Nina looked up in bewilderment. “What?”
“The racket.” Samsonov nodded towards the handle of a racket sticking out of Nina’s bag which was tucked under her desk.
“Yes, I play a little.”
Nina felt embarrassed. In fact though, what was there to be embarrassed about? All right, she played tennis, so what? However, when talking to Gradbank’s director Pavel Mikhailovich Samsonov she was never herself, constantly saying what she did not mean to, and alternating between shyness and some sort of impudent excitement.
Samsonov took no notice of that, of course. His own manner was quite simple and natural – as natural as that of a tank which goes wherever it wants to without heeding anything around. He could run a staff meeting yelling at his men and kicking their asses for two hours non-stop and then, having shoved everyone out, perch on Klara Fedorovna’s desk and tell her an obscene joke himself laughing his head off. He did not care in the least what other people thought of him.
“I envy you,” he said to Nina. “I’ve long been meaning to learn how to play, but I’ve never had the time.”
They were sitting in Nina’s room. Samsonov came over almost every day about five o’clock when his reception emptied. He never informed her in advance that he was coming – the door would just open wide, and his massive shape would emerge dwarfing everything in the room including Nina. Samsonov would say briskly, “Hi,” then pull up a chair and sit down close to Nina. The chair squeaked under his weight. Samsonov would say, “All right, show me what you’ve dug up.” Clicking the mouse on her computer, Nina reported her findings to him.
So far, her analysis had not brought any sensational results. Gradbank was well prepared to bid for the giant business center construction project, and its positions were strong. But so were the positions of some competitors of which the bank Atlas was the most dangerous one in Nina’s view. When she reported that conclusion to Samsonov, he nodded, “Yes, we’re up against Atlas. The others don’t count.” As it turned out, he had long known that – since before the tender contest had been announced. He knew lots of things about everything – all organizations in his sphere and people who headed them, their past and their shady dealings, their ties with the city administration and the ministries, as well as their mutual relationships. However, he did not share any of it with Nina – he wanted her to work with the documents only and look at everything through the eyes of a financial analyst.
As he sat down next to her, he invariably put his elbow on the desk and propped up his jaw with his big fist. Then he froze up and listened to her report without a stir, only asking her occasionally to dwell on some piece that he did not quite understand.
Being in such proximity with a man whom she had long hated from a distance – sensing his large masculine body just ten centimeters away, and picking up the smell of his tobacco and of his disgusting gutalin – made her shrink and stammer. Angry with herself, she would speak loudly and forcefully – so that Samsonov even remarked once, “You don’t need to shout, you know. I’m not deaf.”
After hearing her out, he would rise, say, “All right, carry on,” and leave.
But this time it was different. When Nina had reported her daily catch, Samsonov said, “All right, I get it,” and then turned his eyes to her racket.
“You’re going to play tonight?” he asked.
“I was. But it’s all right, that can wait.”
Nina thought that the director meant to load her with some extra work for the night.
Samsonov hesitated for a moment and then smiled a surprisingly shy smile.
“Take me along, will you?
Nina was confused. “Take you where?”
“Well… Take me with you to play tennis.”
Nina was dumbfounded.
“I don’t know… Well, of course, if you like… But it would probably be a better idea for you to hire a coach and take some regular lessons.”
“I will some time,” replied Samsonov with a sigh. “But when is that going to happen? What with the life I’m leading… I never have time for anything, not even for my tai chi.”
When Nina came to herself, her astonishment gave way to mischievous mood.
“Pavel Mikhailovich, I’d love to take you to the tennis club,” she said. “Only I have to warn you – if you’ve never held a racket in your hand before, it might not work very well at first.”
“Why? What’s the problem? I’ve seen people play – it doesn’t seem a big deal.” He nodded towards her racket, “May I?”
Samsonov took the racket and started swinging it. In the narrow room, he barely cleared the walls. Parrying an imaginary blow, he made a slashing stroke just over Nina’s head so that she had to duck. On the face of Gradbank’s director was a boyish, happy look.
“That’s decided then,” he announced. “I’ll just go tell Klara to cancel whatever I’ve left for tonight.”
Nina’s face kept the expression of unperturbed politeness – or at least, she meant it to be that way. In fact, she was full of malicious glee. Knowing how hard the first steps in tennis could be for a beginner, she anticipated discomfiture of the almighty director. “You’re in for it, mister Samsonov,” she gloated. “And with your conceit, too! Well, it serves you right…”
Nina turned off her computer and put the documents in the safe. Then she picked up her bag, glanced around the room to make sure she had not dropped any scrap of paper on the floor, walked out and locked the door carefully.
For a quarter of an hour, she had to wait for the director by the elevator. Finally, Samsonov came out pulling on his overcoat. The beautiful Marina was gliding along like a carvel, carrying his gloves and scarf. She did not pay any attention to Nina.
