The whistling in her right ear was eating into her brain, Nika clutched her head in an attempt to alleviate the pain, which was radiating from her temple to her forehead and the back of her head. She finally had the sense to take off the earring, the sounds shifted to the left, and the whistling disappeared, but the pain continued unabated.
“Youohkey?” The security guard had been supporting her by the elbow all that time.
Nika watched the woman's lips, trying to understand her. One earring was doing a poor job of processing sounds, she even considered, stupidly, dialling up the volume.
“Aryefeelinpoorly? Shallicalladoctor?”
‘Are you feeling poorly? Shall I call a doctor?’
“I'm all right.” Her tongue refused to cooperate. Nika picked up the bags delivered by the belt. “I… thank you, I just need to sit down.”
Holding onto the wall, she somehow managed to reach the shops and was just aware enough to not fall as she was squeezing past the counters with cigarettes and chocolates. She spent the ten minutes remaining until boarding in the toilet, trying to recover. She swallowed a painkiller and kept trying her brother's number. He of all people should be able to understand what had happened. Maybe the implant malfunctioned? Could it be dangerous? Does she need to go to the hospital? Mike did not pick up, she had to leave him a voicemail.
Then she was on her flight to Moscow. Nika was nauseous, her head was splitting. She was already sorry she had gotten on board, in her mind's eye, she saw images of black liquid from the shorted implant spilling into her inner ear and from there spreading to her brain. Why liquid? Why black of all colours? She was prey to some atavistic fears, and the realization made her headache even worse.
Will she have to bail out on the trip? And what if Mike says that she needs to get to Berlin as soon as possible? She should have stayed at home. Wrap herself in her security blanket and get used to her implant instead of travelling on business. Her empty refrigerator and equally empty wallet pushed her out of her comfort zone for a good reason, however. She had been promised five hundred euros for four days in Barcelona, with another two hundred disbursed by Genie for business travel expenses. That money would be covering not only her microloan but also a couple of provisioning trips.
Nika missed the period in her life when her bank card account was always in the black. She could comfortably afford high-end items, dining out, a fitness club membership and foreign travel twice a year. She had an interesting job: meetings with clients, marketing strategizing and creating advertising. She missed Friday night get-togethers at her favourite restaurant when she and the girls would stuff their faces with barbecued spare ribs, washing them down with dark beer.
After her accident, she received a couple of encouraging messages, and that was the end of their support. And what did you expect? She knocked down a person! It mattered not a pin that the surgeon with the funny surname of Podstavkin had swallowed a bunch of pills and, clinging to what remained of his consciousness, stepped into the traffic, wrecking not only his own life but also Nika's.
‘It's like he died twice,’ her dad had written on her pad. ‘The pills would have finished him off. He left a note and was waiting in his office for the end. But then his wife rang: his mother-in-law had had a stroke, so Podstavkin dashed off home. You are not to blame, Rony; hang on in there, I'll take care of everything.’
Semyon Lovkin, a litigator, well-known not only in Krasnodar but also far beyond, rescued his daughter from her predicament. In such situations, the driver is presumed to be at fault, but Nika's father managed to prove that she could not have avoided the accident. She was not charged, the case was closed, and no crime was found to have been committed. Personal attacks in the media, however, continued as before. Nika and the knocked-down pedestrian were taken to task on socials and blogs, and talking heads on local TV channels claimed that Podstavkin was murdered and his murder made to look like a suicide. The investigator and everybody who could be bought was said to have been bribed. Her dad's track record was re-examined in hindsight in an attempt to prove that he had always won his cases through bribery and back-door dealings.
The waters were undoubtedly being muddied by the wife of the knocked-down surgeon. She sniffed out Nika's email address and sent her a message that promised: “This is not over, bitch!” Nika reread the message, again and again, knowing that she shouldn't, but not being able to help herself. She kept reliving the fatal seconds: the dashing shadow, the screech of brakes, the impact… if she had noticed him a bit earlier if she had swerved… She knew she was not to blame, but could not help thinking about the fatherless teenage girl, could not forget the crumpled body on the road.
That was the worst flight in Nika's life. No sooner had the plane touched down at Domodedovo than she rushed off, making a beeline for the toilets. She washed her face and swallowed another painkiller pill. While Roman was drinking tea with a piece of chocolate gateaux in a café, she found a quiet corner with available seats and video-called her brother.
The BlueTooth on the earrings was turned on by touching the central stone. An excellent alternative to headphones, the sound was transmitted straight to the implant. But the best thing is that there was no interference, the words came across loud and clear. Almost as before, except for the barely perceptible electronic buzz, which could be chalked up to communication imperfections. It was like hearing again with her own ears for Nika.
