Machiavelli's Boss Boris

By Grigori Gerenstein

Russian tycoon Boris Kievsky is not mad but he is afraid of what money and power can do to his grip on reality. When pressures of work and marriage become unsupportable, he escapes into the fictional world of Renaissance, where he befriends Niccolo Machiavelli and commits heroic deeds to win the favor of the most brilliant women of the age. In this fantasy world Boris hires Machiavelli as his business adviser because Machiavelli has the knack of making moral dilemmas seem less of a nuisance. Machiavelli also assists Boris in his amorous conquests. Be it Donna Benvenida Abravanel, wife to the King of the Jews and banker to emperors and Popes, or the ravishing Isabella d'Este, Marchesa of Mantua, they are all an image of the ideal woman that Boris, like any other man, has imprinted somewhere deep in his being.
Back in reality Boris and his best friend, business partner and chess companion Igor Beschestny are trying to outsmart each other, steal from each other, destroy each other and generally prove who is the better man. Then, when his business threatens to collapse, Boris orders the kidnap of the mistress of the only man who can save his business in order to force the man to do what Boris needs. Months later circumstances bring Boris and this woman together. Larisa is the spitting image of Benvenida and Isabella, Boris' ideal woman, the woman of his dreams. He becomes obsessed with her. In order to win her love he is prepared to lose everything he has, money, power, social position. Like Tamino in The Magic Flute, Boris goes through trials to prove that his love is true. And he almost wins through, except that his best friend, business partner and chess companion Igor Beschestny senses Boris' vulnerability and sees his chance to triumph in their ego contest.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Dec 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491887714

Grigori Gerenstein

Grigori Gerenstein was born in Russia, from where he immigrated to Israel in 1973 and then on to England in 1976. In 2004, he returned to Russia, where he lives now, working as a reporter for Dow Jones Newswire and a number of other international news services. In 1975, Grigori’s collection of short stories The Fall and Other Stories was published by Harper & Row in New York. He has published a number of books, including a collection of Russian stories, The Terrible News, A History of the British Bank of the Middle East, and The Ahasfer Game, the first novel in his Michael Fridman trilogy (by a POD publisher). In 2003, he won the Royal Geographical Society’s Journey of a Lifetime award. Grigori made a BBC documentary and spoke to the Royal Geographic Society on his journey to the Russian Arctic Circle town of Norilsk, where most of the world’s precious metals are mined. Grigori served in two armies, the Soviet army and the Israeli army, and has been engaged in a variety of professions, including scientific research, street cleaning, lexicography, jazz playing on a trumpet, competitive cycling, metal and oil trading, journalism, as well as acting in the theater. He went through a few failed marriages before hope triumphed over experience and he found the woman who could make him happy, which was the reason why he returned to Russia, the place he had made such an effort to get away from. Grigori has completed his Michael Fridman trilogy (Adventures of the Wandering Jew), including The Ahasfer Game, Armageddon According to Mark, and Lucrezia Borgia European Marriage Center, and is halfway into his fourth novel, Machiavelli’s Boss Boris. His main interest is people as products of their history and culture. In our everyday life, whether we are conscious of it or not, our outlook on life, our very grip on reality, and our decisions are determined by everything that has happened in the history of our civilization, and we ignore its lessons at our peril. As one of Grigori’s characters puts it, “If the boy is the father of the man and his culture is the mother, the boy should be married to his culture. Otherwise, the man they produce will be an illegitimate bastard.”

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2014 by Grigori Gerenstein. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/14/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8770-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-8771-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Our reason is able to create a

hundred other worlds, and . . . it

needs neither matter nor

foundation: let it

but run on, it builds as well

in the air as on the earth, and

with inanity as well as with

matter.

Michel de Montaigne

Chapter 1

A man sitting by himself at a cafe table at the bottom of the magnificent staircase in Piazza Duomo in Amalfi was not sad. He was occupied debating with himself whether there was a proper way humanity could express its appreciation of a man of merit. A fat American at the next table was laughing like a herd of donkeys, shouting to his companions,

I’m a man worth ten million dollars, and she’s asking me if I mind paying extra for a full body massage, I ask you!