“You ready, coach?” Samsonov asked merrily.
Marina froze up – it occurred to her that her chief was going somewhere with that grey mouse, that little careerist wriggler from the analytical department.
She shoved Samsonov’s things into his hands, turned round on her high heels and walked away. When she was in anger, her gait was even more defiantly beautiful – if that was at all possible.
They had already stepped into the elevator cabin when security chief Sinitsin sprung up. He jumped into the cabin at the last moment.
“Pavel Mikhailovich, would you care to sign…?”
“What’s that?”
Sinitsin handed his boss some papers. Samsonov started signing them, pressing the pages against the cabin wall.
Sinitsin turned to Nina, “I haven’t seen you for a while, Nina Yevgenievna. Are you comfortable at the new place? Everything’s all right? Good, I’m glad to hear that.” He was smiling, but his eyes were looking with cold attention. “Please don’t forget about the little safety things such as locking the door. You can’t be too careful, right?” Nina blushed. On one occasion she had actually left without locking the door to her room. “We are all one big family here, but rules are rules, you know.”
He nodded towards the racket that was sticking out of her bag. “Playing tennis, eh?”
“Yes, I am. And Pavel Mikhailovich wishes to try his hand,” Nina explained.
“Indeed?”
The face of the security chief showed polite interest, but it seemed to Nina that none of that was news to him. “Can it be that he has my room bugged?” thought Nina. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I used to play a bit, too,” Sinitsin said with a chuckle. “Maybe, you’ll let me join in sometime, too?”
“We will. But not today,” Samsonov said, giving him back the signed papers. “As far as I know, you’ve got a lot on your plate, Sinitsin.”
It was Samsonov’s habit to treat all his male subordinates with army-style familiarity and curtness, while they were invariably respectful – and many of them quite obsequious – towards him. Nina considered this disparity as another proof of bad manners on the part of the director. On the other hand, Samsonov was quite civil to all the female employees except for Klara Fedorovna and Marina.
The elevator reached the basement floor. Sinitsin got out of the cabin along with them and accompanied them to the car. As they walked, he went on speaking to Samsonov in a low voice, never forgetting to smile at Nina. Nina could not hear almost anything – she only caught the word ‘Atlas’. Samsonov listened, striding vigorously with his head down, and finally cut the other man short brusquely, “All right, we’ll talk about that tomorrow.”
The director’s car was waiting for them with the engine already running. Samsonov took the front seat, and Nina got into the back. Sinitsin held the door politely open for her.
The driver stepped on the gas, and the car glided, purring softly, onto the ramp leading up to the garage exit gate. In the rear window, Nina caught a glimpse of Sinitsin. The security chief was following the car with his eyes, not smiling any more.
“Well, coach, it’s your call. Where are we heading?”
The car was huge. Samsonov was way off in front, so Nina could only see the back of his head and took some time to realize that he was speaking to her.
Samsonov turned his head round so that the white collar of his shirt cut into his thick neck.
“Nina, are you there?”
Nina started. It was the first time since she had come to work on the twelfth floor that the director had called her by her first name. She was sure that Samsonov had forgotten it, but apparently he really had a good memory.
She gave him the address.
“And one more thing – you’re going to need some sports clothes. And a pair of tennis shoes, too.”
“That’s right,” agreed Samsonov. “And what about the racket?”
“You can hire one in the club,” explained Nina.
Samsonov turned to the driver, “Kolya, make a stop at a sports store.”
They were driving through the city. It was late autumn. The day was cold but clear, and the rays of the setting sun were playing in pools of cold water and on the rain-sprinkled car bonnets.
“Damn, look at all this traffic! How’s one supposed to drive?” muttered Samsonov. “Kolya, I don’t know how you can even manage this.”
“It’s all right,” replied Kolya.
Kolya was a young guy with stick-out ears and tousled hair. He was a master of driving – if Nina had not seen, through the stained windows of the car, the street lights glide by, she could have thought that she was not in the director’s car, but at home, sitting in her favorite chair.
The car pulled over by the glittering show window of a sports store.
“Here, take this.“ Samsonov handed a plastic card to Kolya. “Buy me some tennis stuff. Take your own pick. I have size… Do you remember what size I have?”
“It’s fifty-six,” replied Kolya.
“Yeah, right. And it’s forty-four for shoes.”
Kolya did not seem at all surprised by the commission – obviously, he had run errands like that before.
“I hate jostling around in stores,” Samsonov remarked, confirming Nina’s guess.
Nina smiled to herself. “Men! No woman will entrust someone else with buying her clothes – a woman will do the shopping herself, fussing about in the fitting room for at least half an hour. And this one doesn’t seem to care what he pulls on.”
