Single & Single Page 13

  “Not really.”

  “He dreams of a common market of the Caucasus. So do I. A great new trading entity, based on fabulous natural resources. He’s a pioneer, aren’t you, Yevgeny? Like us. Of course he is. Randy, translate, please. Well done, Oliver. I’m proud of you. We all are.”

  “Does the consortium have a name? Does it already exist?” Oliver asks while Massingham translates.

  “No, Oliver, it does not,” Tiger retorts through his weatherproof smile. “But if you will exercise a little patience I am sure it very soon will.”

  Yet even while this distressing exchange goes back and forth— distressing for Oliver, if no one else—he finds himself being tugged almost by gravity in an unexpected direction. Everybody is peering at Oliver, but Yevgeny’s wily old gaze is fixed to him like a ship’s line, pulling at him, feeling his weight, guessing him—and guessing him, Oliver is convinced of it, correctly. Out of nothing, Yevgeny’s goodwill is evident to him. Stranger still, Oliver feels he is taking part in a resumption of an old and natural friendship. He sees a small boy in Georgia in love with everything around him and the child is himself. He feels an unguarded gratitude for favors he has never consciously received. Meanwhile, Hoban is talking about blood.

  Blood of all types. Common blood, uncommon, extremely rare. The shortfall between world demand and world supply. The blood of all nations. The cash value of blood, whole and retail, by category, in the medical marketplaces of Tokyo, Paris, Berlin, London and New York. How to test blood, separate good blood from bad. How to cool it, bottle it, freeze it, transport it, store it, dry it. The regulations covering its importation to the major industrialized countries of the West. Health-and-hygiene standards. Customs. Why is he doing this? Why is blood suddenly so attractive to him? Tiger hates blood as much as he hates smoking. It offends his notions of immortality and contradicts his passion for order. Oliver has known of this aversion all his life, sometimes seeing it as a sign of hidden sensitivity, sometimes despising it as weakness. The smallest graze, the least sight and smell of the stuff, the very mention of it are enough to panic him. His chauffeur, Gasson, was nearly sacked for offering assistance at a gory accident while his master sat whey faced in the back of the Rolls-Royce screaming at him to drive on, drive on, drive on. Yet today, judging him by his exultant expression as he listens to Hoban’s droning delineation of specific proposal number three, blood is what he loves best in life. And this is blood in bucketfuls: free from the tap, thanks to generous-spirited Russian donors, ninety-nine dollars and ninety-five cents per pint retail to the American sufferer in need—and we are looking here at anything up to half a million pints a week, got it, Oliver? Hoban becomes a humanitarian. He does this by altering his voice to a reverential monotone, but also by a prudish pursing of the lips and lowering of the eyelids. The conflicts in Karabakh, Abkahzia and Tbilisi, he intones, have provided the Orlov brothers with a tragic insight into the shortcomings of Russia’s run-down medical services. They do not doubt that there is worse to come. The Soviet Union possesses, alas, no national transfusion service, no program for collecting and distributing blood to our many beleaguered capitals, none for storing it. The very notion of selling blood or buying it is foreign to finer Soviet feelings. Soviet citizens are accustomed to giving blood freely and spontaneously, in moments of particular empathy or patriotism, not—God forbid—on a commercial basis, says Hoban, in a voice now so anemic that Oliver wonders whether he himself could do with a transfusion.

  “For example, please, when Red Army is fighting at a certain front, an appeal is made over radio for donors. For example, in case of natural disaster, when whole village will stand in line to make this sacrifice. If crisis is big, Russian people will provide much blood. In new Russia will be many crisis. Also crisis can be created. It is axiomatic.” Where on earth is he going with this nonsense? Oliver wonders, but one glance round the room tells him that he is alone in his skepticism. Tiger wears a threatening smile that says, question me if you dare. Yevgeny and Mikhail are joined in prayer, their hands linked on their laps, heads down. Shalva listens with a dreamy look of reminiscence, Massingham with eyes prettily closed and elegant legs stretched toward the unlit fire. “Policy decision has therefore been taken at highest level that national blood banks will immediately be established in all major cities of Soviet Union,” Hoban reports, sounding now less like a revivalist pastor than an adenoidal Radio Moscow news announcer on a chilly morning. And still Oliver doesn’t catch on, even though everyone around him seems to know exactly where all this is leading.

