April 22–23, 1996
The day threatened disappointment, but they’d stocked me with a bottle of Jameson 15 Year Old Pure Pot Still. Nectar!
I got hammered. Lost control of my body, time, and space.
The world turned out to be the seventh element of euphoria. My alcohol-charged mind flew past the boundaries of existence, perched on a cloud, and, legs dangling, watched as my body was moved to the airport, walked through the VIP lounge, seated in business class, served, unloaded, transported to the Inn on the Park, London, checked into a room, where drunk Roma surveyed the neighborhood from the balcony... Not for long. At the first waves of nausea, Jeffrey — the lawyer in charge of my stay — hauled me away.
Phew!
In the morning, Jeffrey drove the route: Inn on the Park — Harrods — Selfridges — Inn on the Park. The trip stirred up memories from three years back, when I used to make the rounds of the kiosks at Luzhniki and TsSKA. Now, deep inside department stores, I sat in cramped fitting rooms with couches and mirrors, watching them bring in racks of clothes, trying things on, being handed coffee... The ending was the same: Jeffrey made me throw my old clothes straight into the trash.
What?!
I’d arrived dressed like a successful businessman! Expensive, rich clothes, no flaws, from Verochka and her girlfriends! No cheap knockoffs here!
Jeffrey answered briefly at first, in gentlemanly fashion: «Ee-gh.» Then he escalated, mimicking Janice from Friends: «Oh my gawd!»
They changed me into a gray suit. A dozen more, along with countless shirts, pocket squares, socks, and shoes, were sent to the room by delivery. A beach-vacation set went too — bermudas, shorts, little open-front shirts, no idea why. Where was I supposed to show them off? At Borisovskiye Ponds?
That evening I tried on the new clothes in front of the mirror.
Whoa!
I saw not a scrawny Moscow trader, but a real Richard Gere from Pretty Woman — a successful businessman! I never got to finish the thought. Jeffrey burst into the room and dragged me out into the London night!
The night turned fiery.
We sat in a café near the hotel, then a pub behind the hotel, then a pub on Piccadilly Circus... took a couple more steps and found ourselves at the Hippodrome. Well, technically, at a nightclub called the Hippodrome.
Wow!
The boys moving out there. The girls lighting it up! We were led to a booth, and the glittering world became mine!
Jeffrey, surrounded by boys, kept the drinks flowing. I, surrounded by girls, poured and proclaimed «Cheers!» We’d drift to the dance floor, move our bodies, come back. The music thundered. The alcohol gushed. I genuinely felt like I ruled a world woven from euphoria and dreams: This girl is mine tonight. This world is mine forever...
Jeff — that’s the name Jeffrey answered to by now — spun nearby, helping me rule it all!
I came back to the hotel with Sarah and her friend Jennifer. Once there, Jenny collapsed onto the couch in the sitting room, and Sarah and I moved to the bed. Sex turned into a set of instructions to follow: «Not comfortable like that,» «Can’t do it that way,» «That hurts,» «Don’t like that.»
The instructions came in lisping English. I kept asking how she’d like me positioned, adjusting, readjusting, wore myself out, and fell asleep without finishing.
At six in the morning, Sarah and Jenny woke me up: they both needed to get back to the boondocks, and I had to pay for a taxi — not cheap, two hundred pounds each way. The boondocks were at opposite ends of London.
I handed the girls cash. Fell back asleep.
At half past nine, Jeff scraped my body together, papers and all, and moved me to the notary’s office. There, my head throbbing, I spent half the day signing documents, read aloud to me in incomprehensible legal English.
Ugh! I understood English fine, just not London legal gibberish — worse than Turks in Paris! Why waste the time? Just hand me whatever needs signing, I’ll scribble it in a second!
On the way out of the office, Jeff handed me a mobile phone for emergencies and suggested a cultural program: the Tate Gallery, the Victoria museum, something else, didn’t catch it. The cultural landmarks, he said, were within walking distance, just around the corner.
I declined. Jeff shrugged, put me in a taxi, and sent me to the hotel.
The ride took two minutes. Getting out, I didn’t head into the hotel but across the street, into Hyde Park.