As Kolya was closing the door, another idea occurred to Samsonov. “Hey, buy me a racket, too. Why hire?”
“What kind of racket do you want, Pavel Mikhailovich?”
“Aren’t they all the same?”
Nina had had no intention to intervene, but she could not help it.
“Nikolai, you’d better buy a racket for beginners,” she remarked from the back of the car.
Kolya nodded, but Samsonov stopped him.
“As you were, soldier! Who do you listen to? You listen to me. Get a regular racket for grown-up guys.” He turned to Nina, laughing, “Don’t you order my Kolya around. I am director here yet.”
“Sorry,” Nina muttered, and added to herself, “Thick, conceited stud!” Over the period of their acquaintance, she had pronounced that verdict in her mind a hundred times.
Kolya grinned, slammed the door shut and left.
“A good kid,” said Samsonov. “A terrific driver and a prompt fellow, too. And most important, he is faithful.”
He said that with an emphasis, putting some meaning of his own into the words. But Nina took it her own way. “Look who’s talking of faithfulness!” she said in her mind. “Exploiter, puppeteer, what have you done to deserve faithfulness?”
“I’m afraid, I’ll lose him soon, though,” remarked Samsonov.
“Why so?” responded Nina from the back seat.
“Got married.”
“Who got married?”
“Not me – him.” Samsonov grinned. “They’re expecting a baby, too. His wife wants him to find another job. She agrees to a smaller pay provided the work is not dangerous… That’s sensible of her, though.”
“Does he have dangerous work?” asked Nina.
Samsonov turned his head to her so that his collar cut into his neck like a knife.
“I have dangerous work, and so he does, to keep me company.”
“What’s the danger?” inquired Nina.
Samsonov looked at her searchingly and, seeing that she was genuinely puzzled, waved the question away, “It’s nothing, really. Forget it.”
He kept silent for a while, and then asked, “Are you married?”
Nina started in her seat.
“No, I am not,” she uttered.
“Why not?”
Samsonov asked one unceremonious question after another as if trying to complete the image of a boorish boss that Nina created in her mind.
“I was married once. Divorced. No children,” she reported in an even tone, eager to be through with the job of satisfying the director’s idle curiosity.
“Really? I see,” Samsonov said and dropped the matter.
“What is it you see, you blockhead? You don’t see a thing,” Nina responded in her mind. She would have mentally pursued the topic further if it had not been for Kolya who came back from the store.
Kolya carried a large plastic bag from which the handle of a racket was protruding.
“Hey, give it to me.” Samsonov took out the racket and started feeling and palming it.
He showed the racket to Nina: “What do you think?”
“It’s a good racket,” said Nina. “An expensive one.”
Samsonov’s face was radiant – the picture of a boy that had received a new toy. He could not wait to use the racket, and he would actually have started swinging it right away if there had been a bit more space in the car.
“I say, physical exercise is an important thing. It’s for real, I mean it,” Samsonov reflected aloud. “I’m thinking of installing some fitness equipment in our basement. We don’t have anywhere to squeeze in a swimming-pool or a tennis court, but we’ll find room for a dozen treadmills and exercise bikes. The employees could practice after work or even during their lunch break.”
When she imagined her former chief Ariadna Petrovna, with her immense form, jogging on a treadmill during a break between two business conferences, Nina let out an involuntary giggle.
“Laughing, eh?” Samsonov responded good-naturedly. “All right, you can laugh all you like, but I’ll do it.”
Gradbank’s director Samsonov was in an excellent mood.
It all went exactly as Nina had anticipated. As he came out onto the court, Pavel Mikhailovich Samsonov smiled broadly at Nina, tossed up the ball and struck it with all his might. The ball flew as fast as a bullet, only it hit the ceiling. Another such deadly ball hit the net. The third time it came out worse still – Gradbank’s director and the beginning tennis-player Samsonov hit the ball with the rim of his racket, and because it was an almighty hit, the racket got torn out of his hand.
Slightly confused, he rubbed his hurt fingers, picked up the racket and smiled at Nina, “It’s all right. I’m just getting the knack of it.”
He was dressed conventionally, in shorts and a tennis shirt, but the shorts were too loose around the hips and the shirt far too tight in the shoulders. A store price tag was dangling from the collar, down his spine. The ridiculous appearance of Gradbank’s director gave Nina great satisfaction. Her own attire was perfect. In the period of her life when she had been working on a strategy for winning men she had equipped herself with good clothes, including tennis articles. Her short white Lacoste skirt was impeccable, and in combination with her slender, strong legs deserved being placed on the cover of a tennis magazine.
