Page 22 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“What got you into photography in the first place?” Paul asked.

She thought a long time. “It was after my parents’ divorce. We had moved to America—Papa had, leaving Mama and Babushka and Dedushka behind. When Dedushka died, back in Moscow, I was gutted, I was bereft. But I had these photos of him, and they gave me comfort . . .”

“How old were you when that happened?”

“Six or seven, I think. I discovered a box of family photographs that Mama had packed in with my things. Pictures of her and my grandparents and aunts and uncles, and I just became obsessed with them. Whenever I was sad, I would pull out some of the pictures and look at them, and of course, they just made me sadder. I realized one day that this was all I had of Dedushka. Pictures. And suddenly they were everything, this old roll of photographs of my mama, mydedushka. I think that, on some level, deep down, I realized the perishability of the past. That the only way to preserve the past, really, was photographs. I think that’s when I decided I wanted to take pictures. Papa gave me a camera, a Canon digital SLR, and I started taking pictures all the time. Later, when I was around ten, Papa gave me a book of photographs that had a picture of this little naked girl in Vietnam running from a napalm attack on her village. It brought tears to my eyes. That little girl was around my age, and you can see the pain and the terror in her face. And that was when I realized how photography can move you. Until I saw that terrible picture, I didn’t know it could do that.” There was a long silence. “So how wasyourday?”

He grinned. “Pretty great, actually.”

“Yeah? How so?”

He gave her a simplified version of what had happened at work, and about Bernie singling him out.

Her face lit up. “That’s so fantastic!”

“It’s boring to you, isn’t it?”

“It’s not boring, not at all—I mean, I don’t know anything about investments or finance. But I’m very happy for you and your good day.” She caught him frowning. “What is it, Pasha?”

“Oh, it’s—I don’t know, I’m just thinking you must date far more interesting people. Artists and such. I’m just a money guy.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s great to be with someone who appreciates photography,” she said. “Oh, this is too hot for me.”

He passed her a small dish of yogurt. “Try some of this.”

She spooned some yogurt. “I’ve never had a boyfriend who really knew anything about my photography. Or even cared. Or bothered to learn. And by the way, my last boyfriend was a painter. A very talented one.”

“Ahh . . . how nice . . .”

“He had interest from David Zwirner, about representation—do you know who that is?”

“Big-shot agent, I’m guessing?”

“Art dealer. Gallery owner. This guy—Sebastian his name was—he was about to blow up. But he was a party boy, too. And between the cocaine and the infidelity and the flakiness, he’d never show up where he was supposed to; he always had some excuse. In the end, he screwed up everything in his life. Including our relationship. I didn’t feel safe or wanted or loved. He broke my heart.”

She scooped up more yogurt and some fava beans with Barbari, the Persian flatbread with sesame and nigella seeds in its crust.

Paul waited, wondering,Why is she telling me this?

She went on, “We’ll always care for each other. But I learned that I need someone sane, someone grounded and kind.”

He felt himself relax. He nodded, put his hand atop hers.

“You know what they say: Never sleep with anyone crazier than you,” Tatyana said. “Of course, you might think that’s a low bar in my case.” A rueful smile. “I usually win in the crazy Olympics, Pasha.”

14

It was a busy morning, but most mornings were busy. At eight o’clock was the morning meeting, where Paul had to briefly,brieflysummarize what was going on with the companies he covered. To talk about what had changed. (If all twelve people at the meeting got into the weeds, the meeting could go on forever.) He kept it crisp and dry. A few people kicked the tires, but that was okay. They all got paid on the whole portfolio’s performance, so everyone had a stake. It was a fast-moving meeting, and you had to pay attention.

After work, he met Rick and his wife, Mary Louise, for a drink at the Campbell Apartment in Grand Central Station. Rick had just gotten a promotion, to running his small nonprofit office, the Lamson Foundation. Instead of champagne, they toasted his promotion with glasses of Brooklyn Lager, which Rick was partial to.

Rick was also partial to WrestleMania, his secret vice, which he proceeded to talk about at length instead of his promotion.

“Oh, Lord, not this again,” Mary Louise said. She put her hands over her ears theatrically. She was thin to the point of skinny and had black hair with gray salted in, a button nose, and a generous mouth that was usually smiling. She crossed her eyes comically, a cute habit she had.

Rick said, “Tonight we’re also celebrating Mary Louise.”

“Why’s that?” Paul said.

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