Читать книгу Tatiana and the Russian Wolves - Stephen Evans Jordan - Страница 10

Wednesday evening in New York after my flight from Moscow, I had a steak sandwich at the hotel bar and watched the television’s weather reports. The weather lady said that the jet stream had plunged south, bringing storms down from Canada toward Colorado. My reserved flight to San Francisco changed planes in Denver. I called the airline and learned that all direct flights had been booked. Rerouting through the southwest had two options: standby connections through Dallas or Phoenix. I opted for Denver.

I left New York on a brisk autumn day. Around St. Louis, the upbeat pilot gave us the Denver weather reports: light snow, but the airport was open with all runways functioning. Somewhere over Kansas, the pilot reported that the snow had increased, but only one runway had been closed. As we descended over eastern Colorado, the pilot turned glum. “Folks, got some bad news, really bad. Denver is getting creamed, big time. Passengers with connecting flights, well, you’d better check with the airlines—not looking so hot.” Touching down, the plane skidded. “Welcome to Denver’s Stapleton Airport.”

My plane was one of the last to land. My flight to San Francisco had been cancelled. The ticket counters were bedlam. Badgering the ticket agents was useless, hotels and motels in the Denver area were full, and there were no cabs anyway. Local television news crews had braved the weather and were filming the confusion and interviewing stranded travelers. My luggage had been checked through, and I would spend the night at the airport. I went to the newsstand, grabbed some magazines, bought a pack of cigarettes, and headed for the bar.

I managed to get a barstool and was thumbing through a magazine when the person next to me left. An irritated woman claimed the barstool and slammed her briefcase and carry-on between her stool and mine. Sitting down, she glared at my cigarette before making eye contact with the bartender. Late thirties or early forties, she was about six feet in her heels and wore the day’s female power clothes: dark-blue suit and, a white silk blouse with a floppy red bow tie. Her dark hair was pulled back, accentuating her Mediterranean features, perhaps Italian or Jewish. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and looked as astringent as the martini she ordered.

Looking into her purse, she said, “Damn, it was just getting good.”

“Misplaced something?” I asked.

“Left my book on the plane. And some guy in a blue suit and trench coat grabbed the last New Yorker before I got it.”

I had taken off my trench coat and was wearing a blue suit. “Must have been me.” I pushed The New Yorker over to her. “Borrow it or take it.”

“I’ll borrow it,” she said. “Where were you going?”

“San Francisco.”

“Me too. This is really too much. And the next flight is maybe sometime tomorrow morning. Three days in New York and now this. They aren’t paying me enough for the hassle, they really aren’t.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Growers and Ranchers Bank; I’m in their San Francisco office.” Growers and Ranchers was a large Los Angeles-based bank.

“I work for Universal Bank.” Universal was far larger than Growers and Ranchers, and San Francisco bankers thought Los Angeles bankers were polyester types more suited for the used-car lots.

“Really?” she said. “Quite a bank: arrogant, too big, and they’ve confused size with quality.”

“You don’t say.” I turned away to look around; the bar had filled up with commiserating travelers. I planned to keep my barstool for as long as I could. I wanted a cigarette, but that would have annoyed her more than she already was.

She thumbed through The New Yorker, looking at the cartoons, then laughed out loud before going to the back of the magazine for the movie and book reviews. I sorted through my magazines and settled on Gourmet.

Later the bartender stood in front of us: more drinks or move for thirstier people. We ordered another round.

“My name is Helen Jacobs.” She didn’t offer her hand. I introduced myself, and she said, “Romanovsky. That’s Polish, isn’t it?” My name has a Polish ring to it; she said something in Polish.

“I don’t speak Polish.”

“What, embarrassed?”

“No, I…”

“You look familiar. We met before?”

“We could have.” Banking was a small world, and San Francisco’s was tiny; Universal’s headquarters was four blocks from the Growers and Ranchers San Francisco head office.

“It will come to me,” she threatened. “Whereabouts in Poland did your family come from?”

“I’m not Polish.”

“Really? You look Polish; the blue eyes and straw-colored hair, I mean. So just what are you? Ukrainian? Russian?”

“Russian.”

“Oh dear! Everyone knows that Russians are more anti-Semitic than Poles.”

“Everybody knows that?”

“I’ve got it,” she said with a sly smile. “Several years ago, you tried selling Growers and Ranchers a loan.”

“Back then, I was in Universal’s Syndication Department.” When countries and large companies require loans that are beyond a single bank’s capacity to make, bankers form multibank syndicates that accommodate those customers. Through their Syndication Departments, banks also manage their risk exposures by selling loans to one another. “We participated with Growers on several loans,” I said, then mentioned the names of people I had worked with.

“Back then you were peddling crap from Bolivia to Thailand, and God knows where else. Talk about marginal deals. You were trying to convince Growers to buy into a Philippine deal—Bingo-Bango I?”

“It was Babuyan Copper Mines, Phase II, conceptually not a bad deal.”

