The Smart Girl

It was time to help him with some advice but Nina kept silent, not wishing to make his life easier. Also, if she butted in with unwanted tips, she risked meeting with the same rude rebuff as the poor manager had run up against.

Apparently, however, persistence was not the only quality required of the leader of a bank. No less essential was the ability to control one’s own obstinacy, assess the situation soberly, and change course if there were good reasons to do so.

On throwing another ball successfully over to the other half of the court, Samsonov lowered the racket suddenly.

“Enough. This damn thing really takes learning – I can see it now. I’ll hire a coach.”

Nina nodded her consent. She was ready to go back to her partner Alik.

But Samsonov was not ready to let her go. He came up to Nina. On his wet face was a puzzled look.

“Still, damn it, tell me how you do it! It seems so easy, but no way… Look, I’m all foam and you’re not sweating at all.”

Smiling to herself at yet another vulgar remark by her boss, Nina said, “Pavel Mikhailovich, there are some tricks to it that you need to master. If you wish, I’ll try to show some of them to you, but first you have to take a little rest.”

Samsonov said, “All right.”

He waved his racket inviting Nina to sit down on a bench.

“Wanna have a drink?” he asked. “Where is that idiot with drinks?”

He opened the door and called the manager. Apparently, the man had been sticking around as in a minute already they were brought lemonade.

Nina was sitting on a bench side by side with Samsonov. The man was really very hot. In the light hair covering his legs and arms, drops of sweat were glistening.

He poured some lemonade for Nina and for himself. Nina took a sip and put the glass aside.

“Actually, it’s not recommended during a practice…”

“Yes, I know,” responded Samsonov. Yet, he finished his glass in two gulps and poured himself another.

Samsonov looked at Nina approvingly, scanning her skirt and athletic-looking legs.

“You’re all right, you know. You play well and all that…”

He did not specify what “all that” meant.

“Have you been playing for a long time?” asked Samsonov.

Nina answered.

“You’re a native of the metropolis? Me, I’m a Krasnoyarsk guy,” said Samsonov. “Tell me about yourself. Look, I don’t know you at all.”

Nina who had not at all expected her boss to take personal interest in her started reciting the facts of her biography incoherently, trying hard not to say too much.

But, apparently, Samsonov was not such a dumb blockhead as she believed him to be. He felt something and said, “All right, you don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t wish to.”

He rose.

“Enough of resting. Come on, teach me. You promised, didn’t you?”

Nina led him to a wall.

“Pavel Mikhailovich, the main thing – don’t apply force. Don’t squeeze the handle as if you’re trying to obtain juice from it. My coach used to tell me that the handle should not be squeezed, but rather only fixed in your hand as if you were holding a living bird. Try it.”

Samsonov relaxed his fist and moved his racket hesitatingly to and fro.

“But I can’t keep the racket this way – it’ll get kicked out.”

“No, it’s not,” Nina assured him. “If you strike the right way, there will be no kick at all. Here are the rules: don’t bend your arm at the elbow, draw the racket with your shoulder and body so that at the instant of the strike, the racket face is at a right angle to the ball trajectory. Meet the ball with your body side – not your front – turned to it. Keep your legs slightly bent, as if you were on a pair of springs, one foot put forward. Here, look.”

She started striking the ball, hitting it against the wall, showing markedly her movements to Samsonov. The ball flitted to and fro, each time returning obediently to her racket.

“Great,” said Samsonov. “Let me try it now.”

He was not born for tennis, but he was a good learner. It turned out that he had understood and memorized Nina’s tips. He was trying hard to do everything right, but the problem was that, being very strong physically, he lacked coordination and was unable to follow all her instructions at once – if he straightened out his elbow, he forgot about the legs, and the other way round. Still, he made some progress.

Samsonov turned a happy face to Nina.

“How am I doing, coach?”

Nina actually felt as if she were a coach who was training a problem pupil, but not a hopeless one. She got really involved in the process.

“It’s not bad, Pavel Mikhailovich. Now try to keep your arm straighter still, and don’t work your fist, just fix it. Here, let me show it to you.”

She stood right in front of Pavel Mikhailovich with her back turned to him and said, “Imitate me.”

