Page 125 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Paul, even though he’d been expecting this, felt a jolt in his gut. He said, “Sure,” but Galkin had already turned to hug Polina, who was wearing a shimmering gold strapless gown that grazed the floor and looked dazzling. Polina hugged and kissed Tatyana, then Paul, while Galkin greeted the latest arrivals: the two couples from the jet, his old friends. Both the men wore blue blazers. They’d gotten the memo.

Then Niko arrived, wearing a blue blazer and white pants and Gucci loafers with no socks. He gave his sister a peck on the cheek and gave Paul a perfunctory nod. But at least no poisonous look this time. Niko was accompanied by a new girlfriend. He was constantly bringing a different girl around. Then he turned and gave his father a hug and a kiss on the cheek as well.

Dinner was served at one long table. The dining chairs looked like they were covered in gold leaf. There were place cards with the hosts’ and guests’ names in calligraphy. The stewards and stewardesses all wore white gloves. They were serving flutes of champagne, and vodka for whoever preferred it. The table was set with gleaming silverware and water and crystal wineglasses. On each plate, a white napkin was neatly folded and in a silver ring, in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. There were white floral centerpieces.

At one end of the table, presumably the head, sat Arkady Galkin. Polina sat at the other end. Tatyana was seated near her father. Paul was quite a ways from her. The place card next to his read,ILYABONDARENKO. Paul committed the name to memory.

A moment later, Bondarenko arrived. He spoke fluent English with the flat accent of a Russian trying to imitate American and maybe overshooting. He didn’t wear a blue blazer but a suit jacket and an open shirt. He had thick glasses and a pudgy face, a sallow complexion. He looked about Paul’s age, maybe a little older.

“So how are you connected to this gathering?” Ilya asked as he sat.

“I work for Galkin,” Paul replied.

“Oh, yeah? I used to, too. What do you do?”

“I manage U.S. equities.”

“So you’ve got my old job,” Ilya said. “If you don’t mind my saying, I’m surprised he hired an American.”

Paul didn’t want to explain that he was married to Galkin’s daughter.

“Where’d you come from?” Ilya asked.

“Bernard Kovan’s fund, Aquinnah. Where do you work now?”

Ilya gave the name of a well-known U.S. hedge fund.

“Why’d you leave Galkin’s firm?” Paul asked.

“Rather not say. Sorry. We didn’t exactly part on good terms.”

“No,” Paul said. “I get it.” He knew better than to probe. It couldn’t be an accident that this guy had been seated next to him.

“Actually, I’m kinda surprised he invited me,” Ilya added. “I’ve been on his yacht only once before. I figured once I was out of his orbit, I was dead to him. But I guess not.” He picked up his large white cloth napkin and mopped sweat from his brow.

“You okay?” Paul asked. It was a cool night.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just hot. Have you walked around this boat yet?”

“Not yet. Just got in.”

“Pretty fucking amazing. You know what it’s called, right?”

“Sure,Pechorin.”

“You know who Pechorin is, right?”

“Hero of our times,” Paul said, almost by rote. “Lermontov.”

“You should read the book. Pechorin is arrogant and cynical. A destroyer of lives. A shithead. A moral cripple.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a weird name for a boat. It’s really a statement. Sorta like, I don’t give a shit what you think of me. You do you. I do me.”

Food was served by two stewards wearing white shirts, gray vests, and black pants. They placed down, from silver platters, some kind of chilled soup served in shot glasses, then a Thai green mango salad. The wines included a Lafite Rothschild as well as a Romanée-Conti. Paul was not a wine guy, but he knew these were very expensive wines. Galkin was showing off.

The main courses were grilled lobster on a bed of peas and rice in the Caribbean style and porcini-crusted filet mignon on a bed of roasted garlic mashed potatoes. You could choose one or have both. Go crazy.