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 fairies off to buoy themselves. They just get in the way when the guys are settling business. Remember the bum? A solid guy from Tyumen! Name’s Seryoga. Ten rigs under his belt, freelances under LUKOIL. So, here’s the thing. Seryoga decided to buy an apartment in Moscow, put some cash into real estate. It’s the fashion these days among rich out-of-towners — buy up apartments in the capital and rent them out to poorer out-of-towners. Seryoga found some real estate agents through an ad, gave them the job of finding him a place. And, as usual: took the deposit, blew it on hookers, no apartment. You saw for yourself yesterday how he was reading them the riot act. «Gotta help the guy out!» I thought. Dressed myself up as a busted-up loser and burrowed into Seryoga’s table with a bottle of my own. Knocked back a hundred grams of good clear stuff, poured Seryoga some too. The young punks were drinking Cinzano, real backwater rubes. Remember this, Roma! In Russia, vodka runs the negotiations. Now, where was I? Got sidetracked… Ah, right. Chatted with Seryoga about this and that. Picked up on the following: Seryoga’s out there breaking his back in Langepas, running from rig to rig, doesn’t want anything else out of life. You know the type, graduated from the «kerosene school,» ascetics and screwups, all of them. You saw how he was dressed. Anyway, he’s got money coming out his ears, and he’s putting it to work. His brother runs consumer goods from Moscow out to Tyumen. Seryoga put money into his brother’s business like a proper family man, sometimes flies into Moscow to count the dividends. And have some fun while he’s at it. Picked up some girl, lives in a dorm, naturally. Girls like that have a special nose for a man with money. So, she’s living in a dorm, screwing around in hotels isn’t comme il faut, she wants her own place. Seryoga stormed off to the real estate agents who took his deposit six months ago, and they’re stalling him: still looking for suitable options. In realtor language, that means, «we’re spinning the jade rod on the next sucker and we’re going to keep spinning!» But that’s when Mr. SuperGeorge showed up and sorted the whole thing out.
— Who showed up?
— Don Jorge Magnifico, also known as Georg Balthasar Glorias, also known as the genuine article Zhora the Badass, meaning me. Knocked back some vodka with Seryoga, mentioned that my fucking business collapsed. Selling off everything, including a three-room apartment. Seryoga’s ears perked right up, and now all that’s left is to give him a nice, gentle trim, forty or fifty grand’s worth. Sure, a three-room in the center goes for a hundred, but Seryoga’s a straight shooter. He reads the situation, won’t give more than that. Had to play the part of the sucker unloading his place at half price.
— You’re going to sell this apartment?
— 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 options. Very sneaky options. 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. Air conditioners…
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 be here soon. Four PM sharp. 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.