She recalled that her own coach had once used that teaching technique.

“I’ll be doing everything slowly, and you try to copy my movements exactly.”

Without a ball, she pretended to be performing a strike – drew her hand as in slow motion so that he could follow her. Behind her, just half a step away, a big, hot man was breathing noisily. Her pupil.

She could not see how he was doing, but she felt that he was trying honestly.

“Do you get it now, Pavel Mikhailovich?” she asked, still with her back turned to him.

“I get it,” he said. The sound of his voice seemed to come from somewhere right over her ear.

Nina made a step aside and… Afterwards, she returned to that moment many times, unable to explain how all that could have happened. She stumbled and nearly fell down. The stumble was caused by a powerful, light-haired leg which she had not noticed. The leg belonged to Samsonov who put it forward as she had taught him to.

Nina would have crashed down in a big way if it were not for a pair of strong arms. The arms belonged to the same man. Although Samsonov was not naturally very quick, he managed to catch her, his racket thrown aside. He lifted Nina as if she were weightless, and for a few seconds, she was floating up in the air in his arms. Nina felt the heat coming from his body and saw quite close his face and his grey eyes.

Then Samsonov put her cautiously down on her feet.

“Take care! You are in my employment, mind you, and I want my employees able-bodied,” he joked awkwardly.

Nina felt giddy, her heart pounding.

“I’m sorry, I stumbled.”

Samsonov picked up his racket and made a few imaginary strokes. Then he stopped.

“Well, I guess, it’s time to wind up. I’ve learned something, and I’ll pick it up when I find time… Are you staying or going? I can give you a lift.”

“No, no, thank you,” Nina refused hastily. “I’d like to play some more.”

“I’m leaving then.”

Smiling, he looked Nina in the eye.

“I can’t remember the last time I carried a woman in my arms,” he joked awkwardly again.

Nina smiled a strained smile.

Samsonov was lingering as if he was going to tell her something else, but then he said simply, “Thank you for your lesson. I owe you.”

He held out his hand and Nina took it. Chafed by the racket handle, his palm was as hot as an oven.

When the door closed after him, she had to spend some more time on the bench to regain her senses. Then she went to look for Alik. She was in no mood to play, but she wanted to apologize for her absence.

She found Alik on a court with the professor who apparently had not gone away to any conference. The two of them were absorbed in the game, obviously enjoying each other’s company. Nobody seemed to have any need for Nina. She said her goodbye and left the club.

Nina had never learned to drive, so she used public transport to go to and from work, or hailed a gypsy driver in the street if she was not in a mood to jostle in the crowd. This time, however, she was even glad to use the underground – it was not crowded at this late hour, and the familiar jolting and rumbling of the metro car could help her get distracted and relax a little.

Usually after tennis, even if she had done some serious practicing and her muscles were hurting, she had a surge of energy. That surge was not welcome towards the night, but it was slow to subside – she only relaxed completely after she had arrived home, made preparations for the next day, had a shower and drunk some green tea with milk which she had for supper. Then she could go to sleep.

This time, she had done no real practicing and yet, she was in a state of great excitement. It was understandable, though – the whole adventure of her playing with the director was totally out of the ordinary. Things like that did not happen to one every day. She had to think it over. As she was jolting in the underground car, Nina kept turning that remarkable experience in her mind, smiling anew at the amusing episodes. Now Samsonov was brandishing her racket in her little room in the bank. Now they were riding in his car, arriving at the club, getting out onto the court…

The scenes kept flashing in her mind as she entered her apartment, dumped her bag into the wardrobe, got undressed, and went to the bathroom to take a shower. The images were bright, they popped up before her mind’s eye as shots in a movie, but they would not add up to any meaningful total. Nina was in the habit of analyzing everything in her life, and she was proud of her analytical mind, but this time, her mind was being sluggish, dodging its responsibilities, and unwilling to produce any conclusions.

Nina made some green tea. Once again, she pictured herself on the court where Samsonov, in a tight tennis shirt with a price tag dangling from his collar, was jumping about and swinging his racket, sending the ball in the most unexpected directions. Now he stopped, they sat side by side on the bench and had some lemonade. Then she taught him some tennis techniques at the wall, and then… Then she fell, and he caught her. One of his powerful arms was under her shoulders and the other under her thighs draped in a white Lacoste skirt. His face was quite close…

“I like him,” she said aloud.

