The Smart Girl

The Smart Girl
Александр Капьяр

The story of a young woman, her formation as a person in the turmoil of the present-day life. Nina Shuvalova is an extraordinary girl. Endowed with an analytical mind, she considered hirself from her early youth as meant for professional growth and career. However, the woman that awoke in her laid claim to her destiny. Following the voice of her reason and the voice of her heart, Nina finds her path to happiness.

Part I

Chapter 1

Sitting behind her computer, Nina was rummaging through endless stock market spreadsheets. Gazprom had been growing steadily for two months running, hauling the whole market along like a locomotive. Another week or so of such growth, and corrections would have to be made to the short-term and medium-term predictions which underlay many of Gradbank’s projects. Still, Nina was certain that the growth of Gazprom was not going to last and corrections were not warranted. She could not put her finger on any logical reason for that certitude of hers – it was purely intuitive – but her intuition had never failed her before. The problem was that she could not put it just like that in her report – some rationalization was due. That was what Nina had been toiling at for more than a week now. The monitor of her computer was flooded with columns of figures and serrated graphs. Little by little, all of them were coming to life, telling her their separate stories, agreeing or arguing with each other. Finally, to her satisfaction, Nina did identify a few factors, seemingly insignificant in themselves but capable, when acting in a certain combination, of stopping Gazprom. It was time to write her report.

It was about eleven. Usually by that hour, Chief of the analytical department Ariadna Petrovna, a very fat and very shrewd woman, was coming back from the director’s morning briefing. As she passed Nina’s table, the woman would brush against it with her uncontrollable body, say, “Sorry, Shuvalova,” and walk on to her office. This time it was different: as she came abreast of Nina, Ariadna Petrovna stopped.

“Shuvalova, grab your stuff and move up.”

“Where?”

“Twelfth floor. Director’s office.”

Nina’s heart sank. That was it, her five-month long intrigue was over. She had been exposed.

“Shall I… Shall I clear my table?” she stammered.

“Sure.”

Ariadna Petrovna waddled on along the passage.

Nina started collecting her things. The analytical department was immersed in silence. Besides Nina, the department counted nine employees – four men and five women – all of whom were now absorbed in whatever they saw on their monitors.

All her belongings fitted into one copy paper box. Nina picked up the box and took a few steps toward the exit but then, after some hesitation, she made an about-turn and headed for the chief’s office.

Ariadna Petrovna was standing in a little built-in kitchen, busy filling a coffee-maker with water. Nina took a resolute step in and closed the door after her.

“Excuse me, Ariadna Petrovna… Tell me – am I being fired?”

The woman had trouble turning her head on her fat neck.

“That’s a real dumb question you’re asking, Shuvalova. I thought you were smarter than that. There’s no need to bother the director just to fire you – I would do it perfectly well myself… Cheer up, Shuvalova, you’re getting a promotion! You owe me a cake and a bottle of cognac.”

“But, Ariadna Petrovna…”

“Genuine French brand, mind you. Go now, don’t keep the big people waiting!”

Dumbfounded, Nina stumbled out of the department. Her nine colleagues were smiling at her, their heads raised from their work. Although the walls in Ariadna Petrovna’s office were supposed to be soundproof, important news somehow spread about immediately.

It seemed to take her an eternity to ascend from the fifth floor, where the analytical department was quartered, to the twelfth – the directorate floor. A large mirror on the wall of the elevator cabin reflected a face that seemed unfamiliar. Nina was not conventionally pretty, but her few friends had always argued that there was ‘something special’ about her. Trying to be fair to herself, Nina agreed with such a judgment. Her late mother used to say, “Ninusya, sweetheart, you’re no film star, but you are intelligent and honest. You will meet a man who appreciates that.” If only her mama could see Nina now! There was no trace of intellect on her face – it looked confused and stupid. And as for honesty… What claim for honesty could she have when for half a year already she had led a life of deception and was now going to see a man who did not suspect that she hated him and was set firmly on causing him as much damage as possible?

During her employment in Gradbank, she had only seen him a couple of times. One of the encounters took place in that same elevator. On the ground floor, as the doors were closing, the director got in accompanied by some other men. Nina found herself squeezed into a corner behind his broad back. Immediately she was attacked by his smells: of ironed shirt, healthy male body, tobacco. And – gutalin. Where, for heavens’ sake, had he unearthed it? She remembered the stink from her childhood – men had used that horrible-smelling substance on their boots when she had been a little girl – but she believed that gutalin had long gone out of sale. Nina, who had always had a keen sense of smell, was close to fainting.

