Ghostwritten

by David Mitchell

  Jerome mock-bows. “How good of you to drop by!” Rudi never sees Jerome’s irony, leaving it to me to feel offended for him. “Yes, thank you. I am rather pleased with my production. How did the meeting with our public guardian friend at the City Hall go?”

  “Gregorski’s cool. He’ll send someone over to pick up the Delacroix here the morning after.”

  Right then, it felt wrong. “Why aren’t you meeting the buyers directly this time?”

  Rudi lifted his hand like the Pope. “Helsinki’s a long way to go, babe.… Why not let them come here? It’s a sign we’re moving up. It also means I don’t have to risk my neck at the border.… Oh, kitten, I missed you last night.…” There was a silliness to Rudi’s grin. A landslipped cocaine silliness. A bad sign. He tried to grab my breasts, but I didn’t let myself be grabbed, and Rudi fell onto the sofa laughing. “Tell her, Jerome!”

  “Tell her what?” Jerome came through with plates and a knife for the pizza.

  “Gregorski’s on the level.”

  Jerome frowned. “If he’s not, and chooses to sell us up the river, we will be royally butt-fucked from here to Windsor.”

  Rudi’s smile shriveled up like a burning page. “Jesus Christ, what’s the matter with you two today? The sun’s shining, in two weeks—and forty-eight hours—we’re going to be two hundred thousand dollars richer, and here you two are looking like you’ve had to sell your mother to a body-donor peddler! The point is for Mr. High-and-fucking-Mighty Gregorski, if we’re not on the level, he is the butt-fucked. He’s not dealing with tadpoles anymore. I have muscle in this city. I have muscle outside this city. I have muscle.”

  “Oh, St. Ciaran above, nobody’s disputing that—” began Jerome, making the mistake of sounding martyred.

  Rudi’s eyes began to shine. “Dead, damned, fucking right nobody is disputing that! Kirsch is not disputing that! Shirliker and his associates are not disputing that! Arturo fucking Kopeck is not disputing that! You know who Arturo Kopeck is? Only the biggest—fucking—crack dealer east of Berlin and west of the Urals! So why are my own partners disputing the notion that I have more muscle than Boris fucking Frankenstein?”

  Jerome’s owl gaze. “Nobody’s disputing that. Are we, Margarita?”

  My poor, dear baby. Bad cocaine. “No, Rudi. Nobody’s doing any disputing.”

  Rudi seemed to suddenly forget what we’d been talking about. “Any tabasco sauce, Jerome? That dumb Georgian bitch forgot to put any on. Big tits, gives a good blow job, but dippy as horseshit. Remind me to sack her before she gets too far behind on her rent.”

  “I’ll get the tabasco,” I said, smiling at Rudi’s little joke. “And shall I make you some nice strong coffee?”

  He didn’t bawl “no” so that meant “yes.”

  We ate in silence until half the pizza was gone.

  “There’s one last little touch,” said Rudi, “that I’ve decided to introduce for the next pickup.”

  “Do tell,” said Jerome.

  “Margarita here meets us and the other cleaners at the staff entrance, instead of waiting for me in the gallery.”

  “I don’t see why,” I said.

  “That is precisely why I am the brains of this operation. You never see why, and I always do. Listen. You come and meet us. The girls go off to their allotted galleries separately. We go to the Delacroix Gallery. As usual, we make the switch, wax the floors, take it back to the staff entrance, and out through security. And what precisely is the difference?”

  Jerome picked prawns out of congealing cheese. “You’ve been accompanied the whole time by Winter Palace personnel. Are there any anchovies hiding down here?”

  “And therefore placing me even more above suspicion than usual!” Rudi swished his wine around the glass. “These little details are the Rudi Touch. This is why my outfit thrives the way it does. This is why Gregorski selected me for this cleaning contract, why he wanted me for this operation: not Kirsch, not Chekhov, not the Koenighovs, but me. Now. Any questions?”

  Jerome shook his head nonchalantly. His part was over now. A pleasant life he must have, playing around all day with his oil paints, waiting for the money to appear in his bank account. His own bank account.

  “Rudi, my darling …,” I began.

  “What do you want?”

  “I was wondering, when, exactly, we were thinking of …”

  “… of what?”