That was so unexpected that she dropped the milk carton. The milk spilled and made a pool on the table. The pool had the form of a head and seemed to her a likeness of Samsonov – she thought she recognized his high forehead, light hair and massive features.

Frightened, Nina snatched a cloth and wiped the table. But the words had been said, and there was no wiping them away.

The discovery that she had made staggered her so that for a good half hour, she sat motionless, with a cup of green tea in her hand and her eyes fixed on one spot.

Her whole self was burning with indignation. That was out of the question! He was her archenemy – one on whom she was going to take her vengeance. She could swear that she never – not for a second – had thought of him as a man. He was a stud, an unfeeling boor, not at all her type…

Nina named hectically the reasons she could not take a fancy to – or, in fact, any interest in – that man. Those reasons were numerous, and they were solid. They seemed to bear down on one of the scale dishes as a crushing weight. But the scales were in the hands of a woman. Nina had not felt the woman inside herself for such a long time that she believed her dead. As it turned out though, the woman was alive and well – appeared out of nowhere, took hold of the scales and tipped the other dish with her thin finger. All of Nina’s reasons lost their weight at once and soared up.

“You’re in love with him, you fool,” Nina said aloud.

That confession was only witnessed by the cup of tea that she had never drunk.

Tears welled up in Nina’s eyes. Falling in love with her enemy was a horrible, degrading thing. As they say, there is only one step from hate to love. Nina found out that it was true literally, and she had taken that step as she had fallen down on Samsonov’s arms on the court.

She went to bed, but she could not have a wink of sleep – she kept tossing and turning in fever. She was totally unable to understand anything or explain anything, but she felt that her whole being was filling – in fact, had filled already – with some new, alien substance which she could not hope to get rid of and had to live with from then on. She only dozed off towards morning, still undecided as to what to do about her old vengeance and her new love.

Contrary to the conventional wisdom, the morning was no wiser than the night. Nina was in a complete mess. She could not imagine how she was going to arrive at the bank, spend another day rummaging in the papers and, worst of all, see him in the afternoon. What was he going to think of her? Pumping herself with strongest coffee, Nina recalled the events of the previous day – especially his lifting her in his arms… Then an awful thought pierced her. What if he thought that she had stumbled on purpose – that it had been her female play?

That awful thought made her wince. Honest to God, she had not planned any of it. But how could she prove it? He was going to hold her for a cheap flirt. Besides… Nina was struck by another, even more terrible thought. Was she really all that innocent? What if it was the woman inside her, that traitress, that had contrived Nina’s fall?

Nina was so depressed that she was about to skip work – call in sick and stay at home. But what good would that be? Besides, Samsonov might interpret her absence in his own way. No, she had to go to the bank and pretend that nothing had happened. And really, nothing had happened – nothing in the world had changed for anyone but her. What business was it of anyone else’s?

In the bank, she barely made it to the end of the day. She only hoped to sit it out until Samsonov came and then pull through the meeting with him in the ordinary way, without giving herself away.

As was his habit, Samsonov came towards the end of the day. Instead of his usual “Hi”, he said, “Salute to champions!” – and smiled broadly. The rest of their meeting went just the usual way. He sat at the table, propped up his cheek with his fist and did his listening. Nina had done next to nothing that day but, thank heaven, she had a lot of material that she had not had a chance to report to Samsonov before.

She rattled it off hardly understanding what she was saying.

When she was finished, he said, “All right, carry on,” and left.

Once the door was closed after him, Nina buried her face in her hands and wept.

Chapter 2

One writer compared love to an assassin that springs up in an alley in front of a man and a woman, and stabs both with a knife. It was not that way with Nina. Love hit her alone, and rather than stabbing, it hooked her so that there was no getting off that hook.

There was nothing pleasant about that love. If anything, it was a persistent ache in her chest – now stronger, now weaker, it would not cease for whole days, and often whole nights, too.