They occupied the best court in the club. Normally, there were no vacant courts at that time of day. As they were riding, Nina pondered over a way for Samsonov and herself to wedge in to do some practicing. She had an annual club subscription and a permanent partner named Alik, a man of about forty who worked in television. Alik did not display any interest in women; he played tennis in order to slim down. Nina had known him for about a year, and over that period, the man had accumulated even more fat around the waist. Nina and Alik suited each other as tennis partners, but on occasion, by mutual consent, they swapped around with other pairs. Lolling comfortably on the back seat of the director’s car, Nina was trying to think of somewhere to squeeze in Alik so that she had the court to herself and could give Samsonov a tennis lesson. She recalled that another tennis acquaintance of hers, a middle-aged professor, had mentioned the previous week that he was going to miss tennis next time as he was going away to some international conference. Nina’s plan was to try to fix up Alik with the professor’s partner.
However, the problem sorted itself out in a different way.
As they arrived at the club, Nina spoke to the girl at the reception, trying to explain that while she herself had a subscription, she brought a guest for whom she needed a one-time pass.
“Are you kidding? What one-time pass? We’re packed, don’t you see?” snapped out the receptionist girl rudely.
Samsonov did not take part in the discussion. On entering the club lobby, he stood at its exact center and remained there, erect and massive as a column, as if he was sure that he was going to be attended on and provided with all he needed. And that was exactly how it worked. Behind the counter, beside the receptionist, the manager of the club was sitting. He had more savvy than his employee and was a better judge of people. When he surveyed the figure in an expensive coat that was standing in the lobby with a driver waiting behind with a bag, the manager came out to the visitor.
“Do you wish to play?” he asked.
“We do,” Samsonov replied looking over the manager’s head.
Something in the tone of the visitor finally convinced the manager. He motioned to his receptionist to shut up, took out a guest form from a drawer and brought it to Samsonov.
“Will you fill this in, please?”
Samsonov took out a golden Parker pen and wrote in his name in a bold hand.
“But where are we going to…” the receptionist started, but the manager had already made up his mind.
“First court,” he said.
The first court had a special status in the club. Isolated from the other courts and maintained in a perfect condition, it was kept closed most of the time – the management opened it for VIPs only. That day, Samsonov and Nina were the VIPs.
Sometimes the first court was played on by tennis professionals, and sometimes by rich amateurs. But it had probably never seen a man who had absolutely no idea how to use the racket he had in his hand. Samsonov made all the errors that a beginner could make. He was naturally very strong and developed physically – he had clearly practiced weight-lifting – but now his powerful body worked against him. Where calculation was necessary, he rushed to strike, and instead of feeling the ball, he applied all the might of his iron hands and body. The results were catastrophic. Trying to keep an unruffled expression on her face, Nina watched in delight her enemy, the great and terrible Samsonov, making a fool of himself.
Samsonov became more focused, not smiling any more. He realized that this tennis thing was not as easy as it seemed. He no longer struck the ball just anyhow – he did it with care – but the results were hardly any better for that.
A door in the fencing opened, and the manager appeared. His face and the whole of his bent figure expressed deference and happiness about his club being visited by such people. Obviously, he had already made his inquiries and knew who it was he had on the first court.
“Mister Samsonov, sorry to disturb you – would you like me to send in a boy to pick up the balls?”
“No need,” Samsonov responded raising his racket for another strike.
“Drinks, masseur – anything you like, you just name it,” the manager went on fawning.
Samsonov slashed, and hit the net again.
“Close the door!” he barked.
The manager retreated.
“Stop yelling, you boor,” Nina retorted in her mind. “It’s no fault of the manager that you don’t know how to play.”
She saw that Samsonov was all worked up and wondered what it was leading to. Basically, there were two possibilities – either Samsonov hurled down his racket in fury and left, or he swallowed his pride and asked for help.
But somehow neither one nor the other happened. Samsonov went on struggling with his racket and the ball, trying as best he could to get the ball over the net without hitting the ceiling or the far wall. Little by little, he made some progress. He still did everything the wrong way, but before Nina’s eyes, he was working out his own ugly style which allowed him to send home at least one out of every three balls. Each time he did that, he triumphed openly.
Parrying easily his sparse successful strikes, Nina watched him with interest. She had no memories of how she herself had acquired the basic tennis skills. At that time, she was a little girl to whom everything came easily, and she had a coach to teach her. Now she watched a grown-up man trying hard to do what he absolutely did not know how to do, and what he was ill-suited for by his physique. Still, contrary to her expectations, the man would not chuck down his racket; not in the least baffled, he carried on what he had begun.
It went on that way for about an hour. Little by little, Nina’s malicious gloating faded out and gave way to a sentiment of some respect. Samsonov was making one absurd pirouette after another, but essentially, he was not doing anything shameful or contemptible – on the contrary, he showed enviable grit and persistence. Obviously, it was the same kind of persistence as was necessary for him to deal with his problems in business.