July 3, 1993
Saturday
2:35 PM
To shake off the obsession, I invented an activity. Stood by the window and paced off the distance to the opposite wall. The room measured twelve steps in length. And in width?
Over the course of an hour or so I measured the length and width of every room. Just as I started measuring the bisectors, a screech of brakes sounded outside and the soft «thunk!» of a closing car door. I looked out the window and spotted Zhorik walking away from a dusty, dark Ford Taurus.
«Stole another one,» I guessed.
— No, dear friend! — Zhorik rejected the guess, sailing into the room. — Philanthropists lent it to me for a spin, might as well charm the client with it too. I’m sure he’ll walk over from the metro station. Ah, these provincials! They’ve got so much money and they’re so guileless, it just makes you want to charm them and fleece them! What’s got you so spooked?
— Oh, nothing… — I hedged.
— Had a chat with Mityay? — Zhorik guessed. — Took the girls on for the job?
— No.
— Shame. — Zhora walked over to the window, turned his head this way and that. — Where’s our oilman, huh? Five past four already. Must’ve gotten lost. You wanted to ask about Mityay, I take it?
I tensed up. The question was right there on the tip of my tongue, but the possible answer scared me. I didn’t know what would happen if Zhorik said: «Mityay’s from there.»
— Relax, student. Mityay’s from there, — Zhorik clapped me on the shoulder like it was nothing. — Regular guy. Been out there eighty years and doesn’t sweat it.
— What?! — instead of fear, what hit me was bewilderment. Lively Dmitry Yefimych didn’t look a day over sixty. Eighty years ago he couldn’t have arrived there for another reason entirely. I’d seen him there myself, a month ago.
— Everything’s fine, — came the voice from the next room, where Zhora was wrecking the furniture. I walked toward the sound, stopped in the doorway so as not to get in the way of the junk-scattering.
— Business as usual, — Zhorik went on. — Signed a contract with the guy, sent him back to Kineshma, and every twenty years we shift him to a new spot with new papers. Last fifteen years he’s been smoking away here in Moscow. Now then, student, assess this. Does it look like a mess?
— Very much.
— Good. Our job, Romych, before Seryoga gets here, is to paint the picture of a once-successful firm that’s gone bust, meaning we set the scene as a wreck with traces of former grandeur. The main thing is authenticity. Shame there’s no empty bottles lying around, to really sell it. By the way, here’s your briefing. We’ve been at it two years, wrapped up the business last week, let the staff go, sold off the valuables. Sitting here in rags, hightailing it to California, to a village called Incline Village. Ever read Jack London, the one about Sacramento, rich country? That’s about us! On the whole, your job is to keep your mouth convincingly shut. You’re appointed for the evening as personal secretary, a man of few words and great importance. Understood?
— Uh-huh, — I nodded.
— Good lad. Questions?
— Yes. How old is Mityay?
— Same age he was in [190]5. Twenty-six, I think.
— How much?
— Don’t be surprised. He’s got every right to look a bit older.
I stayed quiet. A swarm of questions circled through my head.
— Why’s he been alive so long?
— Terms of the contract.
— What terms?
— We promised to give him the chance to sleep with two virgins at the same time. In exchange, he hands over his soul. All above board.
— So what, you never delivered?
— Ha. We drive fresh herds by every month. That old codger could’ve plowed through a thousand untouched girls by now. Take today’s batch. Buy them a coffee, drag them wherever you want.
— And he doesn’t want to?
— Oh, he wants to, all right! You saw it in his eyes yourself. Dripping with lust, spraying it in every direction. It’s the dream of his life, down to the marrow.
— So why doesn’t he go through with it?
— Because if he goes through with it, he comes back to us. He knows it, understands it, and prefers to suffer here instead. Figures hellish torment’s more bearable to live through in Mother Russia.
— Maybe he’s right?
— Student, you wouldn’t last two days in his place. You’re no titan, built to withstand that kind of strain. He’s no titan either, but unlike you, he hasn’t got a brain to worry with.
Zhora walked into the far room. A howling drawl carried from it:
— Zee claim we hold eez good az gold, bonanza! So, student. You hear that? Rather than breaking yourself for seventy years straight, easier just to go back to the sands. Trust me, it’d be better.
— I won’t.
— Student, let’s bet a case of vodka on it. When you two go back, I’ll organize a welcome party. Mityay and his beloved rifle will be the happiest man alive. So get that case ready, — Zhora came back into the hall, walked up to the window, and asked:
— Which way’s the metro station?
— Profsoyuznaya’s to the right, five minutes on foot. Akademicheskaya’s to the left, about fifteen.
— I’ll bet ten bucks to your one that the client shows up from the right with an ice cream cone in hand.
— Deal. A dollar he comes from the left, — I answered and came to stand beside him.
A couple of minutes later, from the direction of central Moscow, that is, from the left, a Cadillac STS pulled up, snow-white and glinting in the sunlight. Zhorik arched a surprised eyebrow. Out of the limousine climbed a fat man and a pair of stocky young toughs, not the restaurant kind, a different breed, straight out of the gym. The muscle boys flexed their biceps under double-breasted suits, scowling. The fat man gleamed with self-satisfaction.
— You’ll get your ten tonight, but get that case ready, — Zhorik conceded defeat. — All right, here’s the deal. I’ll greet the guests, and you — keep your mouth shut tight. You’ll be your father’s shadow, understand?
Zhorik dashed off. I stayed by the window, not understanding whose father’s shadow I was supposed to be.
A couple of minutes later the door swung open, and I saw a genuine dollar millionaire. A millionaire of the local vintage: dusty boots, trousers baggy at the knees, a shiny jacket, and a hefty ring on the middle finger of his right hand. Last time there hadn’t been any jewelry to speak of. Looked like he’d put it on for the special occasion, to make an impression. The ring seemed vaguely familiar. I turned over the events of the past few days in my memory, trying to place where I might have seen such a beauty. What came to mind was the traffic cop captain from two weeks back, and Zhorik shoving a ring at him as a bribe.
Didn’t look like it.
Or did it?
Zhorik’s ring had had more stones on it. But this one gleamed no worse, and commanded respect all the same. I shifted my gaze from the ring to its owner. The man rolled his way to the middle of the room and planted himself there, feet spread shoulder-width apart.
His head swiveled on the axis of his neck. Zhorik materialized off to the side, sweeping a melancholy hand over the local wreckage:
— This is all that’s left of the Russian branch. By the way, would you be interested in buying the whole building outright? I could arrange it for a third of its real value. Just three hundred forty thousand. No? A shame. A real shame. And it all started off so well, so cheerfully. Yes, there were golden years, back in the reign of the liberals in their little pink pants, but they’re over now. No trace of the old romanticism left. You can’t settle anything anymore with beads and mirrors, only with suitcases full of cash! I find it disgusting. I’ve had enough, I’m leaving!
The fat man shook his head. The boys showed no emotion at all. Zhora caught his breath, holding the pause — he was a master of holding a pause — and continued:
— Makes sense to head over to the apartment, take a look at the sweet home, so to speak. The agency rep handling the paperwork’s already there. I don’t work with just anyone. This one’s been vetted.