No, not like that, thought our hero. I’m a man worth a thousand times what this guy is boasting, and if there’s one thing I really hate, it’s vulgarity.

He did not crave genuflection or panegyrics from an exalted crowd, but some quiet respect would certainly be in order. For God’s sake, he was a Russian oligarch, he could buy the bloody place, and no one in the crowd milling about the piazza seemed to give a damn.

Thanks to his wife’s untiring effort, he was expensively dressed, his labels alone enough to intimidate the cognoscenti. But not these people, who wore nothing but t-shirts, shorts and flip-flops.

Isn’t it funny, our hero thought bitterly. For all the achievements of European culture and arts, there is no way a man of discernment can signal to the crowd his intellectual and financial superiority.

Apart from buying the place, of course. At least that’s what his wife seemed to be doing.

Our hero eyed with irritation the trio that had just detached themselves from the crowd, a very fat female lugging an untold number of shopping bags, a very thin female and a tormented-looking male child of eight.

The very fat female was his wife Oink. Her real name was Olya. When they were young he called he affectionately Olenka. Through the years, as his affection waned while she put on weight by the metric ton, he tended to pronounce the affectionate moniker faster and faster until it became Oink.

A man who chases plump flesh in his youth risks ending up with a tub of lard in his mature years, our hero thought with irony. Irony was his best defence every time his wife came near him.

How do you like my new hat, Boris? His wife demanded. No problem with soliciting appreciation here.

"It’s disgusting, our hero thought. It makes you look like a pig at a village fair, darling."

Very pretty, darling he said. Where did you get it?

His wife always thought him rather stupid, and she believed stupid people had to be treated with tolerance. Therefore she disregarded the stupid question.

The probable cause of his daughter Esfir being so thin was that she was an offspring of a great man, and the stress of her position was burning her from inside. She constantly felt she must prove herself, and she lived in a constant fear of failure.

I’ve been reading a book by this German professor, she informed her parents, He’s a leading authority on children’s education. I’ve been following his advice, and it works wonders with Peter.

Peter, her son, was making faces at a little girl at the next table, an offspring of the fat American worth ten million dollars.

Stop it at once, Peter, she cried sternly, only to be disregarded. She decided it was a perfect occasion to demonstrate the practices recommended by her German educational guru.

Peter, why are you making faces at that girl? Esfir demanded in a voice that made her father think of Gestapo interrogation facilities.

Peter was speechless. How can a small boy explain why he’s making faces at a girl?

Peter, you don’t listen to your mother, she hissed through her thin spiteful lips. You don’t need a mother. I am going, and I will never come back. You don’t have a mother anymore, Peter.

She rose and took off towards the sea, chased by her hysterical child. Some kindly French couple tried to console the child, but Esfir waved at them imperiously to stop that nonsense and continued on her educational way. They came back presently, Esfir triumphant, the child chastened, promising never to make faces at girls ever again.

That German bastard must be a former Nazi, our hero thought. Peter is bound to grow into a serial killer.

He could stand it no longer.

I think I’ll go for a stroll, he said with some trepidation. But his wife and daughter were already deep in the inspection of their shopping spoils, paying no attention to his hasty departure.

He strolled down the promenade, puffing on a Tuscan cigar and casting a critical eye on the crowd of holidayers. Oink had sworn Amalfi was a place for the chosen, and he had fantasized, imagining rich and famous people bowing to one another with respect. There was none of it here. Everybody seemed indigent, poorly dressed and not giving a damn about it. Was this what Western Europe aspired to? At least at the hotel they were servile. His cell phone played the opening bars of Mozart symphony No. 40.

Hello, Mr. Kievsky, a creaky voice said with a slight accent, Georgian or Chechen he wasn’t sure. I’ve been contracted to assassinate you and I am willing to give you a chance to outbid your opponent. It’s only fair, I think. What do you say?

Is this some kind of stupid hoax? Our hero enquired with irritation. I’ve seen this in some movie. You could’ve thought of something more original.

Suit yourself, the voice answered, unconcerned. If you don’t believe me, I could give you a demonstration. But remember, if you don’t want to do business I’ll have no choice but to kill you. A man’s got to make a living, you know.

