Page 76 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Some people, you can never really know them.”

*

He awoke at six, eyes red and gritty, feeling anxious and depressed, his head aching. Drinking a third cup of coffee was a bad idea; it would only make him more jittery. As he ate a bowl of Rice Chex, he read theWall Street Journalon his phone, and there a headline snagged his eye.

“BAE Systems Wins Billion-Dollar Contract for 10 Destroyers.”

50

They had missed several Sunday night dinners in a row, either because Polina was traveling or Arkady was gone on business.

But the next one was scheduled for that Sunday—the night before Paul’s flight to Moscow. Normally, he enjoyed these meals. Arkady was relaxed, as he was rarely at the office. There was always vodka, wine, and cognac. Paul loved the food, of course. The family often bickered—it wasn’t a Norman Rockwell illustration—but they also laughed a lot. Tatyana seemed to be at ease. Paul liked how happy she seemed when she was with her family.

These dinners were like sitting beside a roaring fire. They warmed him. Coming from the kind of deprived, anxious, cold and dark and gloomy childhood he’d had, he felt with Tatyana’s family as if he had entered a warm house after hours in the cold snow and been served a cup of hot cocoa. It melted him inside.

*

Arkady was wearing his blue-and-white-checked L.L.Bean fleece and jeans. Polina wore a deep-V-neck pink sweater and dark, tight jeans that looked uncomfortable but showed off her butt. Tatyana wore faded jeans and a white button-down.

Arkady greeted them as they entered. The home Arkady, as opposed to the office Arkady, was ebullient and twinkling. “I haven’t seen you two together since your wedding.Pozdravlyayu!Congratulations!” He hugged first his daughter and then Paul. Speaking with a broad smile, he said, “You two—rob me of putting on greatest wedding in world. But you will not rob me of giving you wedding present.” His tone communicated no resentment. He seemed jovial.

Paul noticed Arkady’s bald head, smooth and pink like a baby’s skin; it looked vulnerable, like a baby’s.

“Tatyana tells me you have bought an apartment, finally.”

“Yeah, we think this is the one,” Paul said. “It’ll require a lot of renovation, but it’s awfully nice.”

“I looked at it online, and all I can say, thanks God my daughter will be moving out of shithole.” Galkin lowered his voice, standing close, a hand on each of their shoulders. “Will you please allow me to pay for it?”

“No, Papa,” said Tatyana.

Paul shook his head. “Very generous of you, Arkady, but the deal is done. We’ve had the closing.”

“We’re about to start renovations,” Tatyana said. “Paul has a friend who’s a contractor . . .”

“Contractor! This is big responsibility. Is a world I know well.” Arkady looked first at Paul, then at Tatyana. “As my present to you, let me handle renovations on apartment. I have people who do excellent work. You’re both too busy to supervise renovations. It will make you argue. It is barrier to good marriage. We will talk about your taste, your vision, and I will handle it all. My gift to you both.”

Tatyana looked at Paul, who looked back. They both mumbled, hesitated. Tatyana, who would be in charge of the renovations, said, “That would be wonderful, Pápachka. Thank you.”

“Yes? And you, Paul? Will you accept my gift?”

“It’s too generous, Arkady—but if you insist . . .” Paul said. “Very kind of you.”

Arkady turned to face the table, where most of the family was already seated, drinking. “A toast to newlyweds!” he declared.

51

Arkady Galkin reclined in his leather airplane seat. He was wearing a burgundy polka dot dressing gown and embroidered smoking slippers, and he was smoking a cigar, which was stinking up the whole plane. But it was his plane.

It was a long flight to Moscow. Nine hours from Teterboro. The Gulfstream G650 would fly nonstop to Vnukovo Airport.

Tatyana had brought her best camera, a Leica M11. Paul had never seen her so excited, not even before her gallery opening. Now she was in the front of the plane watching a movie,The Notebook, which she’d seen dozens of times.

Galkin had invited Paul to the back of the plane to join him for dinner. Over steak and a great red wine (a 1989 Pétrus Pomerol), Galkin talked, and Paul listened. Robin, the flight attendant, poured. Paul could get used to wines like this one.

“You never been to Moscow? What you expect?”

“Gray and cold,” Paul said with a wry smile.

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