Nina was unhappy. She tried to grasp her situation, but her thoughts were being wayward, unwilling to focus – they would fly asunder like butterflies every time love stirred in her breast, presenting to her mind’s eye his massive profile and grey eyes. Pavel Mikhailovich, Pasha, Pashen’ka…

Common sense suggested that she should leave Gradbank at once, under any pretext, so as never again to see that big, strong, rough man. The man she loved. That was certain to be hard – perhaps, very hard – but everything was going to pass finally, nobody was going to die as people did not die of love except in novels.

There was another option – she could open up to him. She could take a deep breath and blurt out, “I love you, Pavel Mikhailovich!” Picturing that scene, Nina got horrified. Her love was not a tactful man, to put it mildly. He was capable of mocking and offending her. Or… Was it possible that he loved her, too? Well, not loved, of course, but was ready to love, unaware of it himself, and when she confessed her feelings…

“Stop it, you idiot!” Nina snubbed herself. “Don’t be such a wimp, have at least a drop of dignity, and stop degrading yourself with this pathetic, silly hope!” Under a shower of reproaches, the pathetic, silly hope shrank and hid somewhere for a while, only soon to appear again, none the worse for wear. During the daytime, Nina was usually able to hold it at bay, but it was harder at night.

Nina was not getting enough sleep and could barely work. Samsonov noticed that. Once, seeing her paleness as he came into her room, he asked, “What’s up with you, Nina? You look a fright.” His calling her by her first name (for the second time during their acquaintance!) made her start, and his unceremonious remark made her wince. “It’s nothing. I just didn’t sleep well.” That was the truth, or at least part of it.

Before leaving, Pavel Mikhailovich gazed at her intently again. “Still, Nina, I don’t like you. I know that you’re breaking your back over this job, and I appreciate that. You know what? Take a couple of days off, have a rest. I can’t let you have a real vacation but, I guess, we can spare two or three days…”

“No, thank you, I am all right,” Nina muttered. “It’s just…”

“Just what?”

It’s just I’m in love with you, you stupid man!

Pavel Mikhailovich was waiting, his grey eyes looking kindly at Nina. Nina had to decide – it was now or never.

“I just was thinking something over, sorting out a problem. That kept me awake till morning.”

“Well, did it work? Did you sort out your problem?” inquired Pavel Mikhailovich.

“Not quite. But I’m going to.”

Pavel Mikhailovich smiled encouragingly at his employee, “Good. But still, there is daytime for that sort of thing. I need you to make it to the end. Just hold on, it will be over soon. Then we’ll all be having rest.”

Samsonov left. He did not show any signs of fatigue himself, but Nina knew that he worked every day from early morning until late at night.

Thus Nina failed to confess her love to her man, missing a rare occasion when he showed some human care for her. She did not confess, but neither did she quit. All her righteous thoughts and decisions about leaving Gradbank were self-deception – she was unable to give up her daily meetings with that strong, unceremonious, unfeeling man. Her love.

Nina joined the multitudinous class of women that she had always heartily despised – women that were hopelessly in love with their unresponsive bosses. She would have laughed at herself, but laughing was painful because of the love which stuck in her breast, all bristled up like a porcupine.

Nina had not seen her father since his company had been sold. They called each other from time to time to exchange a few empty phrases. She wished him good health, and he wished her success in her career. Neither of the two suggested a meeting, and even those brief phone talks were burdensome to both.

Also, Nina’s father was away from the city for months as Lydia Grigorievna was taking him to one sanatorium after another. The sanatoria had done their work, and Yevgeniy Borisovich had recovered almost completely.

However, there was an occasion that could not be evaded – Nina’s father was turning fifty. A celebration was planned at his home to which some employees of his former company were invited – in fact, all those with whom Yevgeniy Borisovich had once planned to celebrate the acceptance of his main project. He called Nina to invite her, and Lydia Grigorievna joined in to say a few friendly words. Everyone pretended that there had been no hurt feelings or estrangement between them.

That was a chance to repair their relationship. Nina knew what was expected of her: to play the role of a loving daughter who was by her father’s side on his anniversary, comforting him with her attention and avoiding any painful subjects. However, she discovered with a sad feeling that she did not really care about all that any longer – her resentment had burnt out, and her childish love for her father had gone, too. She was a different person now.

