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.”