  “You know, what we’ve been discussing.…”

  Rudi’s emotions are so visible. He doesn’t try to hide anything from me. That’s one reason I love him. He slammed his plate down and the pizza skidded off.

  “Oh Jesus wept! Not again! Don’t get old on me again, Margarita! I will not have you getting old and weird and wrinkled on me again! Fuck, you make me feel like it’s my grandmother I’m shagging sometimes!”

  I love Rudi, but I hate him too when his eyes shine like that. It’s the bad cocaine. “What are we getting all this money for if we’re never going to use it?”

  “Is it a car you want? Is it a coat you want? Are you in debt to somebody again? Tell me who’s been lending you money! Who? Who!”

  “No, nobody, nobody! It’s—” I looked at Jerome, who, sighing, withdrew into his studio, taking his coffee.

  “—it’s you I want, my love. It’s our life in Switzerland that I want.”

  “A golden goose is living on our roof and shitting eggs down our chimney, here, Margarita! Don’t kill it! Gather the golden eggs!”

  “I’m the one who gets screwed every week for these golden eggs.”

  “We all have to make sacrifices.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I’m prepared to keep making mine. Surely we have enough money in the account now for us to not need to—”

  “We haven’t. I had to bribe the customs people a small fortune last time. Then of course I have to give Gregorski his whopping cut. He set the whole thing up, remember.”

  “I never get the chance to forget Gregorski, in his armored Mercedes-Benz. Please, darling. Just tell me. How much money do we have?”

  “It’s your period, isn’t it. Admit it. It’s your period. Jesus. They bleed for seven days but they still don’t die.”

  “How much?”

  “Quite a lot. But not enough.”

  “How much is quite a lot? Just tell me!”

  “Margarita, if you can’t calm down and discuss this like an intelligent adult I’m going to have to terminate this interview.”

  “I am calm. I’m asking a simple question. Rudi? How much money do we have from the sale of our five priceless works of art sold so far? Please?”

  “In U.S. dollars? Six figures.”

  “Tell me!”

  Rudi switched tack. “I manage the finances! It’s your job to get us in and keep us covered! You think you can do what I do better, do you? Do you?”

  It’s the cocaine, and the pressure. I stayed calm, and started the pout. Margarita Latunsky plays men like a master violinist. When I want something from a woman I get angry. When I want something from a man I pout. “No, darling, it’s just that the head curator paws me week after week and I can’t see an end to it and I love you so much—” I feigned the watery eyes.

  Rudi snarled and looked around like he needed something to sink his teeth into. “You want out? You want to go up to a man like Gregorski and say, ‘Oh, by the way, I don’t fancy this line of work any more, thanks for all the stolen artwork revenue but I’m off now, I’ll send you a postcard’? Get real, woman! He’d eat you for fucking breakfast.”

  I thought he was going to hit me. “I thought that’s why we chose Switzerland, because it would be safe—”

  “It’s not that simple. Gregorski’s a powerful man.”

  “I know about powerful men—”

  Rudi mimicked me. “ ‘I know about powerful men.’ You’re talking about the Party crony paper-pusher who used to shag you? Or your geriatric cabin boy with the gammy leg?”

  “He was a c
aptain.”

  Rudi spat a “huh!”

  “What do you know about hiding money? Laundering it? I can give you your share any time you like, baby, but how long do you think it would be after you split, before the pigs in Switzerland ask exactly how you came across this truck-load of roubles you’re bringing into their country? We are a team! You can’t just walk out on us any time you fancy.”

  “When can we go?”

  “In time! In time! Fuck it! It’s no fucking use trying to reason with you when you’re in this kind of mood. I’m going for a drive!”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  Jerome emerged. “He didn’t damage the Wedgwood, did he?”

  “He’s nervous,” I explain. “Now we’re so close to getting away, it’s only natural he gets a little jittery.…” Jerome said something in English.

  Today is my birthday.

  My feet shouldn’t ache so much, not at my age.

  As I climbed the stairs back up to my flat I heard my phone ringing. I fumbled for my key and skidded down the hallway. You see? I understand him, that’s why I forgive him. That’s why I’m not like the other women who take advantage of him.