Suddenly she saw his face where the back of his head had just been. With his neck twisted painfully, he spoke to her, “Hey! Why aren’t you getting out? It’s the fifth already. You are in Analytics, aren’t you? … Yeah, right. I never mix up people’s faces – I’ve got an excellent memory!”

He was smiling complacently. Nina murmured, “Thank you,” and pushed her way to the door. To do so, she had to rub her breast against his granite elbow clad in expensive suit cloth. Her ears were burning. Boor! Brute! Excellent memory, huh? Wait till I show you!

Yet she was not able to show him anything, not for a long time. And now the elevator was taking her up, to the twelfth floor, right to her enemy’s lair.

She had never before been here, at the top. Those admitted to that floor were the bank’s high caste. They shared information that was available to them only, spoke their own language, and exchanged jokes that were incomprehensible to the laymen.

In the hall, by a table with a lamp on it, sat a young man of a powerful build wearing a suit and a tie. It was a guard for the directorate floor which had its own security. Nina fumbled in her pocket for her pass but was stopped by the guard.

He motioned towards an oak door, “That way.”

Suddenly the door opened, and a man whom she knew came out. It was Sinitsin, the head of the bank’s security. She had had an interview with him as she had been screened for a job with the bank. The interview was quite formal – Sinitsin asked some trivial questions and made some pointless comments – but there was something about the man that made Nina uneasy.

Now Sinitsin beamed a smile at her as an old acquaintance. “Nina Yevgenievna? Good to see you. Looking for Pavel Mikhailovich? This way, please. Come over to have a chat with me afterwards, will you? You know where my office is, don’t you?”

He courteously held the door open for her.

Nina found herself in the reception room – a large, fine one, with a thick carpet on the floor and some good paintings on the walls. There were two tables in the room. One was occupied by a woman dressed in a formal suit. Sitting behind a computer, she was pressing the keys at an incredible pace. At the other table was a beauty.

It is a mystery why Nature creates such beautiful women. The truth is, people can do without beauty in their life – they can work, get married, and raise children. Men find enough charm in their imperfect companions and love them. Still, about one woman in a thousand is given everything – bottomless eyes, luxurious hair, ideal skin, sensuous lips, high breast… Why? Possibly, Nature’s purpose is just this – to rob men’s minds of their complacent peace and fill women’s minds with an explosive mixture of admiration and hatred. And the director’s reception room in a major bank is as good a place for such a beauty as any.

Nina said, “Hello”. The typing woman said “hello” in response without turning her head or stopping her work. The beauty gave Nina a sliding glance and rose languidly from her table. She took two steps on her breathtaking legs, opened an inner door and asked, “Pavel Mikhailovich, shall I…?” Then she invited Nina in with a nod.

Feeling an ugly duckling, Nina went in.

It was a conference room. A long table with a dozen chairs at the sides ran along the middle. At one end, the director’s table stood across, completing a capital “T”. The walls were covered with wood paneling and, as those in the reception, hung with paintings. The carpet on the floor was even thicker here. It was the bank’s headquarters, where business talks were held and important decisions were made. When Nina came in, the chairs were empty, and it seemed to her for a moment that there was no one in the room. Then she saw him. By an open window, Gradbank’s General Director Pavel Mikhailovich Samsonov was standing on one leg, in a very weird pose. He was tall and big, now with his suit jacket off. A May wind from the window was playing with his tie and tousling his thinning hair. At the sight of Nina, the director smiled and stood on both legs.

“T'ai chi, an ancient Chinese practice,” he explained. “You need to strike a balance between Yin and Yang.”

“Have you struck it?” she heard her own impertinent question, hardly believing her ears.

The man burst into laughter, “No, I haven’t. Not yet. But I’ll do it.”

She forced a smile.

Putting on his jacket, he said, “You’re Shuvalova, aren’t you? Good, come along.”

From the conference room, they moved on to the next one – his personal office. After the grandeur of the other rooms, Nina expected to see something in the manner of a sultan’s chamber, but the office looked rather modest. However, the armchair that the director offered her was bottomless, lulling, of expensive leather.

“Why don’t you put that box down?” he asked. “What do you have in it, anyway? I hope it’s not a bomb.” He laughed again, but not as merrily as before. “All right, let’s get acquainted.”

The director sat at his table. The armchair Nina was sitting in was quite close, placed at an angle.

“You are Nina…”

“Yevgenievna,” she prompted. “Just ‘Nina’ is all right.”

“Good. And I am Pavel Mikhailovich. Do you mind if I smoke?”

He moved an ash-tray closer to himself, took out a cigarette and used his lighter. Nina did not smoke but even she realized that the cigarette was good and the lighter was very expensive.