July 3, 1993
Saturday
12:10 PM
I woke up at noon, pink and full of energy, like a baby! The anger and hatred were gone. Last night’s dinner churned in my gut and kept hunger at bay. Zhora, transparent as blotting paper, feeble as a zombie, reported that he’d been vomiting up his ancestors’ curses, had thrown up his entire insides by morning, and was still nauseous.
«Started bringing up stomach acid,» he bragged.
I brewed tea, poured it into cups. Went back to the TV to watch the African American guy filling in for Schwarzenegger in «Predator 2.» Zhora settled down beside me and, sipping his tea, gave his report:
– Sent the chicks off to hell. They only get in the way when the lads are settling business. Remember the bum? A solid lad from Tyumen! Seryoga’s his name. Has ten rigs, freelances under «LUKOIL». So then. Seryoga decided to buy an apartment in Moscow, to put his cash into real estate. It’s the fashion among rich out-of-towners: buy up flats in the capital and rent them to poorer out-of-towners. Seryoga found some realtors and gave them the job. And as usual: the advance was taken, blown on whores, no apartment. You saw for yourself yesterday how he was soaping their necks. «Must help!» I thought. I got myself up as a sorry-looking «from» and burrowed in at Seryoga’s table with a bottle of my own. Knocked back a hundred grams of our native white, poured Seryoga some. The young ones were drinking «Cinzano», rubes from Konotop. Remember this, Roma! In Russia vodka runs the negotiations. Now, what was I saying? Got distracted... Ah, yes. Chatted with Seryoga about this and that. Got the following: Seryoga slaves away in Langepas, dashing from rig to rig, and wants nothing else. You know the type yourself, graduated from the «kerosene school», that lot are ascetics and screw-ups by nature. You saw how he was dressed. In short, the money he’s earned, and it’s over the roof, Seryoga puts into circulation. His brother runs consumer goods from Moscow to Tyumen. Seryoga invested in his brother’s business as one should, and sometimes flies to Moscow to count the dividends. And to have a bit of fun while he’s at it. Picked up a girl who lives in a dormitory. Girls like that have a special nose for men with money. So there she is, living in a dormitory, screwing in hotels isn’t comme il faut, she wants her own living space. Seryoga charged off to the realtors who took the advance six months ago, and they fob him off: we’re looking for suitable options. In realtor language that means «we’re spinning the sucker on the jade rod and we’ll be spinning him a long time!» And that is when Mister SuperGeorge appeared and sorted the situation out.
— Who showed up?
– Don Jorge Magnifico, also known as Georg Balthasar Glorias, also known as the genuine lad Zhora Krutyak, that is, me. Knocked back some vodka with Seryoga, complained that my fucking business had collapsed. Selling everything, including a three-room apartment. Seryoga’s ears went up, and now all that’s left is to trim him carefully into a half-box, for forty or fifty grand. Of course a three-room in the center goes for a hundred, but Seryoga is a proper man. He reads the situation, he won’t give more. I had to play the sucker unloading his flat at half price.
— This one’d be a shame. But if we don’t find another option, we’ll sell it. Ugh, something’s rising in my throat again. Made a proper pig of myself last night. Anyway, in an hour I’m meeting a broker about some options.
— What options?
— Sneaky ones. Any competent real estate agent always has two or three apartments on hand for a bogus showing and sale, going around the actual owners. We’ll show off a nice little place on Tverskoy Boulevard, draw up a sale contract. A week, start to finish. By the time the real owners show up, we’ll be long gone, nowhere to be found. So right now we’re heading to Cheryomushki to meet Seryoga. No point showing our faces anywhere else, could get our asses handed to us later. That spot’s perfect for it.
Having put on our dressy jackets for going out, blue and red, we set off for Cheryomushki. Half an hour later, dressed to the nines and doused in cologne, Zhorik wandered the empty rooms remarking: «Take note, Roman. The heads of every company that rented space here were planning to set up their own office right in this spot. And why? Because see that little door? There it is, the closet! You can put a little couch in there and draw up acceptance-and-transfer reports with the secretary, understand? By the way, Yefimych’s crawling this way. In a hurry to inquire after our health, the old coot.»
The front door opened and Yefimych slipped sideways into the space that served as either an office hall or a lobby. Blurted out: «Glad, so glad, delighted to see you! How’s your health?» and fixed his gaze on the bridge of Zhora’s nose. I thought he was probably interested in something else entirely.
Zhorik confirmed my hunch, stating flatly: «We’ll pay the office fee next week, once the owner flies in from Geneva. He’ll inspect everything personally and give his approval. Can’t do a thing without his signature! Just an empty formality, he’ll love the place.»
Yefimych nodded along:
— Of course, of course. But why so many passes? Security’s complaining, says it’s a thoroughfare. You haven’t even moved in yet, and visitors are traipsing back and forth every half hour.
— It’s necessary. Those are our employees getting acquainted with their future workplace. Our firm’s enormous, can’t bring the whole crowd through at once. We bring in a couple of little dolls an hour, they get acquainted with their workstation and share their wishes. That’s how we do things. Don’t worry about it.
Dmitry Yefimych slipped sideways back out of the room.
«As if he’d dare put on airs,» Zhorik smirked, shutting the door behind the old man. «A grand’s warming his pocket, and he’ll see the rest of it in his next life, not this one.»
Zhorik’s mobile started beeping, and, jumping over to the window, Zhorka rattled into it:
— Yeah! Turgenevskaya! Great, be there in five!
Turned back to me:
— Right, here’s the deal, sit by the phone, wait for the call. The Tyumen Don Juan’s going to ring. Let him know Mr. Coffin will turn up at sixteen hundred hours. And tell Mityfimych to piss off. I’m off to go look at an apartment. They’ve dug up some sweet deal near Chistye Prudy.
Zhorik vanished, and I was left in the dusty room next to the hall. The furniture consisted of a dust-caked desk and half a dozen rickety chairs. On the windowsill stood a massive black telephone, one that had lived through the era of the Iron People’s Commissars, or maybe even further back, to the age of the commissars in their dusty helmets.
