July 5, 1993
Monday
9:15 AM
Woken up by Zhorik: who’s sleeping? company, up and at ’em! Gotta settle things with VychMekh! Work out when and how with Lyubka!
I washed up, shaved, got dressed, had breakfast, and dialed NIIVychMekh. The moment I introduced myself, Lyubochka put me through to Yuri Anatolyevich.
Not my area of expertise. I handed the receiver to Zhorik. He settled the matter in an instant, but with grand pauses: yes… we’ll swing by sometime this week… any day except Friday and the weekend… today?… let me check… we’ll be there in about an hour and a half… yes, we’ll wrap up our business and come over.
Eighty-eight minutes later we were there.
Yuri Anatolyevich informed us the documents had been reviewed and the matter settled. The institute was ready to collaborate with «Scientific Symmetry.»
Excellent!
We discussed the weather and future prospects and parted ways pleased with each other. Left Yuri Anatolyevich’s office to the remark: «The lawyer will look over the contract, three days…» Beaming, Zhorik waved a hand: don’t worry, it’ll be airtight, we’re in no rush.
Once out of the office, Zhorik shut the door behind me, crept up to Lyubochka on tiptoe, and, dropping his voice to an intimate whisper, purred something into her pink little ear, either funny or filthy. Lyubochka burst out giggling and, turning serious, promised: — Friday.
On our way out of the institute, Zhorik caught my look and explained that he’d invited Lyubochka and a friend out to a disco.
— Good to have your own person behind enemy lines. And even better when the spy’s a natural blonde.
— What if she dyes it? Ever consider that?
— No, Roma. Skin with that reddish tint only comes on an albino. Anyway, Friday we’ll get a chance to find out her natural hair color. All right, student, no relaxing! Too early to celebrate. We’ve got a couple of days in reserve, need to worry about security.
— We do. How, though?
— Not clear. It’s a strategic question. We’ll fend off small-time punks, no problem, but how do we handle actual serious shakedowns? Plenty of options, but they’re all a tight squeeze. Fine, let’s head to the «Terem.» We’ll eat, think it over. A couple of associates’ll crawl by. If the talks go well, we’ll be sitting pretty! Ready?
— Always ready!!!
To the roar of Supermax’s «It Ain’t Easy» blasting from the sound system, we pulled onto Varshavskoye Highway and tore forward, toward shining heights.
About ten minutes later we turned off Pyatnitskaya, rolled toward Kalyazinsky. A hundred meters short of the «Terem,» we spotted Chicha, walking toward the restaurant. Hands in his pockets, cap pulled low. Despite the heat, he wore a black leather vest over a black shirt, plus black jeans.
Zhorik pulled over to the curb, parked the car, and jumped out. Caught up with Chicha in five strides, exchanged a vigorous handshake.
I got out too, hurried after them.
Along the way I agonized over whether to shake hands with Zhorik’s companion or hold back and not announce my presence too eagerly. Picked the second option and scurried along a couple of meters behind Zhorik and Chicha, who were trading lines back and forth. Approaching the restaurant, some twenty meters off, I noticed a «Closed» sign hanging on the door.
Hm. Lunch canceled, apparently. What now?
The sign made no impression on Zhora and Chicha. They walked up to a set of metal gates. Zhorik shoved them open with a confident push and walked into the courtyard. Chicha followed him. I slipped in after.
Through the restaurant’s emergency exit we ended up in the dining hall, sat down at a table by the stage. Zhorik introduced me to Chicha as Roman Viktorovich, his business partner. Without a flicker of emotion, the man stated flatly: — Nikolai.
Held out a bony hand.
A second’s delay before I realized Chicha had just given his real name. Muttered in response, «Pleasure. Roman,» squeezed the offered hand, and caught Zhorik’s look: head to the bar, hit the beer, need to talk stool-to-stool with Nikolai.
Fair enough.
Just like last time, the two of them settled in facing each other, perched like fighters gearing up for a proper brawl. I moved over to the bar. Sat down the right way: half-turned toward Zhorik and Chicha, so I could hear everything.