The celebration started very smoothly. Lydia Grigorievna surpassed herself as a cook, and the table was overladen with exquisite snacks. The guests maintained a pleasant table conversation and seemed to be really glad to see the host who looked fine and was quite communicable except that from time to time he fell into a slight trance and for a few minutes, stopped reacting to anything or anyone around him. Toasts were proposed, and glasses were clinked – everything was going on the way it should be. As a birthday present, Nina gave her father a beautiful cashmere pullover with a domino pattern which had always been his favorite.

After a third glass, Nikolai Nikolayevich started talking about work. Failing to notice warning signs that Lydia Grigorievna was giving, he announced that all the key employees had kept their jobs in the company, and on the whole, things were going pretty well. The new director was a good engineer.

“You know him, Yevgeniy Borisovich – he worked with you at one time.” Nikolai Nikolayevich said the name of the new boss. “Of course, he’s no match for you, Yevgeniy Borisovich, but he’s all right.”

Nina cast a look at her father. Yevgeniy Borisovich was chewing away at roast beef in silence.

“Honestly, Yevgeniy Borisovich, you built up one great engineering firm, you have,” Nikolai Nikolayevich went on, and then he suddenly turned to Nina, “We owe an earthly bow to Nina Yevgenievna, too – she got us through the tough times. I can’t stop wondering how you managed that, Nina Yevgenievna. All that finance and accounting are Chinese to me, but thank God you’re an expert in that kind of thing. I can’t remember – where do you work, Nina Yevgenievna?”

“I work in Gradbank,” Nina said distinctly, though not very loudly.

There was a pause. Nina’s father was still chewing away at the roast beef.

“And we’re just back from Carlsbad!” Lydia Grigorievna cried out. “You can’t imagine what beauty it is. What with the architecture and scenery… Just listen – I played roulette in the very casino Dostoyevski had played in once. I actually won ten euros! Mark my word, everyone should visit the place, it’s just a must… And now – the main course!”

Nina was not sure whether her father had heard what she had said. But she did not really care, neither she was going to explain anything. As soon as she got a chance, she proposed a toast for him and left the celebration under some pretext.

Nina, with her love, went on working for Samsonov. Unable to decide anything, she surrendered herself to what was happening to her. That was not at all in her nature, or rather, not in her former nature, for now she no longer knew what her nature really was or whether she had any of it at all. She did not know, but neither did she try to find out. Contrary to her life-long habit, she did not analyze the events of her life but simply flowed with the current without thinking. She even came to find certain comfort in not having to decide anything any longer – come what might, she would accept it.

Love dwelled in her breast and behaved like a tyrant there, but little by little Nina got used to it, and her daily existence got back on track more or less. She regained her ability to go to sleep at night. All it took was sending mentally a confession of love to her man a few times – twenty times usually did the trick. Getting enough sleep, she was able to concentrate on her work. Nina had always known how to work and loved working – that was her lifeboat in the sea of life, and that lifeboat was rescuing her once again.

Nina soon became adapted to working on the twelfth floor. That was Mount Olympus, a place that most of the bank’s employees never once visited in their life. If they had visited it, they would have discovered that there was only one Olympian god at the top. Pavel Mikhailovich Samsonov. The rest of those admitted were no more than favored mortals – they had been elevated because they had attracted the benign attention of the all-powerful Director, and they could roll down in a blink if they incurred his displeasure. However, the members of that inner circle valued highly their privileged position and let everyone else feel it. Nina observed many times how those selected greeted each other over the heads of the ordinary folks, patted each other’s backs with a special expression on the face, and switched to an intimate half-whisper to share news about some important matters that were inaccessible to the laymen.

Nina was one of them now. Although she was a mere analyst who never took part in any management meetings and had no voice in making any decisions, everyone knew that almost daily the director conferred with her in person and listened to her report, which placed her very high in the bank’s hierarchy. The vice-directors and department heads – all the bosses who formerly had been unaware of her existence – were now saying hello to her politely and smiling at her as one of their own. There was no doubt that it was going to be that way until the need for her was over and Samsonov sent her away to where she really belonged.

