13. A young supervisor’s dream

 

 

I get up early in the morning. I take a contrast shower, and shave. I cook a simple bachelor's breakfast two fried eggs with ham and vermicelli as a side dish. And every time at breakfast I remember with a smile the sophism invented by my good friend: "The people who eat bread with pasta are invincible..."

In while having breakfast, I listen to the FM radio. At such an early hour, radio stations usually broadcast yesterday's latest news. I perceive messages about life in the republics of the former USSR most acutely. This's strange, I thought, the Soviet Union fell apart, new independent states arose on its ruins, but in the life of each of them, like in the shards of a broken mirror, the same images are reflected - more often frightening than optimistic.

Having finished my coffee, I'm leaving to work in an upset state. The way to it is neither short nor long: the tram ride there takes about forty minutes, and on foot, you can walk this distance in a little over twenty minutes. And so, I have there is enough of time to think about the future.

Most often I was thinking about how I would get rich, one day «because a bad supervisor is one who does not strive to be-come a millionaire! Shaking in the tram, I imagined how we,  me and my beloved girlfriend, whom I do not have yet, would go to pristine uninhabited places where you can spend time without hiding your primary sexual characteristics. Vacations in Turkey or Egypt are no longer a thrill for me.

My working day in one of the small but growing trading companies began with the same as all the previous ones. Having settled down in a soft swivel chair in front of the computer, the first thing I did was look through my e-mail. And that time every-thing was as usual. Except for one letter. It was sent to me by a certain Vera Mason.

«Hello Dearest,

Well a brief introduction of myself. I am the daughter of the (late). Hon Dr. Williams Kizzy Maison special adviser to the Formal Head of State during the regime of Charles Taylor who died during the Liberian crisis. I am presently in Lomé Republic of Togo for a serious transaction. You see while in the government my late father acquired the sum of $6.5 million U.S dollars be-cause he was the one in charge of the diamond sales with the Si-erra Leone Government.

Unfortunately for him few months after the transaction my father was killed. The fund in question is still lying in a Finance firm in London (Capital Bank of London) since his death. Now I want this fund to move to you for the mutual benefit for both of us if you can guarantee me your trust...

Best of My Kiss».

In addition, Vera reported that, for reasons beyond her control, she could not travel to England to dispose of this money. Therefore, she asked me to do her a small favor - to agree to transfer the specified amount to my foreign currency account. Af-terward, I would have to place this money on the Ukrainian stock market. The girl reported that my fee for the transaction would be 15 percent of the total amount and another 5 percent for current expenses. All I had to do was tell her the number of my foreign currency account and the necessary bank details.

All I had to do was tell Vera my foreign currency account number and the necessary bank details.

I took a calculator and made some simple calculations. It turned out that my fee should be more than three hundred and thousand American presidents!

"Vera!" I whispered, "You are a miracle! You are a saint! You are Mother Teresa!" And without thinking twice, I sent Vera Mason a message in which I said that today I would consult with my lawyer about the best way to pull off this difficult business...

"Wait, guy! But you've never had a foreign currency ac-count, much less a lawyer!" stopping me my Brain.

Yeah, I somehow didn't think about that. But why did na-ture reward man with intelligence then? What are millions of years of evolution for? Of course, Brain and I don't always get along. Each of us lives our own autonomous life. However, when an urgent need arises, we join forces, arranging the so-called "in-tellectual storming" and often we succeed quite well. Together we manage to find a way out of the most seemingly dead-end situa-tions.

"Lenchik, you've got twenty bucks lying around somewhere at home!" my enterprising Brain got to work again.

That's great! «I was delighted. «I'll open a foreign currency account tomorrow!”

Having figured out which of the financial and credit institu-tions is better, I settled on Private-Bank. They say it's a reliable company. Well, of course! Kolomoisky and company are not a piece of cake...

«Leonid, come in to see me! « I heard a familiar voice. It was the chief manager of our company, Krivoshein, calling me to his office on the loudspeaker

«What are you doing, Petrenko?” he asked as soon as I crossed the threshold of his office.

“As always, by correspondence with our regular suppliers.

“And how are things going?” here was irony in his words.

“They've simply got me, Sidor Kalamurkovich, they de-manding payment for the goods delivered last year!”

“And you?” Krivoshein raised his glasses to his forehead with a characteristic gesture.