“We stayed clear, not a dime. What happened to Bongo-Bongo II?”

“There were problems around the second year. The loan was restructured. The original estimates were overly optimistic, and copper prices are quite volatile.”

“So that was a good deal?”

“The loan was priced according to the discernible risk at the time. In the large sense, as you know, a good loan is one that gets paid. And since the rescheduling, Babuyan has been paying as agreed, I think.”

With a theatrical head shake, she said, “In other words, you were peddling that junk, knowing that it was questionable.” I lit a cigarette; she coughed and waved her hand at the smoke.

“The loan looked fine when I was shopping it around. And if bankers can’t figure out a good loan from a bad one, they’re in the wrong business, aren’t they?”

“Who took most of that loan?”

“The big Texas banks—look how well they’re doing.” It was a banking joke; the big Texas banks were falling apart at the time. She didn’t get it or didn’t want to. “And what do you do for Growers?”

“I’m the Human Resources officer in charge of Northern California. I was being rotated through the International Department back then.”

“Human Resources, that’s rich.”

“And you think HR is full of people who couldn’t make it as real bankers? Or are you going to tell me that bankers make the money, and HR doesn’t appreciate them, let alone reward them? Something like that?” She batted her eyes at me.

“Something like that,” I said, “but you’ve covered it. HR? Isn’t that a fancy name for Personnel Department? So let’s be honest, Personnel has become a woman’s domain—you know, more caring, more inclusive. All those soft, nonhierarchical traits women are supposed to bring to the table. Know what I think? I think that’s a bunch of pop-psychology crap.”

“Wait just a second,” she said.

“No, you wait. You started this. What a lovely job you have, counting and sorting the people beans: black beans, brown beans, white beans, female beans. But when your bank gets tired of a particular bean, it’s sent off to Personnel, and you fire them. No, sorry, fire is such a harsh, finite word. You probably say deselect or concluding an employment experience. I bet you’re so empathetic that you give them a great big hug on the way out, or do you give them a hanky first?” I batted my eyes at her.

Helen put her elbow on the bar and leaned her head on her hand. “It amazes me how quickly I’ve come to dislike you.”

Leaning my head on my hand, I said, “You know, Helen, I don’t care.” We stared into each other’s eyes. “While we’re at it, I’m not anti-Semitic—I resent the accusation.”

Helen sat up. “Look, I’m sorry, that was—”

“I want my magazine back.”

She pushed The New Yorker to me and turned away.

The bar was packed, and Helen joined a conversation with a group of people to her right that included a good-looking man who focused his attention on her. The bar’s alcohol-charged atmosphere was like a Christmas party in overdrive. I went through The New Yorker’s cartoons and found an article that looked promising but required too much concentration for a bar. I nursed another drink and flipped through my magazines. I was hungry and got ready to leave.

I was figuring the bartender’s tip, when Helen turned and said, “Please wait.”

“For another round of our contretemps?”

“Well, I’m tired of that. Actually, I want one of your cigarettes. The gin has wrecked my campaign to stop.”

I handed her a cigarette, helped her light it, and said, “I’d quit smoking for years . . . wasn’t even thinking about them anymore. Then a few months ago at a cocktail party, I bummed a Marlboro. That was the best tasting cigarette I’ve ever smoked. Of course, I was hooked again.”

“I’ve quit twice, years at a time,” Helen said. “Then something goes wrong, and bang, right back on them.” She smiled and took a deep drag. “Are you Russian-Russian? I mean, you don’t have an accent.”

“My parents left after the Revolution. I was born in France; my parents moved to California when I was a boy.”

“France to California? Why?”

“They were the two best surfers in France.”

“Ah,” she said, “deserved sarcasm.”

“Actually, my father took a position at Cal-Berkeley; he was a mathematician,” I said. “Why did you plunk yourself down and pick a fight with me?”

“This place is going nuts,” she said with a hesitant smile. “The PA system hasn’t stopped since I got off the plane. I walked into the bar and saw you leafing through a magazine, smoking a cigarette, oblivious to what’s going on. I said to myself, This guy’s gotta to get in touch with the rest of us.”

“I was thinking about what I have to do in San Francisco.”

“Look, I’m interrupting, and you’ve got other things on your mind.”

“I’m tired of thinking of them. Let’s start over?”

She extended her hand. “I’m Helen Jacobs.”

“Alexander Romanovsky.” We shook hands. “You and that fellow you were talking to seemed to be hitting it off.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Mike’s out checking flights. Mike lives in San Francisco. He’s married and comes on very strong; I don’t like that. He wants to have lunch. I don’t go out with married men. I’m getting out before this turns uncomfortable…or ugly…or both.”

“And I won’t come on strong?”

“Women, at least this one, can sense that in a man. You’re not that type. You’re not married, are you?”

“No, and I’m not anti-Semitic either.”

“And your best friends are Jewish?”

“Every single one of them; I think my tenants are. Roth, is that Jewish?”