Bugger off, Kievsky advised the unpleasant man and hung up.

He returned to the table where his wife was impressing the surrounding unter mensch with her diamond-encrusted iPhone. She waved it above her head, pretending she was looking for stronger signal.

"If I spend more than a few minutes in the company of that hat, I’ll be the one who’s the serial killer," Kievsky thought.

At the moment a dry crack was heard somewhere in the vicinity, and his wife’s hat flew off her head, landing in the huge ice cream that was being wolfed down by the neighboring fat American worth ten million dollars. Nobody paid attention in the prevailing background noise except the American. He raised the hat, examined the fresh hole in it and said expertly,

Kalashnikov AK-74 assault rifle. Caliber 5.45 millimetres, cartridge 5.45 by thirty nine, magazine capacity thirty, loaded weight three thousand six hundred grams, killing range one thousand three hundred fifty meters.

He was probably one of the unsung heroes of the US Rifleman’s Association. It didn’t occur to him to suggest they call the police or something. Gunfire was routine where he came from.

Oink had fainted, and Kievsky thought the Georgian or Chechen rifleman could become his friend. His phone played some more Mozart.

How did you like that? The voice asked. Do you believe me now?

How much do you want? Kievsky asked.

Depends what you want me to do, the man replied. Killing your opponent will cost you double what he’s offering me.

How much do you charge for doing nothing at all? Kievsky enquired. Nothing, zilch, nada, nichego.

Chapter 2

Given the current circumstances of Kievsky’s existence, it was hardly surprising that he had a strong urge to stand back, to escape momentarily from the reality that was crawling with wives and assassins. His need to take stock became acute.

Kievsky stood up. He was getting sick of the feeling he’d been feeling lately of being encaged. He was a successful businessman, a Russian oligarch, he could buy everything, and he felt encaged. It didn’t make sense. He would go and deal with this in the only way he knew.

To the right of the cathedral stairs there was an arch in the wall hiding a steep flight of steps leading to a labyrinth of tunnels. This was a town nestling on a sheer cliff, and streets were a luxury it could not afford.

Kievsky, cursing his excessive fat, dived into the arch and dragged himself up the steps in the dark. In the tunnel to the left, in the underbelly of the cathedral, there was another arch concealing a small bar where locals could take a break from the tumult of the tourist multitude.

The bartender looked a man from another age, or from a painting made in another age—yellow teeth, unkempt hair. As if dentists and hairdressers had yet to be invented, let alone shampoo and toothpaste.

Kievsky decided against limoncello. He needed wine to make it nice and slow. He had too much to deal with for a strong liqueur. He was amused by the name of the wine—Costo d’Amalfi Furore Rosso. Apparently Furore stood for peace of mind in this neck of the wood. He gave the old couple at the next table a nasty look to stop them eyeing him. By the time he started thinking of ordering another carafe, the old couple was gone. Instead right opposite him at his table there sat a man giving him the ironic eye. The man’s head was small, his hair cropped short. His lips were thin, rising slightly at the corners of his mouth, which made him look like he was always smiling, which he patently was not. His eyes were sharp and dark, seeing through one, making one feel he didn’t believe a single word one was saying.

People will think me mad sitting here talking to you, Niccolo, Kievsky warned.

The man shrugged and waved a dismissive hand.

A man who lives an intense life in his imagination shouldn’t concern himself with the opinion of others, he pronounced.

Oh yea! Kievsky parried. A man who lives an intense life in his imagination risks losing his grip on reality and being judged insane by his contemporaries.

Reality! the man echoed with distaste. The trouble I’ve had with reality, sometimes I wish it’d go away and never come back. Reality is grossly overrated. Personally I consider reality a second best to imagination. We use imagination to escape from reality, and it works well. So at least imagination can be as real as reality. Also the works of art produced by imagination in the past in an effort to escape reality continue to exercise their magic on us, electrifying us with their enormous charge of positive energy, beauty and happiness. And the reality that gave them life is long since gone. I practice losing my grip on reality religiously. I spend my days working on my farm, but when the evening arrives I go to my study. I throw off my mud-caked working clothes and put on my fancy court dress. In this splendid attire I proceed into the courts of old, where men receive me with affection. They alone can give my mind the food which is my own, for which I was born. I am not afraid to ask them for the reason of their actions, and they reply to my questions. For four hours at a stretch I converse with them and I feel no weariness, I forget every trouble, poverty does not terrify me and I feel no fear of death. Honestly I can not mention anything in my reality that is capable of generating a similar state of mind.