“I told them "to wait...”

“Well done! That's right!” he praised me. “And if they re-mind you of yourself again, answer that the money is still in circu-lation, we'll pay for the goods at the end of the quarter,” he said, rubbing his white, well-groomed hands.

“But the quarter is already ending, today is the twenty-ninth,” I reminded him.

“What a f…….k you are, Lenya!” Krivoshein was indignant, throwing his yellow, snake-like eyes at me. “I meant at the end of the next quarter! Have you finally understood or not?!"

« Yes sir!” I answered militarily. Krivoshein «a red” cheeked, plump retired colonel, former deputy corps commander for logistics, likes it when people click their heels in front of him.

«Well, go, go, Petrenko, don't be an eyesore, you have worked to do,” he said, and, having comfortably settled his well “fed» groomed body in a leather chair, and he continued playing poker...

Returning to my workplace, I opened my email again. There was no answer from Vera Mason. "Probably she busy will answer later. Maybe tomorrow..." I reasoned. And following Krivoshein's example, leaning back in my swivel chair, I began to get used to the role of a millionaire. The first feeling was not pleasant. The burden of responsibility immediately fell on me. 6, 5 million bucks is no joke. Even if they are kept at someone else's expense in a bank account. But I think I will get used to it with time. I'm not the only one!

By the end of the working day, my Brain gave me another brilliant idea: "Why put off until tomorrow what you can do to-day!" And I, having borrowed twenty dollars from a colleague until payday, stopped by a Private bank branch on my way home and opened a foreign currency account!

After having dinner with navy-style macaroni, I went to my little room-pencil case. I undressed, lay down on the bed, and stretched.

"MasterCard" is not just a bank card, it is a pass to our bright future!" my Brain emphasized when I once again touched the plastic rectangle with my fingertips.

«Of course!” I said, completely agreeing with it. Then I took James Hadley Chase's novel Easy Money from under my pillow and immersed myself in reading...

Several years have passed since I sent Vera Mason my last post. And there is no word from her! Probably, she fell into the Internet Tartarus along with her millions. But if it weren't for her, I would probably still be working as a supervisor, periodically listening to the stupid maxims, Krivoshein!

Without waiting for the bucks from Vera Mason, I, as they say, was able to start my own business. And a year later, my part-ner, the Pole Thadeus Brylski, and I established a joint venture for the production of rapeseed oil and began selling it to Europe, earning a good income. I haven't become a dollar millionaire yet, and I won't say how much I earned in hryvnia and euros; it's a commercial secret.

The only thing that weighed me down was the very re-sponsibility that I disliked so much. To keep the company afloat, minimize taxes, and pay off the fiscal and inspection services, I had to work twelve to sixteen hours a day, worse than a black man on an American cotton plantation! And there was no end in sight! That’s why sometimes I was visited by a treacherous thought: “Wouldn’t it have been better for me to remain a supervisor? The salary is small, but I sleep well and have an excellent appetite.”

Well, no! During my time as an entrepreneur, not only did my habits change, but also my taste for life. As they say, you learn good things in a good way, and good things make you better.

Take our last corporate party as an example. We timed it to coincide with the start of harvesting early varieties of rapeseed and the upcoming Constitution Day.

Everything was like normal people, first class. Excellent drinks, exquisite food, beautiful girls from the best escort agency. And for dessert - a singer: lips like cherry dumplings, a voice - will rise at the dead man. "To hell with love..." she sang. And at the end of the party, she screamed "And I want to go home!" And Todeus took her somewhere.

Well, is it possible to forget something like that; is it possi-ble to refuse something like that?!

After that party, I returned home in the morning, threw the bones on the water mattress, and fell asleep like a log. I woke up -around twelve. I sobered up with German Zidert beer, took a shower, had a leisurely snack of English ham with Spanish olives, and left the house to stretch my bones.

And I thought I'd go to "Starokonny" ‒ this is our Odessa "flea market", they say it ranks eighth in the European ratings.

The goods that the local merchants sell at our "flea mar-ket" reflect, in my opinion, all the vanity, poverty and vanity of human existence. And even more. For example, one eccentric has been exhibiting a huge portrait of Friedrich Engels, two by two and a half meters, on the corner of Kolontayevskaya and Serov streets for fifteen years in a row.

«How much are you asking?” I once asked him.