  “Great,” he murmurs defensively, conscious of their collective gaze. But no sooner has he uttered this than he finds himself exchanging stares across the circle with Yevgeny, who has tilted his head backward and to one side and, with his rocklike chin protruding, is quizzing Oliver from between the double fringes of his eyelashes.

  “Consistent with state of national objective, all republics of Soviet Union will be advised to establish separate blood facility in each designated city. This facility will contain at least”—Oliver’s confusion about the project does not permit him accurately to receive the number—“gallons of blood in each category. State funding will be available for this project, subject to certain compliances. State will also declare crisis. Also in spirit of reciprocity”—he raises one white finger, demanding attention—“each republic will be ordered to send specified quantity of blood to central reserve blood bank in Moscow. This is axiomatic. Any republic not contributing specified quantity of blood to central reserve will not receive state funding.” Hoban waxes momentous, or as momentous as his misshapen voice allows: “This central reserve will be known as Crisis Response Blood Reserve. It will be showpiece. It will be fine building. We shall select fine building. Maybe with flat roof for helicopter. In this building, paramedics will be on standby at all times to meet sudden demand that is beyond resources of local services, anywhere in Soviet Union. Example, an earthquake. Example, a major industrial accident. Example, rail crash or small war. Example, terrorist outrage by Chechen. There will be television program about this building. Newspaper articles. This building will be pride of all Soviet Union. Nobody will refuse to give to it, even when crisis is small, provided crisis is declared by highest level. You follow me, Oliver?”

  “Of course I follow you. A child could,” Oliver blurts. But his confusion has been noticed by himself alone. Not even old Yevgeny, granite head propped in granite fist, has heard his cry.

  “However,” Hoban declares—except that dropping his linguistic guard he pronounces the initial H as hard G, which at any other time would have caused Oliver an inward grin—“Gowever. It is already clear that operating costs of Crisis Response Blood Reserve are prohibitive to state. Soviet state has zero money. Soviet state must accept principles of market economy. So we have question for you, Oliver. How can Crisis Response Blood Reserve be financially self-supporting? How to achieve this? What is your personal specific proposal to highest level in the land, please?”

  All their eyes scorching him, Tiger’s scorching fiercest. Demanding his approval, his blessing, his complicity. Wanting him aboard complete with ethics and ideals. Oliver’s face darkens under their collective heat. He shrugs, pulls a stubborn frown to no effect.

  “Sell the surplus blood to the West, I suppose.”

  “A little more volume, please, Oliver!” cries Tiger.

  “I said sell the spare blood to the West”—resentfully—“why not? It’s a crop like any other. Blood, oil, old iron, what’s the difference?”

  To himself he sounds like someone bursting loose from his chains. But Hoban is already nodding in concurrence, Massingham is grinning like an idiot and Tiger is wearing his widest and most proprietorial smile of the day.

  “An astute suggestion,” Hoban pronounces, pleased with his choice of adjective. “We shall sell this blood. Officially but also secretly. Sales will be state secret, sanctioned in writing at highest level in Moscow. Blood that is surplus t
o crisis will be transported daily by refrigerated Boeing 747 ex Moscow Sheremetyevo airport to East Coast of United States. All freight costs will be borne by contracting company.” He has a note of the terms and is consulting it as he speaks. “Transportation will be conducted on extremely confidential basis, eliminating negative publicity. In Russia, we must not hear, ‘They sell our Russian blood to victorious imperialists.’ In the States, it is not convenient to hear that American capitalists are bleeding poor nations literally. This would be counterproductive.” He licks a white fingertip and turns a page. “Assuming mutual confidentiality can be observed, this contract also will be signed by highest in the land. Terms will be following. First term, Mr. Yevgeny Ivanovich will appoint his own nominee; this will be his prerogative. Nominee can be foreigner, can be Westerner, can be American, who gives a shit? This nominee’s company will not be registered in Moscow. It will be foreign company. Preferred will be Switzerland. Immediately on signature of contract between Soviet nominee of Mr. Yevgeny Orlov, thirty million dollars in bearer bonds will be lodged at foreign bank; details will be arranged. Maybe you have suggestion for this bank?”

