June 22, 1995
Thursday
3:00 p.m.
On the road, I kept turning my head. We rolled past ten-foot corrugated-metal fences. No countryside idyll in sight.
On arrival, we ran into a brick wall running along a plot as vast as the national anthem. «Almost a hectare,» Zhorik specified. He explained that Chicha and Karabas had gone into the local kolkhoz, warmed up a couple of important villagers, showed the rest the goat, and leased fifty peasant plots for ninety-nine years.
— That trick doesn’t fly near the Ring Road, but out here it’s easy. Alright, Romych, here’s the deal. It’s a mixed crowd — a dozen of our guys, a couple of gangsters, and hookers beyond counting. Your legend: you’re a film producer. There’s already one from Los Angeles here. Work it together, you’ll have no shortage of girls. Before you grab anyone by the ass, though, take a look around — her personal baboon might be standing right next to her.
— What director? What girls? What baboon?
— Uh. Yeah. Too many questions, you don’t have the film-guy look. You’ll be a music producer, looking for a singer with talent.
— What?
— Don’t sweat it! Just look arrogant and drop «Britpop,» «Parklife,» and «Supersonic.» The girls will make up their own reasons to put out.
We parked at an angle off to the side, the only free spot left, and headed for the house past a row of Jeeps, Mercedes, and BMWs.
The couch and armchairs in the hallway were occupied by men holding glasses. Music was thumping behind the wall. Two girls stood by the entrance with trays: champagne flutes and vodka shots.
Zhorik gave the order: «Once you’ve had a shot, head into the hall. The girls will throw themselves at you. There’s dozens of them. Pinochet knows his business! See you tomorrow.»
He pushed me toward the girls with the trays and vanished.
I knocked back a vodka, chased it with a pickle, had another, felt the warmth spread, got my nerve up, walked into the dark hall — the size of a school classroom — and froze.
The music pounded, the crowd swarmed. People danced, sat, lay down, sprawled, embraced on every surface available.
I gathered myself, sidled along the wall, and surveyed the room.
Everyone was dressed with style. Everyone behaved strangely. The music, strung on a machine-gun rhythm, made you lose your mind. Short loops repeated hundreds of times, softening your consciousness, dragging your mind off into some distant delirium.
Everyone present was searching for a high. Two exceptions were a pair of aesthetes. People kept approaching them, shoving dollars into their hands, and getting tiny little bags in return. I looked closer... hold on, those are the vocational-school kids I’d seen twice in my life — once on a train, once at a club. I stared, and I was stunned.
Looks-wise, they’d have beaten anyone hands down. Same as a year ago, each one looked like Alain Delon. Their shoes gleamed with polish. Their clothes flowed like silk. Cell phones dangled from their belts. Each one was hung with a kilogram of gold — thick chains on skinny necks, bracelets on their wrists, rings on their fingers. Well, would you look at that!
Hm. I was dressed decently too, but without the flash. My Siemens looked pale next to the vocational kids’ Motorolas. To top off the general unfairness of it all, two gorgeous girls were fawning over the guys — my age or older, in tight little shorts and tank tops, breasts jutting out like watermelons, seemingly about to snap their wasp waists in two.
A wave of envy for the vocational-school kids hit me. I shifted a little to get a better look at the girls. Didn’t work. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
