Until his thirty-fourth birthday, Lenny Brink believed that a man who did not have a million in the bank by the time he turned thirty-five was a failure. But adjustments had to be made. When he arrived in Moscow, nine years earlier, the age number in this equation had been thirty. The problem, as he saw it, was that the forces of globalization, like the forces of entropy, moved stealthily and unchecked across national and social membranes until everything began to resemble everything else. Today this problem was evident all over the leafy premises of Kuskovo Estate—Moscow’s miniature “Versailles”—where the expatriate classes and their cohorts had congregated to celebrate America’s independence. The summer residence of the Sheremetyev counts had been built to flatter the European aspirations of Russian nobility, but today, on either side of the baronial gardens, the white bosoms of marble statuary were garlanded with the decidedly American banners of Kodak and Avon. An inflatable Ronald McDonald hovered, Zen-like, on the bank of the koi pond. Helium balloons in primary red-white-and-blues were tangled with the branches of the ancient Russian pines. In the distance, the rose-hued central palace hung back from the festivities, slightly embarrassed, like a stout and unobtrusive chaperone. Here, along the geometric grounds of the city’s imperial inheritance, the corporate sponsors of the American Chamber of Commerce had erected their food tents and concession stands for the annual Fourth of July celebration.
Pungent gusts of the aroma of shashlik wafted to the pine-shaded area where Lenny sat at a picnic bench, his large shoulders hunched in the task of consuming a second hot dog. The sky was turning the color of champagne, and snatches of Japanese, German, Dutch, and Texan floated on the grill-flavored air. “If dumb was dirt, he’d cover an acre. You wanna convert that to metric for the ladies, Dmitri,” a Gulliver-sized oilman standing not two feet away was saying to his Russian companions. The ease with which these American belugas enjoyed their white-god privileges irritated Lenny all the more for the ways he felt incapable of enjoying them himself. Still, even the Texans’ sturdy vulgarity offered greater comfort than other conversations he was overhearing, conducted in an unnervingly colloquial English that shielded its speakers’ origins (Moscow? Bern? Cleveland?), no longer the stiff Esperanto of Europe’s business class, but an all-purpose jargon that could be absorbed by osmosis through DVD marathons of Lost and The Wire. Its profusion at this picnic was adding a headachy panic to the gut-rumbling anxiety he’d been feeling since morning. In the nine years he’d been coming to AmCham’s Independence Day party, the Russian-born had never been as hard to distinguish from the foreign expats as they were today. Lenny could still spot a few Hong Kong suits and more than enough baptismal crosses, but the once-reliable cohort of bleached denim and Adidas mafiawear had so dwindled that it could no longer be counted upon to restore his sense of superiority. In its place had proliferated a swarm of oxford button-downs, preppy pastel knits, and boating shoes, the summertime uniforms of the global elite. For a brief moment Lenny worried that his own wrinkled linen blazer might cause others to mistake him for a native.
His companions at the picnic table were two junior associates at his equity firm: a prematurely balding New Zealander, who was giving a spittle-laced facts-of-life lecture to a young Virginian brooding over his Ukrainian ex-wife. The ex-wife, with whom the Virginian still occasionally slept, was bleeding him for capital for her window-dressing business. “It’s like Pavlov, mate, you’ve conditioned her to want your cash.” The Virginian nodded sagely, almost as if it were some badge of honor to be so tormented and exploited by Slavic women. It struck Lenny that neither of these fools had any idea that Abacus Group was about to sack both of them upon the successful conclusion of the company’s imminent buyout by Westhouse Capital Partners. He was, he assured himself, safe, being a senior associate on a track to partnership. He listened to his companions just long enough to vow to take a tougher stand with his own Slavic tormentor, Katya, then crumpled his napkin resolutely into an overflowing trash can and resumed his trek across the lawn. Since they had broken up three weeks ago, he had gallantly assumed the couch while Katya continued to claim their bedroom. Almost a month had passed without her finding, or seeming to look for, a place of her own. This morning he’d raised the topic at breakfast only to be reminded by a sobbing Katya at the stove that he had dragged her to this city, away from her beloved mamochka and little sister in St. Petersburg. Was she to leave her job, her whole life, now that she’d become for him an unnecessary person? Perhaps it was the sight of her tears and mucus dripping unhygienically into the kielbasa omelet she was frying for him that prompted Lenny’s spontaneous promise to subsidize her new rent, at least for a few months. In addition to quieting her sniffles, this promise had the virtue of being underwritten by the plump little bonus he was anticipating from the WCP move and buyout, a bonus that, even with his renewed obligations to Katya, would help him restore his depleted savings. His only real concern on this bright afternoon, aside from the questionable meat in the hot dog he was having trouble digesting, was that three days had passed since his friend Austin had told him in strictest confidence about the forthcoming deal, and so far no one else had mentioned anything about it. It was, of course, still too early for a formal announcement, but Austin had all but assured him that as an almost-partner he’d certainly be brought along once Abacus got absorbed by the larger firm.