My best friend is trying to have me killed, Kievsky complained.

Niccolo paused, considering the news.

The reason being? He enquired at last.

Money, Kievsky replied. My money, not his.

You mean he wants your money? Niccolo asked.

Correct, Kievsky responded. And he sees me as an obstacle. His hired assassin ruined my wife’s new hat. Not that I am complaining about that. But I never expected such crudeness of him, that’s what upsets me. We play chess together, for God’s sake.

So how do you propose to retaliate?

A million dollar question.

Upon this one has to remark that men either ought to be treated well or crushed, Niccolo reasoned. Nothing in between will work. A man can avenge a lighter injury, but he cannot avenge a crushing one. If an injury is inevitable, it ought to be of such severity as to render the man incapable of revenging it.

I am not a murderer, Kievsky protested.

Murder is boring, Niccolo agreed. Think of it as a chess game. Use your brains. You should find his weakest spot and strike once, but strike well. Perhaps you should consider his woman. He does have a woman, I trust?

His woman, Niccolo is his strongest spot, Kievsky informed his interlocutor. She loves him affectionately. Everybody says they’ve never seen a happier couple.

All the more crushing the blow will be, Niccolo retorted wisely.

Do you ever stop to think of the morality of your ideas, Niccolo? Kievsky enquired with a nasty smirk.

There’s nothing more moral in a man than the desire to do a day’s work well, Niccolo replied with some passion. You’d expect nothing less of a shoemaker. You do not question his morality for seeking the best way to fashion a good shoe. A thing is either done well or not at all. You want to avenge a murder attempt, a betrayal, do it well or not at all.

Okay, okay, just kidding. In actual fact I quite like your attitude, Niccolo. You make moral dilemmas seem less of a nuisance. I wish you were around more to reassure me. But how do I get inside her head? Kievsky enquired with some distaste, thinking of the inside of Oink’s head.

Oh, the inside of a woman’s head, Niccolo mused. The greatest mystery of all. Men take it upon themselves to tell the world what a woman thinks, while women are precluded by their position from revealing this vital information. Nor do they really wish to reveal it as it gives them their sway over the male. Humankind is maintaining this conspiracy at its peril. Your task will not be easy. But a man has to adjust to his age. Perhaps in your time women will become bolder, and some of them will spill the beans. You should look for such a traitor to her kind.

Chapter 3

Kievsky loved his little jet. A cocoon of warmth and security hurtling through the black atmosphere. The pilot was in charge while he, Kievsky, was temporarily reprieved from being in control. This abnegation of responsibility was strangely reassuring. It was like being a child once again. Equally reassuring were the soft leather, the polished wood, the shiny brass fittings, the low hum of the engines outside, the glowing glass of whiskey to hand.

Oink gurgled down a glass of champagne and fell asleep, her mouth open, her snoring energetic. Kievsky didn’t mind. He was used to that. It left him free to concentrate on the task ahead. The task was daunting, a real challenge, but that only added spice to the proceedings. The success of every venture was in preparation, Kievsky learned that lesson a long time ago.

He whipped out his iPad and cranked it up. Then he conjured up Google, that genie of the modern Sindbad. He took a sip of whiskey, reluctant to rash things, and typed Woman in the search window.

Google proudly reported that it had discovered one billion, seven hundred and ten million results in 0.32 seconds.

But, alas, every Google is only as good as the men who write it. Kievsky couldn’t vouch for all the one billion, seven hundred and ten million entries but the ones he did look at were disappointing and curiously uninformative. The assertion that a woman was a female human didn’t strike him as particularly revealing, nor did the revelation that women were typically capable of giving birth. He didn’t need Google for that; he’d figured that one out for himself.

Then he saw an entry called Women’s Secret and opened it with cautious optimism. But it turned out to be a brand offering underwear, sleepwear, accessories and