“Relax, Ro, it is chock-full of safety features! Looks like the frequencies have drifted. I talked to the techies, they are confident that you're in no danger,” said Mike. His short hair stuck out, he didn't have time to comb it. Her brother kept IT hours: he got up late and didn't make it back to bed until the first light.
“This is good news.” Nika watched through a window a green and white plane racing down the runway. “What do I do? Keep wearing one earring only?”
The plane took off and soared towards the clouds, with the next one following it onto the runway. Mike yawned.
“The guys say you should wear the earring. Watch your sensations and record them in your diary, this is important for the experiment. If it proves too much, take it off. And I'll meanwhile arrange for you a paid trip to Berlin for an unscheduled adjustment.”
Nika nodded and took a beauty kit with the NewHear logo out of her handbag. Inside was a velvet box with the right earring, a wireless charger and pre-soaked wipes.
“How are things in general?” Mike's brown eyes were closely watching her from the screen. “How's your new job?”
“Can't say yet.” Nika wiped the earring with a tissue. “The boss seems ok, time will tell.” She wiped the earring once again, fully aware that all she was doing was delaying the moment when she had to put it on. She was reluctant to re-enter the world of pain.
“Go on, do it,” Mike said, realizing what she was doing. “I'm here for you.”
Nika smiled and attached the little silver ring to her earlobe. The whistling reappeared right away, annoying but not as loud as before. There was no pain.
“Well?” Mike put his face closer, his head filling up the screen. He seemed to be trying to read Nika through the screen.
“It's whistling.” Nika shook her head, listening to her sensations. “But it's not so bad.” The sounds became louder again. That was a plus, and as for the whistling, she could probably learn to live with it.
An hour later, Nika was looking through her window at the cloudy porridge that was hiding Moscow. She could hardly keep her eyes open, it was probably the effect of the pills. She was anxious for the 'Fasten Seat Belts' sign to go off so that she could finally recline her seat and draw down her window blind. Meanwhile, she had to squeeze her eyes against the bright light to obey the safety rules.
Her seat was uncomfortable, the airline tried to squeeze every last bit of profit and pack as many passengers as possible into the cabin. Narrow seats, no headrests, very little leg room. An in-seat screen to watch videos, a blanket or a sleep mask were things Nika knew she could never have. And that was how she had to spend nearly five hours in the air. Once in Barcelona, on the other hand, she could expect to find a hotel, a soft bed, an air conditioner, and an indispensable walk to the beach in the evening.
In an attempt to kill time, Nika looked into the pocket of the seat in front of her and took out the only entertainment available on board: a glossy magazine. She could not pass on an opportunity to check out the advertisements. It was a professional habit and she couldn't help herself. Marketeers probably examine banners and hoardings a dozen times more often than others do. Nika loved to review the work of other professionals, spot faults and (which happened much less frequently) scoop new ideas.
She leafed through the advertisements for watches and perfumes, which admittedly were never known for their originality: slim beauties and stylish hunks posed, showcasing the products. An excellent solution tried and true. If it ain't broken, why fix it? After all, rule number one of advertising is, ‘Run with it while the going is good’.
On a page with a housing estate advert, Nika heaved a heavy sigh. “NEW YEAR, NEW FLAT”. The habit of using block letters was evidently here to stay. Ripples in a pond. Marketers run with the ideas of others, without bothering to learn the basics. They want to make their message stand out, but what they achieve is the opposite. Such copy is passed over by the human eye because it is difficult to read, with no visual clues available. Lower-case letters with indents and outdents, now that's a whole new ball game. She pitied the customer who paid for such a shoddy job.
Nika riffled through to the end and, having found nothing more of interest, went to put the magazine aside when she spotted on the back cover what couldn't be described other than as “da bomb”. A beauty in a lacy top on thin straps, a police cap and shades was holding a walkie-talkie against scarlet lips. The slogan read: “Your security is our job”. Nika burst out laughing. Was it possible that the moron responsible for that truly believed that people would entrust their life to a firm that looked more like an escort service? Even if they did employ young women, they should have designed a less revealing uniform. Sex sells but not in security.
Still chuckling, she slid the magazine back into the pocket, and at that moment the 'Fasten Seat Belts' sign went off with a quiet zing. Passengers started moving, spilling out into the aisle. A short two minutes later, there was a queue for the toilets. Her eyelids drooping, Nika pulled down her window blind, reclined her seat and wriggled trying to get comfy.