Anastasia Igorevna came over to Zhora with a question about when the place would reopen. The staff had come in on the promise that operations would resume, they wanted their wages, but it wasn’t clear where the money would come from. Chicha stayed silent, picking at his teeth with a toothpick. Zhorik rattled off that everything was hunky-dory, would get settled tomorrow or the day after, he was in touch with the cops, on friendly terms with the prosecutor’s office, Semyonych had no objections, there was money for wages, it’d be brought tomorrow, no reason for the staff to mope, everything’s fine and dandy. Then he offered to treat Roma to some beer and pile some food on top of it.
Ooh, they’d feed and water me. Excellent!
Zhorik’s final request: gather the whole staff in an hour.
Anastasia Igorevna glided over to the bar like a swan, called someone out of the shadows in a hushed voice, and vanished. The figure of a bartender materialized, holding a mug under the tap. A waitress came over, laid down a menu whose main items I already knew by heart:
— Er… Miss… Veal, some kind of appetizer, and…
Stop. No vodka needed. I hesitated, got flustered, felt gloomy. Everything came so easily and cheerfully to Zhorik. I couldn’t manage anything. Couldn’t even put into words that I wanted to eat.
— …something to go with beer, and beer, — I finally bleated out. The girl didn’t budge. Looming like a plaster statue out of a culture park, she scrawled a squiggle in her notepad and listed off:
— We’ve got, your choice, veal roast, langet…
— Entrecôte, — I cut in, without hearing her out.
— What kind of beer? — the statue wouldn’t let up.
— Heineken.
The waitress turned a hundred and eighty degrees and walked off. Like after passing an exam, I let out a happy breath, marking the fact of my first solo restaurant order, then glanced over at Zhorik. He was explaining the concept of joint business activity to Chicha in a whole range of words, from vulgar to encyclopedic, receiving in return the same firm answer every time: «Not my thing. Not for me.»
I thought to myself: «Ah, I blew it. Didn’t order for Zhorik. Not very comradely of me.»
Five or ten minutes later Chicha stood up in silence and left. Zhorik, rubbing his hands together, moved over to sit with me, signaled the bartender: more beer. Charmed the waitress who came over:
— Zhanna, don’t look at me like that, I fall in love far too easily! First I wanted to eat, now, looking at you, I want something else entirely… Anyway, an entrecôte and two Caesars, while I pull myself together! Please…
I choked on my beer: «What a smooth-talking fool! And I completely forgot about the Caesar salad. Sitting here like a squirrel, gnawing my nuts.»
The waitress smiled playfully, scrawled something in her notepad, and walked off with the graceful gait of a doe. Hm, five minutes ago she’d walked away from me with the grim stride of a mail carrier. I thought it over a bit and formulated a question:
— How do you know the waitress?
— I don’t know her.
— Her name’s Zhanna?
— Ah, that… — Zhorik smirked. — Remember this, student. Calling the staff at an establishment «miss» or «young man» is bad form. They’re people too, and they’ve got names. Look, everybody’s wearing a name tag.
Zhanna came over, set down the salads. I peered at the little tag on her blouse and read, somewhat deflated: «Terem Restaurant. Zhanna. Waitress.» Turned out making acquaintances in restaurants was simple as pie, practically mandatory.
Zhorik slid one salad over to me, kept the other for himself. Without touching his napkin, he set to eating, tossing out cryptic phrases:
— Chicha’s thick in the head. Doesn’t want Bucephalus. Wants a young guy’s ride. Our deals don’t interest him at all. Wants air, women, and quiet. Never worked for anybody, and our whole racket’s not his scene. Need to work it through Tolik, get Karabas sprung. We’ll sign the Patrol over to Chicha. Might get through to him that way. Can’t squeeze the restaurant out of anybody. Semyonych’s digging in his heels. Won’t sell his share for a fair price. Chasing happiness. Gotta ask Tolik again. If that doesn’t help, we’ll load up Karabas. Hm, don’t want to, but gotta. Fine, we’ll work it out…
