The solicitor, a Mr Heath, starts to set out Ksenia’s demands, as transmitted to him by her legal team. The London house, the St Barts villa…
‘I know,’ Aleksandr says, ‘you already said.’
Mr Heath looks up from the papers. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘So you know what Ms Viktorovna is asking for.’
‘The London house, the villa, and twenty-five million.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Heath says. ‘And also the use of your plane, precise terms to be worked out between the parties.’
‘The plane is being sold,’ Aleksandr tells him. Though it is a dark day — the taxis passing in the street have their headlights on — the light from the tall windows troubles his tired eyes.
‘Ah,’ Mr Heath says. ‘Alright. I’ll communicate that to the other party.’ He writes something down and has a sip of the coffee they have been served. ‘We also feel,’ he says, ‘that, in addition to the two very valuable houses, the twenty-five-million cash component is excessive.’
‘Yes?’ Aleksandr says, not seeming very interested.
‘We would advise you to contest that,’ Mr Heath says.
‘Contest it?’
‘We think it highly unlikely that a court would award Ms Viktorovna such a large sum, in addition to the houses.’
Aleksandr says nothing.
Mr Heath says, ‘Of course, you may prefer to offer her the sum she wants, plus only one of the houses.’
‘You think I should contest it?’ Aleksandr asks, as if he hasn’t heard the last thing Mr Heath said.
‘Yes, we do.’
‘It would mean going to court?’
‘Not necessarily. I would say probably not, if Ms Viktorovna is being properly advised. But possibly, yes.’
Aleksandr, again, says nothing. He is not looking at the middle-aged solicitor. He seems to be looking at the green exit sign over one of the doors. Enormous dark pouches hang under his eyes. His face seems somehow to have fallen in. He has lost quite a lot of weight, Mr Heath thinks, since they last met, only a few weeks ago. He seems much older.
‘I don’t think you would have anything to fear,’ Mr Heath says, ‘if this should come to court.’
There is another long silence.
Then Aleksandr says, in a soft tired voice, and still not looking at the solicitor, ‘Let her have what she wants. Everything.’
Mr Heath looks puzzled. ‘Everything?’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘With respect, that isn’t what we advise…’
‘I know.’
Mr Heath tries again. ‘Her solicitors are being aggressive,’ he says. ‘I very much doubt they expect to get what they’re asking for. It’s a negotiation.’
‘I understand.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to take some time to think about it,’ Mr Heath suggests. ‘There’s no hurry.’
‘I don’t need time,’ Aleksandr says. ‘Let her have what she wants.’
Mr Heath seems at a loss. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
There is another long pause. ‘Well, alright,’ the solicitor says, looking almost sadly at his papers. ‘If that’s what you want. I must stress — it is not what we advise.’
‘I understand,’ Aleksandr says.
When Mr Heath has gone, he sits alone at the long table, until his secretary finds him there some time later and tells him that, in case he has forgotten, he is having lunch with Lord Satter. They have a table, she says, at Le Gavroche.
He looks at her with a strange, empty expression.
He had forgotten.
He is not supposed to be here.
He is not supposed to be having lunch.
Nevertheless, at twelve thirty, he walks the short distance, followed by Pierre and Madis, to Le Gavroche.
Adrian Satter is already there, sitting in an armchair in the waiting area upstairs. He is about Aleksandr’s age. His half-silvered hair rises in silky corrugations from the rich pink glow of his forehead.
‘Shurik,’ he says, in a single movement slipping his glasses into the pocket of his immense-lapelled suit and standing up. He takes Aleksandr’s hand and pats his shoulder. ‘Good to see you.’
‘Hello, Adrian,’ Aleksandr says.
Pierre and Madis loiter outside, where men are hanging Christmas decorations from street lamps.
Aleksandr and Lord Satter study menus.
‘The soufflé Suissesse, I think, for me,’ Adrian Satter says. ‘And then the turbot.’ An early intimate of Tony Blair, and elevated by him to the peerage, he was now part of the establishment furniture. He was one of many such figures to be wooed by Aleksandr when he arrived in London, around the turn of the millennium. Aleksandr had wanted very much to be part of the British establishment, or at least to be publicly accepted by it — or, if even that was not possible, to be seen by it as an equal of some sort.
‘I’ll have the same,’ he says to the maître d’, and they are ushered down the quiet, dark-carpeted stairs to their table.
‘Awful,’ Adrian says indignantly.
They are talking about last week’s harsh judgment in the High Court.
‘I’ve never heard anything like it. It made me ashamed to be British.’
‘I’m finished, Adrian,’ Aleksandr says.
‘Nonsense. You mustn’t talk like that, Shurik.’ Adrian is looking at the wine list. ‘You’ve taken a knock,’ he says, smiling at Aleksandr. ‘You’ll be back on your feet in no time.’
Aleksandr says, ‘It’s not just that.’
‘You’re one of the great men of our time, Shurik.’
‘I thought that, once.’
‘Well, think it now.’
‘I would like to.’
‘Look at what you’ve achieved.’
Assuming that the meal will be, as usual, on his friend, Adrian tells the sommelier to bring them a Lafon Perrières 2005.
Satisfied, he removes his glasses.
Looking very sad, Aleksandr says, ‘I’m sixty-five years old, and I don’t know what to do any more. I just don’t know what to do. I feel like everything is finished for me.’
‘Tell me,’ Adrian says, after a short pause, pocketing his glasses, ‘have you got a hobby?’
‘A hobby?’
‘Yes. You know.’
‘No,’ Aleksandr says. He has never had a hobby — in his Who’s Who entry, he had listed his ‘interests’ as ‘wealth’ and ‘power’.
‘I suggest you take up a hobby,’ Adrian says. ‘Take an interest in your garden,’ he suggests. ‘Did you know,’ he asks, twinkling, ‘that in his declining years Josef Stalin was more interested in producing the perfect mimosa than in fomenting global revolution?’
‘No, I didn’t know that,’ Aleksandr says.
‘He spent most of his time in his garden down on the Black Sea, pottering about among his mimosas, and pretty much left Beria to run the empire.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It’s perfectly natural,’ Adrian says. ‘You have to step back. I’m having to slow down a bit myself,’ he admits, as the starters arrive.
‘Somehow…’ Aleksandr looks miserable. ‘I’ve lost the meaning of life. Do you understand?’
Adrian smiles. He says, ‘Who needs meaning when you have soufflé Suissesse?’
Aleksandr tries to smile too.
He wonders, as he tries to smile, whether Adrian knows that he has been wiped out financially. That the Empire of Iron is no more. Adrian, now tucking into his soufflé, has shown no sign of knowing. Though he wouldn’t, would he? Aleksandr picks up his fork. That was the thing with the English — it was impossible to know what was happening in their heads, what was hidden under their mild, ironic manner. Did they know themselves?