“Can be,” she said, putting her hand on my arm. “Ethnic slurs are nothing to horse around with. I’ll tell you something else: socially I’m a passive-aggressive mess, sort of a Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde. At work, I’m fine.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I’m sharing. Very California, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“But I don’t suspect you do much of that, do you?”

“I’m not really a Californian.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” she said. “Russians have always fascinated me.”

“Why? They’re wretched people living in a dreadful country with awful weather and terrible food.”

“My mother’s side of the family was terrified of Russians. They were from Lithuania, Vilnius, Wilno in Polish; it was part of Poland then. My mother and grandmother taught me Polish along with some Yiddish. What’s the Russian word for elephant?”

“Slon.”

“Do you know that the word for elephant is the same in every Slavic language from Russian to Serbian?”

“I didn’t. I wonder why?”

“Don’t know. Just one of those things.”

“Why the fascination with Russians?”

“Well, they were the bad guys,” she said. “And the bad guys are more exciting. My grandmother said that all Russians were Cossacks at heart, capable of anything.”

Pointing to my wrist, I said, “Not a drop of Cossack blood. Those guys are really anti-Semitic.”

“Have you ever been there, Russia?”

“I was the acting Moscow representative for the past several months.”

“Boy, that must have been something,” she said. “It’s like Russia has a Western veneer—the incredible music and the literature—but an Asian soul. What struck you the most?”

“The case can be made that Russians have been one of history’s worst governed people. Power, always absolute, has come from the top, never from the bottom up like here or in England, or even France. Many wish that Stalin would return, and that’s frightening.”

“Draw me a sketch of the people.”

“They’re quite different. On the streets, in crowds, they come across like New Yorkers—indifferent, almost rude. Once you get to know them, they’re most hospitable; their emotions are much closer to the surface than ours. Men and women cry easily.”

“Why are they like that?”

“Well, they’ve had a lot to cry about. Now it’s all falling apart; most Russians can’t imagine it getting better.”

“So you’re fluent in Russian?”

“My first language. I’ve been trying to modernize it, but I’m sixty years out of date and sound like Bertie Wooster.”

Mike returned. He gave Helen his best, but the conversation fizzled, and he stalked off. Helen watched him go with a forlorn expression.

I tapped her shoulder. “Why don’t I buy you another drink?”

We spent a long time talking about banking and the coming mergers. Universal’s CEO would retire early next year, and Helen briefed me on the rumors about his replacement. Nothing had changed much; the race was still between the bank’s two vice chairmen. The conversation bounced from one topic to another. Somehow we got on to music; we both preferred classical.

Helen said, “The Russians are my favorite, Stravinsky in particular. His early music was so earthy, folk tales elegantly orchestrated. How about you?”

“I like Rachmaninov, especially his piano concerti. Music doesn’t touch me like it does some people, I wish it did.”

“Poor you,” she said. “When I was in junior high, my father took me to see Aida…absolutely blew me away—passion, costumes, the music. Best of all, the females were big with large voices. I was a moose, even back then. I badgered my parents into voice lessons, but after a year, my teacher thought acting might be a better fit.”

Striking rather than beautiful, Helen was tall, but hardly a moose. Her gestures were overdrawn, and she employed her pliable hands like the French and Italians. Light makeup and lipstick were the only compromises to her appearance. She wore glasses rather than contacts, a bump on her nose could have been removed, and there was a slight gap between her two front teeth.

“So you studied drama in college?” I asked.

“I went to Cal and majored in economics. Kind of practical, it suited Mom and gave me plenty of time for acting. I worked my way from Chekhov to Blanche Dubois.” She grinned. “Put me in a slip, with a blonde wig and a glass of bourbon—instant Southern neurotic.”

“Then what happened?”

“I wanted to go to acting school in New York but got talked out of it and got an MBA instead. My mother and my boyfriend argued for B-school. Daddy, God bless him, told me to go with my heart, my real passion.” She shrugged her shoulders. “One of those things I wish I could take back. You know?”

“I do.”

“Tell me.”

“I started out with art history but ended up as an econ major like you. A victory of practicality over dreams, but sometimes I wonder.”

“Who talked you out of it?” she asked.

“I did, all by myself. I had to learn something useful.”

“Any resentment?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some, I guess. How about you?”

“I was Daddy’s girl and should have listened, but…” Helen trailed off. “I can’t blame Mom. She was born practical. But my boyfriend, Ed, him I resent. Ended up marrying him.”

She tried catching the bartender’s eye, then took a deep breath. “Shouldn’t drink and think about Ed. So what do you say? Let’s bust out of here.” We left the bar and ate two stale turkey sandwiches from a vending machine and washed them down with warm Hawaiian Punch.

Helen asked, “Home for the holidays?”

“First I’ve got to go to a memorial service tomorrow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She stood up. We had been on the same flight from New York and were on the same flight to San Francisco that might leave early the next morning. “We might as well go down to the gate.”