“Dear assenges, we are flying at tenousand metres, the OAT …”
“Gran, I'm thirsty!” A young girl standing in the aisle was tugging an elderly woman in spectacles by the hand.
“… on behalf of the crououou …”
“I wanna drink!” The girl was drowned out by an explosion of laughter and patter in Spanish, a group of tourists was discussing something loudly, leaning over the backs of their seats.
“ … you will be offered ...oft drinks and breakfast…”
Beep-beep, crack, hiss, beeped someone’s phone behind her.
‘Sweet berry, sweet berry, and where's your Mary merry?’ The beat of a pop hit could be heard through the headphones of a young woman sitting next to her.
“Drink, gran, drink!”
Nika took off her earrings. Any way you cut it, deafness did have one benefit: it made sounds disappear. Like in a silent movie, the Spaniards were gesticulating and opening their mouths, and the girl in the next seat was nodding her head in sync with the music that Nika could not hear. Even the engine noise disappeared. Only the loud “driiink” was now rendered as a barely audible “iii” the minimum that a fourth-degree hearing loss left her with.
Nika placed the earrings on the wireless charger, put them away in her purse and closed her eyes once again. “A superpower, my foot”, she thought falling asleep.
Somebody was shaking her by the shoulder.
“What?” Nika blinked, trying to find her bearings. An air hostess was leaning towards her from the aisle, her mouth opening and closing.
“… ahahah … erer...” These were the only sounds Nika managed to hear. The girl in the next seat cast her a disgusted look.
“Just a sec.” Nika took out the velvet box of her bag, picked up the earring marked with an engraved “L” and attached it to her left ear.
Her world was rocked by a wave of noise: clanking, screeching, speech, laughter and shouting, the sounds blurred together into a symphony being played by an orchestra of madmen. Nika closed her eyes and sat back in her seat, her brain needing a couple of seconds to switch gears from silence to a multitude of sounds. She was shaken by the shoulder once again. Nika opened her eyes.
“Anyouheeree?” The air hostess's lips moved, filling in the gaps: ‘Can you hear me?’
“I can,” muttered Nika. The air hostess was frowning, and her neighbour tilted her head, intrigued. What were they thinking? They must have taken Nika for a loony, reaching for her earrings while still half-awake, and then either falling asleep again or zonking out.
“Roman Alentinaaach asks you to isitim in the business class,” the air hostess rapped out with a fixed smile.
“Thank you.” Her brain succeeded in making sense of the cacophony: the engine was roaring, her neighbour's headphones were leaking music, and the Spaniards were carrying on with their racket. Nika attached an earring to her right ear, and the cursed whistling came back right away, subdued but insistent. Picking up her purse, she squeezed into the aisle and headed for the toilets.
It was still two hours until touch-down, Nika, asleep, missed “soft drinks and breakfast”; the in-flight menu, however, promised light refreshments. Her stomach was rumbling for attention. But Nika had nothing, not even a chocolate bar, all the food she had was the caviar jars in the overhead locker, which were off-limits.
She only tasted the famous Russian delicacy once and did not find it all that appealing. Red caviar tasted way better. Genie explained that at the conference in Barcelona Nika was expected to offer the treat to punters and hand out product leaflets.
Normal people climb the career ladder, but Nika was travelling in the opposite direction, from a marketeer to an errand girl. The last time she handed out leaflets was on her Saturday job when in uni. The world of advertising had always pulled and beckoned her, but her parents insisted that she get a job in her profession. So Nika worked for a full year in the legal department of an energy company, whilst trying to learn the ropes in her dad's litigation practice. Then there was an opening in an advertising agency, Nika passed an interview and found herself in her element.
She perused books on marketing and PR, took online courses and kept her nose to the grindstone ten hours a day, sometimes even seven days a week. It was her dream job. A great team, exciting challenges, good money, what more could you ask for? Well, as it turned out, some support when her life crashed and burned. And to think that on that night she was coming back from a meeting with a client. On a Saturday, her legal day off. She should have cancelled the meeting, taken another route, should've, could've, would've…
Nika squeezed into the toilet cubicle, splashed some cold water on her face and looked at her pale face in the mirror. She had built her career over five years with no knowledge, skills or connections. That meant she could do it again. Her track record was proof of that! So, who cared about bad rap and hearing loss, the Barcelona trip was just the beginning, the important thing was that the earrings stop failing her.
Her path to the business class was suddenly blocked. Flight attendants rolled a trolley into the aisle and started moving down the plane, handing out drinks and sandwiches. It was well near impossible to get pass them, the only option available was to dive into a side aisle and wait until they passed.