  “I’m back.” I was breathless—

  “Hello? Miss Latunsky? I hope you don’t mind me telephoning you at home. This is Tatyana Makuch, from the gallery. Have I called at a bad time?”

  I fought to control my panting, and to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “No, no, I just got back, I’ve been running.”

  “Oh … jogging in the park?”

  “I mean I was running to catch the phone. To get the phone.”

  “Are you busy this afternoon?”

  “Yes. No. Maybe. Why?”

  “I’m lonely. I was wondering if we could meet and I could buy you a coffee, or if you’d like to come to visit my shoe box and I could cook you authentic Warsaw Vorsch.”

  Tatyana? I heard myself saying, “Yes.” When was I going to make it up with Rudi? But there again, why should he find me here pining for him when he gets back? Maybe it would do him good just to pretend that I don’t need him as much as I do. Teach him a little lesson.

  “Great. You know the coffee shop behind the Pushkin Theater?”

  “Yes—”

  “Excellent. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

  That was that. Nemya padded in and jumped onto my lap for some adoration. I told Nemya about Rudi’s tantrum, and about what Switzerland was going to be like, and I wondered why I’d just agreed to give the rest of my day off to a supercilious rival from Poland.

  The empty café smelt of dark wood and coffee. Dust motes eddied through slats of sunlight as I barged open the door. A bell jangled and a radio was playing in the back room. Tatyana hadn’t arrived yet, even though I was late. “Hello, Margarita.”

  Tatyana shifted slightly and came into the light. Her hair shone gold. She was dressed in a smart black velvet suit and her body was lean and tucked in. I had to admit, I could see the appeal. To men like Rogorshev.

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “Here I am. Well, won’t you sit down? Thank you very much for coming. What would you like to drink? The Colombian blend is excellent.”

  Was she trying to impress me? “Then I’ll have the Colombian blend, when the waitress wakes up.”

  A man appeared from the back. “The Colombian?” A strong Ukrainian accent.

  “Yes.”

  He sucked in his cheeks, and disappeared again.

  Tatyana smiled. “Were you surprised when I called you?” A psychotherapist’s tone.

  “Mildly. Should I have been?”

  She offered me a cigarette. I offered her a Benson and Hedges. She took one but didn’t admire it, like any Russian would have done. Benson and Hedges must be commonplace in Poland. I let her light mine.

  “How long have you been working at the Hermitage, Margarita?”

  “About a year now.”

  “You must have some cozy contacts there.” Despite myself I liked her smile. She was being nosy, but only because she wanted to be friendly.

  Margarita Latunsky can take girls like Tatyana in her stride. “You mean the head curator? Oh dear, have the Gutbucket herd been gossiping again?”

  “I get the impression they’d gossip about grass growing in a ditch.”

  “My relationship with the head curator is an open secret. But it started after I came. I got the job through some connections my—I have, in the city hall. There’s no harm. I’m single, and his marriage is not my problem.”

  “I quite agree. We have a lot in common in our attitudes.”

  “You said you were Mrs. Makuch?”

  Tatyana made a whirlpool of cream in her coffee. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I can keep secrets very safe indeed.…”

  “I tell people like Rogorshev that just to keep them off my back. The situation’s more complicated than that.…” I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “So then, Margarita. Tell me about your life. I want to know everything.”

  Eight hours later we were very drunk, at least I knew that I was, hunched over a back table at the Shamrock Pub on Dekabristov Street. A trio of Cubans were playing jazz snaky and slow, and there were man-high plants with rubbery leaves everywhere. The place was lit by candles, which is one of the scrimpiest ways to save money while pretending to be chic known to the entertainment business, and it occurred to me that whenever I was with Tatyana the light was bad. Tatyana knew a lot about jazz, and a lot about wine, which made me believe there was more money in her background than she was letting on. She was also insisting on paying for everything. I refused three times, but Tatyana insisted four times, which came as something of a relief, I admit. I hate asking Rudi for money.

  She knew a lot about a lot of things. A black man stood up on stage, and played a trumpet with a mute. Tatyana glowed, and I saw how beautiful she was. I imagined a deep tragedy in her past. I know from my own life, severe beauty can be a handicap. “More like Miles Davis than Miles Davis,” she murmured.

  “Wasn’t he the first man to fly across the Atlantic?”

