April 30, 1996
Tuesday
2:00 p.m.
In the salon I took the flute of champagne the steward offered and sat down in an armchair.
Five minutes later Zhorik came in, along with Jeff and the lawyer whose office I’d signed papers at yesterday – didn’t catch his name, some Jean Valjean or other. Then three men shuffled in, dressed the way I had been a week earlier.
I was introduced as Roman Viktorovich, the investor. The men introduced themselves too, but I had no desire whatsoever to remember their names and patronymics. They could’ve just handed over business cards, no questions asked – I’d remember when I needed to.
We sat down at the table, me next to Jeff, who’d become my best friend. Zhora began:
– So, gentlemen! Time to launch a big deal! As promised, the investor’s found. Not just with money, but with his own construction company. Ready to start the project as early as tomorrow, though we’ll need a week or two to work through the paperwork and figure out what’s going on with your ground conditions. So we could start by mid-July. But honestly, let’s be straight about it, September first is the ideal target date. We’ll go over your proposals for the project and adjust our own plans to fit it. Any objections?
The men, thrown off balance by Zhora’s aggressive pace, exchanged glances. The oldest of them, around forty, spoke up:
– No objections, but we’d like to go over the numbers. You mentioned the first tranche would be…
– Too early for numbers. Let’s hear from our local legal man first. Not sure myself what he’s about to huff and puff, – Zhora cut in, nodding at the Frenchman. Jean Valjean pulled three sheets out of a folder and started rattling away in French, only to be stopped by Zhorik immediately: «Parle plus lentement, s’il te plaît. Euh… pause. Je peux traduire.»
Zhora set about playing interpreter. I turned my attention to the champagne – interesting flavor – and to the women loitering past the portholes. The steward darted over to them, waved his arms. They vanished from view.
Meanwhile the men had worked themselves up over Valjean’s opinion that the papers weren’t ready and starting construction would be unwise. Talking over each other, they voiced a single opinion: the missing document was worthless, some shitty piece of paper from the municipality, handed out by the hundreds like a discount bus pass! They’d have it tomorrow. Let’s settle the numbers!
– What numbers? – Zhora feigned surprise. – The moment every permit is signed, we’ll confirm our stake in the project. The financing’s ours, running the project is yours, just like we agreed! We wire the first twelve million francs to the letter of credit, lease equipment, and hire subcontractors: get the Arabs onto the site and start. But if the papers aren’t ready, what are we even discussing? There won’t be a start, might as well push the timeline back.
The men dug in: nothing needed pushing back. They’d start September first, on their own responsibility! Let’s map out where and how to spend the first tranche.
– What tranche? – Zhora feigned surprise again. – No doubt you’ll get your paper. But when? The natives’ vacation season kicks off in a month. I’ll bet you anything you get that paper in the fall. And you’ll be lucky if it’s before Toussaint. Gentlemen, your project is very interesting, we’ll take another look at it later, sometime after the New Year. Right now Roman Viktorovich is wasting his time.
Finally.
I nodded to the men and stepped out onto the deck at a quiet pace, lost in dreamy melancholy. My new sandals were rubbing my bare feet raw. I took them off. Stayed barefoot. Felt pure bliss.
Back in the cabin, Zhora kept pressing: «If you want to start September first on your own responsibility, let’s get something straight: what does that actually mean, and what does it cost? What will you back it with, and how? Roman Viktorovich can have a whole division of Arab laborers and construction equipment here by tomorrow. And what have you got behind you? This isn’t Russia, where deals get fudged at the village council. This is Europe, laws run the show. If by September first Roman Viktorovich has delivered his side of the contract and you still don’t have your permit, how are you going to cover the losses? Can you answer that? Awkward to say it, but you’re not the first ones who’ve shown up here with a big idea and bare-assed pockets. Your project has value. Interesting value, even. So now spell out what you’ll put up if the deal doesn’t take off through your own fault. We’re backing ours with money on the letter of credit and builders standing ready to go. What are you backing yours with?»
The men started muttering and whispering among themselves.
I felt like a snack. There had to be a galley on the boat somewhere I could sneak into and scarf down a couple of slices of sausage! Where, though?
I should’ve skipped the afternoon nap and taken an orientation tour instead.
I headed to my cabin, which had a telephone under a little placard reading «Communication avec l’équipage – Urgence.» Looked like it meant communication with the crew for emergencies. Just what I needed!
In the cabin I picked up the receiver, listened to static. No communication whatsoever… A minute later there was a knock at the door.
– It’s open!
The three women from the deck walked into the cabin. Walked in looking exactly like the «Twilight Zone» music video – black leather bodysuits, peaked caps, choreography copied to perfection. Engines growled from invisible speakers, drums started pounding, the melody of «The Race» kicked in. They cuffed me to the bed in an X. Didn’t bother with foreplay. One sat on my face. The second took my cock down to the root. The third stuck her tongue up my ass… Whoa! And a finger. Two fingers…
Ah-ow! Halt!!!
A man’s ass is sacred.
I don’t remember what came after.
Vaginas everywhere. Wherever I looked, whichever way I turned – a wet womb all around, ready to take me in and swallow me whole.
My fingers, searching for freedom, grasped at empty air.
My cock was squeezed under the full pressure of the world – oral, vaginal, anal, between breasts, by elbows, by knees, by feet, by earlobes…
I drowned…
More or less the way I’d always dreamed of drowning, watching the «Twilight Zone» video, worn out from replaying. Zhora clearly knew my secret fantasy. He had access to my subconscious and was dragging the contents out of its farthest corners.
That part I didn’t like, and it unsettled me: – Why was I snorting powder laid out in a line running down from my navel? Why was I washing down the jellied sensation with brut and snorting a second line with my other nostril, from the small of my back to my anus? Licking something sour and chasing it with bitters? That wasn’t what I’d dreamed of!