Her new status made itself felt in small things, too. The guards no longer required that she produce her pass – they only nodded respectfully. When she requested that an additional power socket be mounted in her room, an electrician showed up in ten minutes accompanied by the superintendent who came in person to see to it that everything was done properly. Nina recalled that her former chief Ariadna Petrovna once spent a whole week trying to get that kind of service for her own office. Such episodes tickled Nina’s vanity. She was surprised to notice the effect this was having on her. “If I were a vain fool, I would get ideas of my own importance,” she said to herself. “But I am not a vain fool… I hope.”

As they met her in the lobby or in the elevator, her former co-workers fell into a kind of gleeful stupor. To them, she was a creature of a higher order, the heroine of a myth who had ascended to the sky right before their eyes. All office workers are alike. When one of them gets a promotion, the rest, while smiling to the lucky one’s face, are hissing spitefully, green with envy, behind his back. But that is only if it is an ordinary kind of promotion. If somebody, like Nina, draws a lucky ticket and jumps over many rungs of the career ladder, there is no more room for envy. The minion of Fortune is sincerely admired, seen as a dream come true.

“What is it like up there?” her former mates would ask Nina sheepishly whenever she ran into them. “It’s all right, it’s just work like any other,” Nina answered simply. They nodded with a grave look on their faces, showing that they understood everything and appreciated her modesty.

In order not to disappoint them, Nina threw in some food for their imagination. “Yesterday we had a visitor from the Cabinet of Ministers… Let’s not bandy about any names,” she said, smiling to herself at their simple-hearted love for the high-ups. “If only you knew what plans were discussed, what figures were cited! … There’s an awful pile of work to do – no breathing space left, really.” Hearing this, the analysts got stupefied with admiration.

Indeed, the bank had been visited by the minister of economics; his hearse-like limousine stood by the main entrance for everyone to see. Nobody had seen the great man himself, though – before he entered the building, the security had cleared the lobbies and elevators of any stray employees. Nina had not seen the minister either; all during his visit to Samsonov she had been toiling in her little room and had not learned of the event until later. But why share those details with her poor colleagues? She might as well let them imagine that at the negotiations, she was sitting at the director’s right hand, and everyone present, including the minister, devoured every word she had to say on financial issues.

Once or twice her colleagues plucked up the courage to invite her to some party that they were having. Their intent was clear – they hoped desperately that Nina would shed her heavenly light upon them – infect them with her good luck, or perhaps, even actually put in a word for them with Samsonov. “Thank you, but no chance, you understand,” Nina would reply. They did not get offended – they understood it their own way: Nina was out of their league now, and it did not become her to mix with small fry like them. In fact though, Nina would not at all mind getting distracted and spending an hour or two in meaningless chatter with people who, although not really her friends, were akin to her, being analysts like herself. But Nina was really overloaded; all the nights when she did not play tennis which she was sticking to obstinately, she stayed at work after hours. She had piles of work to do, that much was true.

It was also true that now she was involved with really big things – in fact, the largest construction project of the decade. The sheer size of it was dazzling in terms of both the money to be invested and works to be carried out. At first, figures with a lot of zeros had a paralyzing effect on Nina. Overwhelmed, she had difficulty getting at the meaning underlying the numbers. She was about to give up the assignment, when she thought of a simple trick – divide everything by one thousand. The project shrank miraculously, and everything became accessible and visible, similar to what she had dealt with before.

That allowed her to take some initial steps in her analysis. Yet, as an Asian saying goes, “a thousand susliks do not make a camel”. The project of constructing a huge business center was different in many ways from any number of small projects. Nina noticed that for some construction materials, the prices adopted in the project budget were significantly higher than those suggested by the market, even with due allowance for the future inflation. “Here, for example, for this type of cement, there is a local producer with a good business reputation,” she told Samsonov. “And here is their current price list. With a wholesale discount, we can get an economy of…” “That’s true,” the director replied. “But we are not just any other wholesale customer. We’re going to need ten times more of that cement than is produced locally. We’ll have to import it from abroad. Or, perhaps, we’ll buy that company and expand the production. Either way, it means expenses…”