April 24, 1996
Wednesday
Visiting Hyde Park wasn’t on my personal bucket list, but a proper cultural upbringing dictated it – had to be done. I walked along the ponds with the swans and past the statue of Peter Pan to the street where double-deckers kept rumbling past. Across the way rose the pub «The Swan.»
Went up to the second floor, stepped out onto the terrace, ordered an Irish stout with a Leicestershire pie on the waiter Andrew’s recommendation, and sank into thought. Not right away – Jeff interrupted with a call to my mobile. Worried, since the room phone wasn’t picking up. Wanted to know where to find me.
I gave him the name of the pub, and the moment the Murphy’s arrived, my thoughts spread out like a river – wide, full, chocolate-brown.
Three years ago I’d dreamed of being part of the successful crowd marching past the McDonald’s on Tverskaya. The dream came true, with two amendments. First: the crowd was marching through London! Second: my pocket held a wad of pink banknotes, enough to buy up both the crowd and an apartment in Moscow. Jeff had told me yesterday, apologetically, that Barclays would issue the card in a week, here’s some small change for pocket expenses in the meantime.
And then what? What had actually changed?
Nothing.
Passersby drifted by, going about their business. Three years ago, when I didn’t have a kopeck to my name, I’d have counted every one of them a demigod.
Now, from the pub terrace, I watched the creatures wandering past: tourists, clerks, students, homeless people, none of them having anything to do with success. The successful ones within a hundred meters were me and the Porsche drivers streaming past on Bayswater Road by the hundreds. As common here as Zhigulis back in Moscow. So many successful people in London! And what about me? Nothing had changed at all. Same as three years ago, I dreamed of a rich, full life. And after the trip to Paris, I craved it more fiercely than ever!
Jeff arrived, sat down across from me. Ordered a sherry, pulled out his papers, glanced at me.
Oh, forget it! I’ll sign without even looking! Hadn’t had a chance to discuss the pressing matter all morning. Hmm… how to bring it up delicately?
Yesterday I’d been king of the universe, and by morning I’d turned into a cashier handing out pounds to girls who’d pledged themselves to my majesty for a single night. What was that, anyway? The thought above flashed by like a bullet and transformed itself into halting English:
– Bai zе wei, yu nou, yesterdei gerlz, yu nou… zis morning…
Jeff, who could evidently read minds, cut in with flawless Russian and the faintest accent:
– And in Moscow, after a one-night stand, nobody hints at anything or asks for anything?
Largely, Jeff had a point. I took a swig of beer. Jeff summed it up:
– People are all the same. No one wants to work. Everyone wants to have fun.
I agreed. People were all the same, in Moscow and London alike. Nobody wanted to work, everybody wanted to have fun! And Jeff, too, was a lazy so-and-so who knew Russian perfectly well but preferred not to bother and speak his native tongue instead.
After collecting fifty signatures next to as many checkmarks, Jeff took off. I stayed behind to reflect: right now I wasn’t just lounging around, I was drinking stout in the middle of London, across from Hyde Park, with a genuine English pie for a chaser. And still I didn’t feel like a lucky man.
Why?
In my old life, if a trip to London had ever loomed on the horizon, I’d have drawn up in advance a list of museums I absolutely had to see and a list of views I absolutely had to take in; I’d have crammed as much as possible into the time available. Six months before the trip I’d have been swooning and straining, planning to squeeze out the maximum possible experience. Now I had no desire whatsoever to drag myself anywhere. I’d get to it next time. There’d be plenty of next times – not for nothing had I taken possession today of a project firm in the City and an apartment in some docklands or other…
After the second Murphy’s, I headed back to the hotel.
The tour of banks, offices, and official establishments continued the next morning. The legendary fogs and smog over the Thames turned out to be a lie. The sun shone over London for three days straight without a break. England’s capital turned out to be nothing like the gloomy Tallinn or cramped Riga of the Sherlock Holmes films, but rather more like a spacious, bustling Kyiv. As a schoolboy I’d gone on a class trip to Ukraine’s capital – a three-day trip that packed in five museums, three department stores, Andriyivsky Descent, Khreshchatyk, the Motherland Monument, and whatever else… I’ve forgotten.
I shipped boxes of business clothes back to Moscow through a courier service. Crammed the beach gear into a wheeled suitcase and headed to Paris, which turned out to be a drunken blur: why drink that much champagne, and why can’t you throw up in the Seine? And what was that absurd jalopy Jeff was driving me around in? Some sort of Mazda, more embarrassing than a bug-eyed Zaporozhets, but it threaded the back alleys and side streets perfectly…
We got to Nice on Monday morning. Spent the day signing papers at the notary’s, the lawyer’s, and the bank. In the evening we headed to the Promenade des Anglais, where I worked my way along the cafes drinking Kir Royal while Jeff stuck to mineral water.
The final round of the evening ended in a misunderstanding: they wouldn’t let me into a club despite the reserved table. No great tragedy! We sat in a bistro instead, then on the beach… then my body got delivered to a launch.
The launch puttered out to a boat anchored offshore – looked like a river tram at first glance, but it definitely wasn’t one.
I fell asleep in a cabin done up in mahogany and beige leather, all mirrors and crystal, like something out of a movie about the aristocracy.