Nika sighed, realizing that her boss's whim would make her miss the snack. The trolley was slowly progressing down the cabin, the passengers left in its wake were unpacking their sandwiches, the others released their tray tables in anticipation and were casting glances along the aisle. The cabin filled with the aroma of salad leaves and mayonnaise, and her stomach started rumbling again.
Nika stopped by the premium spot, next to the emergency exit. Not only did it have seats two in a row, but it also afforded ample leg room, which was obviously enjoyed by the passengers, a bespectacled brunette with an untidy beard and a chubby guy with shoulder-length brown hair. The chubby one was asleep, his head against the window, and the brunette was reading something on his phone.
The whistling in the right ear was getting on her nerves. In a bid to kill time, Nika took out her pad and started leafing through the notes dictated by Genie. The US hotel chain Sefer expanded into Barcelona a mere year before. Its manager, Debby Hall, was arranging a conference for restaurateurs to promote the hotel and secure suppliers. Genie, having sworn Nika to secrecy, explained that the boss couldn't, in fact, care less about that conference. If he had wanted to run a full-tilt PR exercise, he would have sent a task force to Barcelona. No, Roman called in some favours and got the lowdown on an event that had yet to be announced, which meant that only a few knew about it. So, he intended to hustle and secure a major order ahead of the pack.
In December, as is the cherished tradition in the US, Debby Hall was staging a charity date raffle featuring, wait for it, iconic Barça footballers. Such an event in Barcelona would be attended by celebrities from all over the world, and celebs are supposed to be treated to gourmet food. One such contract could take the boss's black-caviar business to a whole new level, giving it the green light not only in Europe but also beyond the continent.
Nika wrote “Debby Hall” in large letters on her notepad and underlined it several times. To be sure, she was a mere promoter/secretary/porter on that business trip, yet it would be stupid to pass on an opportunity for a permanent position. A CEO assistant was a great launching pad for a new career, boring tasks could be supplemented with advertising; after all, Genie used to be in charge of it. That meant she had to impress her boss. Roman had no idea that Nika knew more than any entry-level employee about his business. Tsar's Meal was a key account at the Tarantula agency, where Nika had spent five years of her life.
It was she who captured an order for the promotion of the black-caviar business. She ran that project and knew all there was to know about the product. She enjoyed working with her best friend, Genie did not argue. She listened attentively and approved the most daring ideas. And Nika, inspired, went creative, trying to boost sales and brand recognition.
She explained to Genie that Tsar's Meal's target audience were people for whom eighty bucks for a small jar of caviar was not extravagant. It made no sense to cater to those who can afford the delicacy once a year. Such buyers supported the image but couldn’t bring home the bacon. So, there was no point in following the stupid advice of the rival advertising agency and staging weekly discounts and attention-grabbing promotions. Counter-intuitive as it may seem, a high-end product is bought precisely because it is expensive.
People pay for the image projected by advertisements, this was marketing 101. A gentleman in an Armani suit lights up his cigar, sipping brandy. Latte is bought by workaholics, who are always busy and drunk on the hoof from a takeaway cup. Espresso is usually taken with a cigarette. It is, after all, the rare consumer who knows his brandy and can tell arabica from robusta. And even fewer people know that nicotine neutralizes caffeine. People put a premium on image, not effect.
That is why in Tsar's Meal’s advertisement, the noise at the festive table dies down when waiters place servers with black caviar in front of the guests. Then the camera smoothly pans to the party's hosts, a dazzling beauty in a little black dress and a stately gentleman in a suit. They are putting caviar away with gold teaspoons as if it was raspberry jam rather than a delicacy. The slogan is in keeping with the sophisticated milieu: “Let them know this is not a luxury for you”.
Nika smiled, remembering how, when devising the slogan, she played on the particle “not", the eternal enemy of copywriters. The brain usually filters out “not”, converting negation to assertion. “Not addictive”, an advertisement claims. A reader scanning the ad concludes that it is addictive and subconsciously distrusts the product. “Do not pass by!” a shop window urges, but the brain reverses the message, telling the potential customer that shopping here would be a waste of time and to keep walking.
In Tsar's Meal's slogan, however, “not luxury” delivers a two-pronged message. To an attentive audience, it whispers: a premium product will emphasize your status. And those who skip over “not”, it teases, eliciting a contrary reaction: “What do you mean, this is a luxury for me?! I can afford it!” As a result, both are on the hook.
Nika was roused from her brown study by a push in the back. Her pad went flying from her hands, nearly missing the glasses of the brunette in the premium seat, and ended up landing dead centre in his lap.
“Sorry,” grumbled the woman who had jumped into the aisle following the kid who had delivered such a perfect push to Nika.
