June 23, 1995
Friday
10:00 a.m.
In the morning, we lay in the wrecked bed, watching the tops of the fir trees outside the window. I was recovering from the marathon with mineral water. Rika smoked a cigarette, squinting either from the smoke or from her own thoughts.
— What are you thinking about? — I broke the heavy silence.
— Trying to remember who you produce. I don’t recall you.
— No one yet. Still working on it.
— And how much money do you have?
I hesitated for a second, remembering Regina and the restaurant Arbat. I had money, but wasn’t planning to spend it on Veronika.
— Some, not much, — I sighed.
— How much? At least a hundred grand?
— No, — I lied. — Not that much.
— I see.
Rika stubbed out her cigarette, stood up, and turned back into Veronika Sergeyevna. Standing upright, her body betrayed her age — sagging breasts, a waist with soft rolls.
I looked away. Got dressed, went down to the courtyard arm in arm with Veronika, mentally chasing the urge to have furious sex one more time in exchange for nothing. Sex not tied to money, professional obligations, job descriptions, or mercenary interest...
Sex because you want it. Simply because I can. And there’s someone willing.
A dead ringer for Nietzsche — kindergarten, pants held up with a single strap.
