April 1995
A week in, I’d gotten used to a vegetable-like existence. In practical terms, life turned out comfortable, but not dazzling the way I’d dreamed.
Adel Veniaminovna drove me to the clinic. An hour past settlements, industrial zones, and potholes there, an hour back. My back, belly, arms, and legs burned. My scorched ears suffered phantom pains. They smeared on some burning muck and gave me fiery injections. On top of everything else came the jaw-shattering business – they started working on my teeth. I parted ways with every last one. Half had been knocked out in the explosion, when I flew headfirst into the display window; the other half, which had needed attention since school, I lost in Los Angeles.
A dull ache tormented me from morning to night and night to morning. Sometimes weaker, sometimes stronger, sometimes so unbearable it was enough to make you want to hang yourself. I hadn’t suffered like that even in the sands. I begged Adel Veniaminovna to work up an injection for me. My household tormentor wasn’t swayed by pleading or promises. She gave the painkiller exactly as the doctor prescribed – once a day, before bed.
In late April, Zhorik flew in and had a talk with madam in the lounge chairs by the empty pool. On the first of May, Adel Veniaminovna vanished.
«She’s staying here permanently, but she’s reachable if anything comes up,» Zhorik explained. «No more shots – you’ll turn into a junkie. Let’s knock back some whiskey.»
The next day, Zhora returned the Suburban, which had started to feel like family, and picked up a Porsche instead. His reasoning: no life in California without a convertible!
The convertible turned out to be a cramped little box, uncomfortable to sit in. I didn’t share Zhorka’s passion for a compact, no-room-to-move little runabout.
I rode along to the Cosmetic Surgery Clinic, where Zhora communicated with the plastic surgeon. Shoved photos of my old self at him and insisted: don’t make me exact, make me better, money’s no object, we’ll pay whatever. The doctor didn’t understand and wasn’t in a hurry to operate. I just groaned, agreeing to anything, pestering Zhorka: «Can we speed this up?»
Zhorik figured out how to work around not knowing English. The image of the ideal me turned out hard to describe but easy to show. Zhora stocked up on a stack of magazines with Christian Slater, Emilio Estevez, and Rob Lowe on the covers, and now shoved them at the surgeon: «Forehead like this, yeah, forehead! Now look here, brows like this, don’t touch the eyes. Yes-yes, eyebrows, and we’ll pop in whatever lenses we need ourselves. Ah, and a nose like this one? Can you do it? Can you? You bullshitting me? Okay! Nose like this, cheeks like this, chin somewhere in between this one and that one. Okay?»
Zhora and the surgeon dug through the magazines, sparring in short bursts: «impossible,» «how much,» and «maybe,» studying x-rays of my skull…
I felt indifferent to the pidgin-English back-and-forth. Through the thick waves of pain, one thought kept breaking through: «Just let it be soon.»
In the meantime, Zhorik tracked down Kiryukha and had a harsh word with him. Once Kirill got discharged from the hospital, the tone turned kind; a day later, businesslike. Then Zhora flew to Moscow and back. He came back with news: if Yeltsin won the presidential election the following year, the boys would get a break.
«Loot, booze, relax!» – Zhora brought back the future winners’ slogan. I didn’t see the joy in such lowbrow stuff. Zhorik explained that Yeltsin was cutting deals with the big players over dividing up state property. Before, they’d been pickpocketing small change; after the election, they’d move on to serious business – seizing industrial giants. We wouldn’t get near the trough, but other plots of land might open up. Had to be ready, like a Young Pioneer!
Zhorik spent the whole month of May in Los Angeles. By his account, he was getting Kiryukha placed at Columbia Pictures. He got him placed, not as a director, the way Kirill had dreamed, but in his actual specialty – as an assistant gaffer.
– Let him get his footing – we’ll push for the Oscar next year! – Zhorik decreed.
I let the decree slide right past. I sat on the lawn, sipping bourbon, staring at the ocean visible from there, and at the cobblestones in a puddle.
The household was run by Juanita, hired by Zhorik on the same terms as Adel Ivanovna: living quarters in the galley, all the food she wanted, and five hundred local rubles for pocket money.
