One way or another I had to find a way to get her.
If she’d been any other Russian woman, this would not have been a tough get. In Moscow, Western men, and especially those with money, were the male equivalents of supermodels. Russian girls would throw themselves at you — and into your bed — almost upon meeting. There was no sport to it at all, no chase, no courting. Just «Hi», and the next thing you knew, some slender vixen with perfect lips and mysterious eyes was wrapping herself around you as your mind calculated where the nearest bed — or private room of any kind — was.
Elena was different. She was like a professional woman you might meet in London, Paris, or New York. She didn’t need a man for money, and certainly not to make her feel better about herself. Winning her would not be so easy. I wasn’t discouraged, though. Soon after our lunch date I called and asked her out again, this time to dinner. I must have been doing something right. Although she didn’t jump at the chance, she did agree.
We went to a Chinese restaurant called Mao and she was even more aloof than she had been before. She knew I had ulterior motives and she was being cautious. As we walked through the restaurant to our table and took our seats, she seemed disinterested.
Which naturally made me want her that much more.
We made small talk for a while, and then I asked, «Have you seen the article in Foreign Affairs by Lee Wolosky? About how America should treat the oligarchs like pariahs?»
Elena wrinkled her nose in a subtle gesture of disapproval. «No, I haven’t».
«It’s very interesting». I took a sip of red wine. «The writer suggests that the US government should take away the oligarchs’ visas so they can’t go to America».
Elena had flawless porcelain-white skin and a long, regal neck, and as I spoke, little red blotches began to break out across her skin. «Why would the Americans single out Russians like that? There are plenty of bad people all over the world. It would be hypocritical», she declared, as if I’d insulted her.
«No, it wouldn’t. The oligarchs are monsters and you have to start somewhere», I countered matter-of-factly.
I’d struck a nerve, and the tone of our dinner changed. Why had I brought up this Foreign Affairs article? I wanted to gain Elena’s trust and affection, not upset her. I dropped it and tried to change the subject, but the damage was done. We parted that evening with a perfunctory double-cheek kiss. It didn’t matter how much I liked her, I’d taken an unwarranted swipe at her homeland. As I walked away that night, I felt sure that I would never see her again.
For the rest of the night I couldn’t stop chiding myself for screwing up the date, nor could I shake the idea that my feeble attempt at romance was a reflection of my other troubles. The fund was still struggling, the Russian economy was on its knees, and it looked as if the oligarchs were about to steal every last penny left in the fund. I was screaming into the wind, not only with my work but with this unattainable woman as well. I climbed into bed racked by anxious energy. After about an hour of tossing and turning I picked up the phone and dialed my friend Alan Cullison from the Wall Street Journal. It was around midnight but that didn’t matter. Alan was always up late and I could count on him to talk. I told him about my unsuccessful date and he played along, offering me the usual condolences. Then, about midway through my story, I mentioned Elena by name.
«Wait — you got a date with Elena Molokova?» Alan interrupted.
«Two dates, actually».
«Shit, Bill, that’s an accomplishment in itself. Lots of people are after her».
«Yeah, well, I guess they’ll get her. I blew it».
«Eh, who cares… There’s a million good-looking girls in Moscow».
I shrugged and said quietly, «Yes, but not like this one».
Alan didn’t have much sympathy for me, and after a while longer we hung up. I eventually fell asleep and woke the next morning determined to go about my life. I would simply try to forget about Elena. I was a busy guy who had a lot of work to do, and there were other women out there, if that’s what I wanted…
Only that wasn’t what I wanted. Try as I might, I could not forget Elena, and a week after our dinner at Mao I decided that I had to do something to salvage the situation.
But what? How could I reach out without seeming desperate or pathetic? All I could remember, other than her disappointment in my beliefs regarding the oligarchs, was the story of how Elena’s father died. It had happened three years earlier when he’d suffered a sudden and unexpected heart attack. His death caught her completely off guard, and I remembered her saying that the worst thing about it was that she never got to say good-bye. Too many things were left unsaid.
The story of her father’s death reminded me of a book I’d recently read called Tuesdays with Morrie. I wrote a short note to Elena and stuck it in the front cover of my copy. I wrapped it up and had Alexei deliver it to her office. The note read:
Dear Elena,
After you told me about your father, I couldn’t help but think of you in relation to this book. It’s about a dying man who’s trying to say all the things he wants to say before he no longer would be able to. I don’t know if you have the time to read it, but I hope you do because it might touch you the way it touched me.
Warmly,
Bill
Frankly, this was a long shot, even though the book truly did have a great effect on me. It was simple, direct, and incredibly moving. But as I sent it to her, I was afraid she would see it as something different, like a small Trojan horse I was using to try to infiltrate her heart.
Another week passed with no word and I was sure that I’d missed the mark entirely. But then a week later, Svetlana leaned across her desk and said, «Bill — there’s a phone call from Elena Molokova».
My heart jumped and I took the call. «Hello?»
«Hello, Bill».
«Hi, Elena. Did you… did you get the book I sent?»
«I did».
«And did you have a chance to read it?»
«I did». Her voice was softer than it had been before. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded as if a layer of toughness had been peeled back.
«And did you like it?»
She sighed. «I liked it a lot, Bill. I just finished it. Just now. It really spoke to me. Thank you».
«I’m glad. I mean, you’re welcome».
«It was surprising too». Her tone changed ever so slightly, wandering into a personal space where she hadn’t yet led me.
«Oh? How’s that?»
«Well, I didn’t take you for such a sensitive man, Bill. Not at all». I could hear her smile through the phone.
«I’m not sure I am very sensitive, to be truthful». There was a pause. «Tell me, would you… would you like to have dinner again?»
«Yes, I would. I would like that very much».
A couple nights later I met Elena at Mario’s, an expensive Italian restaurant frequented by the Russian Mafia, but which also featured Moscow’s best Italian food. I arrived first and took a seat at the bar, and when the maître d’ brought Elena over, I had to look twice. She was transformed. Her flaxen hair was no longer tied in a bun but rested softly on her shoulders. Her lipstick was redder than before, and her black dress was simultaneously tighter and classier than anything I’d seen her in before. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was sexy. It was clear that for her, this was really our first date.
We sat and had dinner. We didn’t talk about Russian oligarchs or corporate governance or business practices; we just talked about our families and our lives and our aspirations — what everyone talks about when they’re getting to know someone. It was great. Before we said good-bye that night, I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her toward me, and without any resistance we shared our first real kiss.