  She hadn’t heard me. “The brassy sun lost behind the clouds.”

  We were attracting a lot of attention from the men. As well we might. Tatyana was undoubtedly a rare creature in these climes, and for my part, well, you already know the caliber of man Margarita Latunsky draws hither. Even the trumpeter was giving me the eye over his shiny horn, I swear it. I wondered what it would be like to do it with a black man. Arabs and Orientals and Americans I’ve had dalliances with, yes, but never a black.

  Three young couples came in and sat down near the front. They must have still been in their teens. The boys in borrowed suits, trying to look sophisticated. The girls, trying to look at ease. All of them looking awkward.

  Tatyana nodded at the six. “Young love.” Her voice had a serrated edge.

  “Wouldn’t you change places with them, if you could?”

  “Why on Earth would I want to do that?”

  “They look so fine, and young, and wrapped up in each other. Love is so fresh and clean at that age. Don’t you think?”

  “Margarita! I’m surprised at you! We both know there’s no such thing as love.”

  “What do you call it?”

  Tatyana snuffed out her cigarette. That sly smile. “Mutations of wanting.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am quite serious. Look at those kids. The boys want to get the girls to bed so they can have the corks popped off their bottles, and gush forth. When a man blows his nose you don’t call it love. Why get all misty-eyed when a man blows another part of his anatomy? As for the girls, they’re either going along for the ride because they can get things they want from their boys, or else maybe they enjoy being in bed too. Though I doubt it. I never knew an eighteen-year-old boy who didn’t drop the egg off his spoon at the first fence.”

  “But that’s lust! You’re talking about lust, not love.”r />
  “Lust is the hard sell. Love is the soft sell. The profit margin is exactly the same.”

  “But love’s the opposite of self-interest. True, tender love is pure and selfless.”

  “No. True, tender love is self-interest so sinewy that it only looks selfless.”

  “I’ve known love—I know love—and it is giving and not taking. We’re not just animals.”

  “We’re only animals. What does the head curator give to you?”

  “I’m not talking about him.”

  “Whoever. But think. Why do you think any man really loves you? If you’re honest with yourself, Margarita, the answer will be that he stands to gain in some way. Tell me. Why does he love you, and why do you love him back?”

  I shook my head. “We’re talking about love. There is no ‘why.’ That’s the point.”

  “There is always a ‘why,’ because there is always something that the beloved wants. It might be that he protects you. It might be that he makes you feel special. It might be that he is a way out, a route to some shining future away from the dreary now. It might be that he is the father of your unborn babies. Or it might be that he gives you prestige. Love is a big knot of ‘why’s.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I’m not saying anything’s wrong with it. History is made of people’s desires. But that’s why I smile when people get sentimental about this mysterious force of pure ‘love’ which they think they are steering. ‘Loving somebody’ means ‘wanting something.’ Love makes people do selfish, moronic, cruel, and inhumane things. You asked, would I like to change place with those kids? It would be nice to steal their twenties off them, sure, if I could transmigrate into them with my present mind intact, but otherwise I’d rather change places with a terrier in the zoo. To be in love is to be at the mercy of your lover’s desires. If someone put a bullet through your lover, they’d be releasing you.”

  I watched a horrible image of a bath plug being yanked from Rudi’s chest, and blood gushing out. “If someone put a bullet through my lover I would kill them.”

  The pub is jumping around too much, and the music throbs in my eyes so they run. Tatyana says, “Let’s go outside,” and suddenly we are, and I’ve been swept over a waterfall and down I plummet into the late light. The streets are filled with shadows and brightness and footsteps and candy-colors and tramlines and swallows. I’ve never noticed the windows above the Glinka Capella, how graceful they are. What are those things called? Jerome would know. Flying buttresses? The stars are not quite there tonight. A light is moving among them. A comet, or an angel, or the last decrepit Soviet space station falling down to Earth? Some passersby look at me askance, so I straighten myself up to show them I can walk straight, and the neck of a lamppost swings down like a giraffe’s. One of the office lights is on. Somebody is being wanted by the head curator, but it’s not me, and it’s not Tatyana, not tonight. We walk past a dark car. “Oy, love, how much for the pair of you?” I spit at the window and summon up my foulest curses, but Tatyana whisks me onwards.