December 31, 1997
Wednesday
11:00 a.m.
By morning, the house looked like a zoo with no keeper: filthy, trashed, the animals scattered. Vladimir Alexandrovich, though, had armed the prostitutes with rags and was driving them floor to floor.
Another rule, Zhora’s invention. Once they’d finished working, the prostitutes got a choice: walk a kilometer to the bus stop and take public transit back to civilization, or clean up the place for a fifty-dollar bonus. Then they’d ride back to Moscow like princesses, in the minivan, straight to Krasnogvardeyskaya metro station. Delivery free of charge. Fifty dollars cash in hand, each. Their madam wouldn’t find out, as long as they kept quiet themselves.
The prostitutes scurried around the house naked, tidying up wherever they were told. Derzkaya was still working her specialty, this time in the bathhouse, where I headed.
Vladimir Alexandrovich hurried over and explained that this particular shalashovka turned out to be a lunatic, threatening them with enforcers and lawyers. So the bathhouse was a little occupied right now. They were bringing the little tramp back to her senses, skewering her properly. Her hole’s tight – give it a week and they’ll have it broken in, and clear out her head through the widened passage while they’re at it. The decent whores would be let go once they’d finished cleaning up. Cleanup budget – three hundred fifty on top of general expenses, six hundred fifty saved versus hiring cleaners. Sign here. The staff would head out after the cleanup. No one would be left but the crazy bitch, the guards, and Akhmed, who lived in the utility room, didn’t take Orthodox holidays off, and would do any job asked of him.
I didn’t go to the bathhouse, went back to the guests instead, blearily and grudgingly gathering for breakfast at ten in the morning. Inhuman cruelty, justified by the rule: if you want to make it to Moscow for New Year’s, leave the Moscow region before noon.
The guests left.
«Delka» drove off with the prostitutes.
I remembered why I’d been heading to the bathhouse in the first place. How could I have forgotten?!
I’d wanted to check whether the pool was ready, so I could romp around with Veronika and Lilya, satisfied from the night before and up for more. I cherished the memory of the best nights of my life, on the yacht, and was planning to repeat them.
A prostitute was dozing on a lounger, a seventy-pound kettlebell handcuffed to her leg. Hm.
I got on the intercom with a guard and asked him to remove the body. The girl came to, flinched, and looked at me with red, swollen eyes: «Who are you? A good person? Bad?»
I turned and walked away, an answer turning over in my head: «I stopped being a good person two or three years ago. I’m someone else now. Not good, not bad. Someone else, because the times are different now.»
There was a surprise waiting in the house. On the sparkling second floor, Veronika, Lilya, and two students who hadn’t gone back to the city were waiting for me. They’d decided to ring in the New Year here! Veronika naturally ended up as foreman of the little flock of girls. She barked orders: «New Year’s dinner in an hour! For now, let’s get pumped!» — cranked up some music about a night train and a wind blowing off the sea, poured champagne... we clinked glasses and drained them to the bottom. Veronika laid out ten lines, pulled out a bill with Franklin on it, and sent everyone into orbit... my body charged up an erection and set off in pursuit of every damp opening...
For the last year and a half, I’d lived on memories of that yacht trip. The best time of my life, as I realized only later. Back then, I’d wanted just one night’s sleep free of female attention. Now the mosaic of a dream was falling into place: a quartet of girls up for anything, and me, a hero with an inexhaustible erection.
Too bad the realization of happiness came late. Good thing I got the chance to repeat those happy days and nights! Didn’t even need to buy a yacht...