The brunette picked up the pad, but instead of returning it to Nika, he became engrossed in her notes. Nika extended a demanding hand, but the brunette kept studying the page, ignoring her gesture.
“Do you mind? This is private.” Nika grabbed her pad from his hands.
The brunette adjusted his glasses and smiled at her.
“Sorry, I got drawn in by your handwriting. Are you going to the HoReCa at Sefer?” His neighbour, the long-haired fattie, half-opened his right eye, glanced at Nika and then pretended to be asleep again.
“I am,” Nika answered gruffly.
“First time to Spain?” The brunette would not be put off.
“Yep.” Nika disliked the bloke from the get-go. She hated unkempt beards, and the brunette was sticking out every which way as if he had neglected it for two months if not longer.
“Teejoosoter. Icken, una, cheese sandwiches.” Fragments of the hostesses' patter reached her from the aisle, the trolley with sandwiches being already close to their row.
“Then forget about the conference.” The brunette was like a dog with a bone. “You'll do better visiting Park Güell, this is one reason for revisiting Barcelona any number of times.”
Nika had heard about the famous work of Gaudí, but architecture held little interest for her. She preferred the beach to sightsee, and so she intended to spend all her leisure time by the sea.
“Why don't you take the girl on a date to the park and show it to her,” the long-haired said out of the corner of his mouth without opening his eyes. The brunette shrugged indifferently.
“I don't know about a date, but a tour is easy.”
The trolley stopped by their row.
“Tea, coffee, juices, water. Chicken, tuna and cheese sandwiches,” the air hostess delivered mechanically.
The brunette switched his attention to the snack food, and the long-haired finally opened his eyes and gave Nika a wink. “Relax, I'll make sure that he finds you a Sefer and takes you on a tour of the park.”
On the word “tour”, the guy smiled conspiratorially and gave it air quotes, for which he was rewarded with a surly look from his neighbour.
“Don't bother,” muttered Nika, sliding into the aisle and heading for the curtains separating the business and economy classes. Flirting with strangers was the last thing on her mind at the moment.
Roman turned out to be the only passenger in the VIP section, the financial crisis seemed to have made the Russians pull in their horns. Sprawled in his seat, he was sipping orange juice and munching on crisps with a boring look. On his in-seat screen, Ivan Vasilievich: Back to the Future was playing soundlessly, with headphones rolled into a doughnut on the wide armrest and a blanket on the floor.
“Veronika Semyonna! And here I was thinking you had taken another flight.” Her boss giggled and pointed to the seat next to him. “Please sit down. Want some juice?”
“Thank you, I'd love some!” A cup of juice in five hours, now we're talking.
“Olyushka, be a love,” her boss said, addressing the air.
“ ... os, Romantinovich,” came back from behind the curtain. Nika sat down and took out her pad and pen.
“I want you to do something for me of a somewhat… hmm... delicate nature.” Her boss put his cup down on his armrest.
Nika was closely watching his lips, hanging on his every word. Delicate, ok, she could do 'delicate'. What can be worse than handing out leaflets?
“While you were sleeping, I took a walk around the cabin to stretch my legs. And I noticed something: it turns out our competitors are sharing a flight with us.” He gave Nika a meaningful look, and she nodded, indicating that she was all ears. “You see, I'm travelling to Barcelona for a reason. HoReCa, caviar tasting, all that is well and good, but I have more important fish to fry. I would like to secure a large orde fromesefer.”
‘Order from Sefer’, Nika translated automatically and nodded again. Her boss was clearly talking about the date auction.
“I'm confident that our competitors are unaware of that order, I got my information through backdoor channels. Better safe than sorry, however. You, Venonichka Semyonna, are a young girl, attractive… so use your feminine wiles. You'll meet those clowns at the conference, and find out what they are really after in Barcelona.”
A quiet buzz started in her head, like a current running through the wires. The doctor warned her that this could happen under stress. The heart speeds up, and the implant picks up the sound blood makes when flowing through the veins.
“I'll try,” mumbled Nika.
“There you go.” her boss's face spread in a smile. “They are by the emergency exit. Red Team as I call them. One wears glasses, the other long hair.”
The buzz from the wires grew louder, and the blood in her temples started pounding with such force that even the cursed whistling in her right ear was drowned out. Nika recalled the interest with which the brunette was examining her pad, the very page where it was written in large letters: “Debby Hall”. And “Barça Date Auction” underneath.
She felt her palms go moist, her throat dry.
A great start to a new career. Looks like I've just betrayed a trade secret to our biggest competitor.