«Fifteen," he said dismissively, not seeing me as a potential buyer.

«It is in hryvnia?”

«No, thousands!”

«You haven't escaped from a madhouse by any chance?!” I got furious.

«But he's not alone,” said the owner of the masterpiece. »There are three of them."

«And who are those two?" I asked, intrigued.

«What, you don't know this trinity?!" he bulged his multi-colored eyes at me. «But these are Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and Vladimir Lenin. They are the founders of scientific com-munism!"

«Why are you only putting up one?!” I scolded him. «It's not very nice, not comradely."

«I do this on purpose," he admitted. «Few people know Engels by sight. And those two will be recognized immediately; they might punch me in the face or cut up my portraits..."

I'm not interested in painting. I collect lures, mostly made of sterling silver. Although I can't stand fishing. That time I too was going to the market to buy something interesting to add to my collection. I had to stand out in my environment!

...The sun had already risen above the roofs of the houses. The courtyard up to the upper floors was filled with the honeyed aroma of the blooming linden « sweet and viscous, like the saliva of the neighboring schoolgirl, constantly sucking on a lollipop.

I went out onto Kolontayevskaya, I saw a Cadillac of the latest release standing at the gate. The car most exclusive thing there is! Its top is open, and the door on the left side is wide open. It is all black: a lacquered body, the interior is genuine suede, and in the interior is a girl the color of Swiss chocolate. And on this all-consuming, soot-black background, there were only four bright spots: the headlights of the car and the girl's eyes, as big as two euro coins, staring at me. Did she like me, or something?

«Mister Pedrengou?" she asked, shamelessly mangling my last name.

«Yes, I am Leonid Petrenko" I said, still not suspecting any-thing.

« And I am Verra, Verra!" she cooed sweetly like a black cat, showing that she was tame. «Verra Mason."

"Vera Mason?" I asked again.  "Oh, Vera Mason! From To-go Lomé."

“The Kenyan Letters” and the like" my Brain prompted me.

"Oh, da, da!" she said, baring two rows of dazzlingly white and sharp predator-like teeth. I recoiled, and she said, peacefully:

"Well, what are you standing there for? Sit down in the car! Turn on the ignition!

I followed her order without resistance. And we go along the streets of Odessa. I showed Vera the best-protected places and sights of the city. She twisted her doll-like head back and forth, not hiding her admiration, and repeated: “Okay! Very well!” On Primorsky Boulevard, Vera Mason was wild with delight when she saw a monument of black cast iron on a granite pedestal, probably thinking that it was one of her fellow Africans imprinted in metal, which was only partly true.

"This is a monument for Pushkin," I said. "But he is only an illusion of Odessa. Odessa is Isaak Babel!"

"Oh! Babel, Isaac Babel, I was reading his "Red Cafaleri"...

I showed Vera the Duke Rishile, the Vorontsov Palace, the Colonnade, the Teschin Bridge, and my favorite crooked alley, connecting, passing through the backyards, Primorsky Boulevard with Ekaterininskaya Square.

«Oh, this one is like Marcel!”  she said, smiling.

On the square, driving around the monument to the plump queen with her protruding woman's butt, I made two circles, honking at the young rich kids who were staring, licking their lips, at our "Cadillac". Then I stepped on the gas, and, leaving behind a lilac cloud in the air from the combustion of high octane gasoline, I tore up Ekaterininskaya Street, stopping at the red traffic light at intersections, occasionally purring impatiently with the engine.

My Brain did not give any alarm signals.

And I, unconscious, drove the car, not knowing where and why. Having rushed past the Bolshaya Arnautskaya, Razumovskaya, Grushevskogo Streets, Altestovo village, and the bridge over the Khadzhibey Estuary, like a seasoned racer, I drove onto the Kyiv highway.

On a hillock, near the one-story buildings that pretended to be a suburban shopping and entertainment center with a res-taurant to boot, I slowed down and glanced sideways at Vera. A thin purple knitted dress hugged her body tightly, emphasizing the expressive lines of her graceful girlish figure. On the forearm of her left hand was a tattoo: a cobra, coiled in a ring, with its flat head raised and its mouth open, ready to attack.

I shuddered and asked, trying not to show fear:

 "Vera, but where are we going?”

"Oh, Leo! I'm guilty before you. That's why I want to se-duce you for a million just don't be so naughty, please," she said, kissing me