  “Do indeed,” Tiger murmurs offstage.

  “This thirty million dollars will be regarded as advance payment against down-the-line profits calculated at fifteen percent of gross profit accruing to nominees of Mr. Yevgeny Orlov. You like this, Oliver? You think it’s pretty good business, I believe.”

  Oliver likes it, hates it, thinks it is good business, disgusting business, not business at all but theft. But he has no time to set his revulsion into words. He lacks the age, the sureness, the address, the space.

  “As you rightly say, Oliver, it’s a crop like any other,” says Tiger. “I suppose it is.”

  “You sound worried. Don’t be. You’re among friends here. You’re one of the team. Speak out.”

  “I was thinking about testing and stuff,” Oliver grumbles.

  “Good point. So you should. Last thing we need is a lot of do-gooders from the press telling us we’re peddling tainted blood. So I’m pleased to tell you that testing, grading, selecting—all those problems—are no obstacle in these modern times. They add a few hours to shipment at most. They increase overheads, but the cost will obviously be factored in. Do it in flight is probably the answer. Save time and handling. We’re looking into it. Anything else troubling you?”

  “Well, there’s the—well—the larger issue, I suppose.”

  “Of what?”

  “Well—you know—what Alix said—selling Russian blood to the rich West—capitalists living off the blood of peasants.”

  “You’re absolutely right again, and we’ll have to watch it like hawks. The good news is, Yevgeny and his chums are as determined as we are to keep the whole thing under wraps. The bad news is, sooner or later everything leaks. Think positive, that’s the trick. Hit back. Have your answers ready and slam them home.” He flings up one trim arm in the manner of a wayside preacher, and adds a tremor to his voice. “‘Better to trade blood than shed it! What finer symbol can there be of reconciliation and coexistence than a nation giving blood to its former enemy?’ How’s that?”

  “They’re not giving, though, are they?—well, the donors are, but that’s different.”

  “So would you rather we took their blood for nothing?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Would you rather the Soviet Union had no national transfusion service?”

  “No.”

  “We don’t know what Yevgeny’s chums are doing with their commission—why should we? They could be building hospitals. Propping up an ailing health service. What could be more moral than that?”

  Massingham provides what he calls the nutshell. “Tot it all up, Ollie old lad, we’re looking at an up-front sweetener of eighty mill for the three specific proposals,” he calculates with polished carelessness. “My guess—top of my head, don’t quote me—anybody asking eighty will round down to seventy-five. Even if you’re the highest level in the land, seventy-five’s a tidy sum. After that it’s a question of who we invite to the table. Seen from this end, we’ll be handing out gold bars.”

  Lunch is Kat’s Cradle in South Audley Street, billed in the gossip columns as the private lunch club even you cannot afford. But Tiger can afford it. Tiger owns it, and owns Kat, and has owned her a little longer than Oliver is allowed to know. The weather is kind, the walk round the corner takes all of three minutes. Tiger and Yevgeny lead, Oliver and Mikhail make a second pair, the rest trail behind and Alix Hoban trails last, speaking soft Russian into a cell phone, which, as Oliver is learning, is something Hoban likes to do a lot. They turn the corner. Chauffeured Rolls-Royces wait like a mafia cortege along the curbside, a closed, unmarked, black-painted front door opens as Tiger reaches for the bell. The famous round table in the bay is waiting for them, waiters in the palest sherry jackets push silver trolleys, fawn and murmur, a sprinkling of mistresses and lovers watch from the safety of their corners. Katrina, whose name the place bears, is puckish, stylish and ageless as a good mistress should be. She stands at Tiger’s side, nudging her hip against his shoulder.

  “No, Yevgeny, you’re not having vodka today,” Tiger tells him down the table. “He’s having a Château d’Yquem with his foie gras, Kat, and a Château Palmer with his lamb, and a shoot-up of thousand-year-old Armagnac with his coffee, and no bloody vodka. I’ll tame the bear if it kills me. And shampoo cocktails while we wait.”

