(no subject)
28th October 06
I would like to recall the story of a person I met. As I saw them once and only once, my suppositions will have to suffice in explaining any gaps, along with my recollections and thoughts on the matter.
I met Nataliya Tarasova on a warm June evening at a Russian gallery, which had organised a sale of Picasso, Rembrandt and Degas in London. A sky blue Royce was parked outside the gallery in Mayfair. This car belonged to her, not only one of the richest women in Russia, but in the world.
She managed to enchant the Vice- President of LukOil, who left his wife for an illicit affair with a divorcee with a teenage daughter (Yulya). It was perhaps the subsequent unexpected marriage that singled Nataliya out as someone special in a society where affluent husbands rarely leave wives for mistresses.
My mother’s friend Irina dragged Nataliya over to meet me and my mum. Tall, with coifed sweptback blonde hair she had typically Slavic features. A strong rectangular jaw, delicate upturned nose, large narrow green eyes and cheekbones, which could slice bread. She could have been beautiful in her youth, but in her early forties she had the look of a woman desperate to hold on to her youth. Multiple face-lifts showed and wearing tight black leather pants and glittering profusely with diamonds, she was a tanned, tight, manicured vision of new Russian money.
She held champagne in her hand and smiled ecstatically. High on alcohol and wealth she was mesmerising. Her voice rang of the “Russian streets”, that is not to imply that she had anything working class about her. What I mean is that her language had an edge, sharpened by an intimate knowledge of the ups and downs of life.
In no way did she behave like something she wasn’t. She spoke with a level headedness and did not try to supersede others with pretensions of seniority. Perhaps if she had been a politician you would not only say that she spoke to the people, but she was one of the people.
She was ecstatically happy- and always that way. Buzzing with alcohol and affection. She began arguing loudly and amiably with a friend about paying 20million for a Picasso. She swore and drank and swore some more.
She lived for her friends and for the glamour of life. Her generosity was renowned, whether she was giving thousands to charity or sending £600 bottles of Crystal to adjoining tables of restaurants where she was dining. She spoke at great length about her daughter, how wonderful she was and what a proud mother she was. She sighed exasperated and inquired in a loud voice “Does anyone presently in this gallery have any attractive and nice potential suitors for Yulyachka?” After a brief amused silence in the gallery she laughed and diverted her attention back to us.
That evening as always it was impossible not to feel her vibrant, eccentric and real presence.
Nataliya killed herself today.
She jumped out of the window of her flat in Moscow, whilst her husband and 13 year old son were sleeping. A few hours before she phoned her best friend, thanking her for always being there and supporting her, in the face of ridicule and problems. Her best friend feeling something wrong told Nataliya’s daughter to fly out on the next flight to Moscow, because her mother seemed unwell. Yulya didn’t make it. Nataliya didn’t call her that day, perhaps she did not have the strength to say goodbye to her dearest. Yulya arrived in Moscow to be told her mother flung herself from the top floor whilst she was on her way.
It was all I thought about today and pushed all other thoughts from my mind. I spent so long thinking about what happened and mourning Nataliya. A woman I had met only once.
And take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind, down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves, the haunted frightened trees, out to the windy beach, far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes the dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, sillouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands, with all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves, let me forget about today until tomorrow.