  “So what’s poor Mikhail getting?” Katrina protests, who with Massingham’s connivance has mastered everybody’s name ahead of their arrival. “He looks as though he hasn’t had a decent meal for years—don’t you, darling?”

  “Mikhail’s a beef chap, bet he is,” Tiger insists while Massingham translates whatever of this he reckons appropriate. “Tell him beef, Randy. And he’s not to believe a word he reads in the newspapers. British beef’s still best beef in the world. Same for Shalva. Alix, time to live a little. And put that phone away, please, Alix, rule of the house. Give him a lobster. Like lobster, Alix? How’s the lobster, Kat?”

  “And what’s Oliver getting?” Kat asks, turning her sparkling ageless gaze on him, and leaving it there like a gift for him to play with as he pleases. “Not enough,” she answers for him, to make him blush. Kat has never hidden the pleasure that she takes in Tiger’s virile young son. Every time he walks into the Cradle she eyes him like an impossibly priced painting she would love to own.

  Oliver is about to reply when the room explodes. Seating himself at the white piano, Yevgeny has fired off a wild prelude evoking mountains, rivers, forests, dance and—if Oliver is not mistaken—cavalry charges. In a trice Mikhail appears at the center of the tiny dance floor, his hollowed, mystical gaze fixed upon the kitchen doors. Yevgeny starts to sing a peasant lament while Mikhail slowly swings his arms and provides a backing refrain. Spontaneously, Kat threads her arm through Mikhail’s and mirrors his movements. Their song gallops up the mountain, touches the peak and mournfully descends. Indifferent to the astonished hush, the brothers resume their places at the table as Kat starts the applause.

  “Was that Georgian?” Oliver asks Yevgeny shyly, through Massingham, when the clapping dies.

  But Yevgeny, it turns out, has less need of an interpreter than he pretends. “Not Georgian, Oliver. Mingrelian,” he says in a thick Russian growl that echoes all round the room. “Mingrelian peoples are pure peoples. Other Georgians got so many invasions they don’t know if their grandmothers was raped by Turks, Daghestanis or Persians. Mingrelians was smart peoples. They protect their valleys. Lock up their women. Get them pregnant first. Got brown hair, not black.”

  The stately bustle of the room recovers. Tiger smoothly proposes a first toast. “To our valleys, Yevgeny. Yours and ours. May they flourish. Separately but together. May they bring prosperity to you and your family. In partnership. In good faith.”

  It is four o’clock. Father and son saunter arm in arm along the sunny pavement in
the haze of after lunch while Massingham escorts the party back to the Savoy for a rest before the evening’s festivities.

  “Big chap for family, Yevgeny,” Tiger muses. “As I am. As you are”—squeeze of the arm. “The Georgians are thick as thieves in Moscow. Yevgeny’s got them wired, not a door he can’t open. Total charmer. Not an enemy in the world.” It is rare for father and son to touch each other for so long. Given their conflicting heights it is difficult to find a hold that works for both of them but this one does. “Doesn’t trust people much. Makes two of us. Doesn’t trust things. Computers, phone, fax, says he only trusts what’s in his head. And you.”

  “Me?”

  “The Orlovs are family men. Famous for it. They like fathers, brothers, sons. Send them your son, it’s a pledge of good faith. That’s why I bundled Winser off for the day. Time you moved into the spotlight, where you belong.”

  “But what about Massingham? They’re his catch, aren’t they?”

  “The son’s better. No skin off Randy’s nose, and we’d all rather have him with us than against us.” Oliver makes to detach his arm but Tiger keeps it trapped. “You can’t blame them for being suspicious, the world they grew up in. Police state, everyone informing on everyone, firing squads—makes a chap secretive. The brothers did a spell in prison themselves, Randy tells me. Came out knowing half tomorrow’s men. Better than Eton, by the sound of it. There’ll be contracts to draw up, of course. Side agreements. Keep it simple, that’s the message. Your basic legal English for foreigners. Yevgeny likes to understand what he’s signing. You up to that?”