“Come on,” says Tatyana, “let’s go back to my place for some coffee. I can make us some hot dogs. I’ll squeeze some sweet mustard onto yours, if you’re a good Margarita.” Everywhere I look, you could frame it and just by doing that you’d have a picture. Not a Jerome picture. A real picture, more real than the ones we steal. Even they are just copies. Jerome’s are copies of copies. That boy’s head. The wishing well. All those girls in green eyeshadow and apricot blusher, being herded into the back of the police van, whisked off to the cop shop, to be fined fifteen dollars before being released. They’ll have to work extra hard for the rest of the night to make up for lost time. This is where the tsar was blown up, my mother told me a long time ago, and I say it now to Tatyana, but Tatyana didn’t hear me, because my words forgot their names. The firecrackers going off in a distant quarter, or might they be gunshots? That would be a good picture. The car with bricks for wheels. The shape of the factory roof, and the chimney, sooty bricks, a picture made of sooty bricks. The horse running down an alley, how did the horse get off its pedestal? A boy with dinosaur fin-hair sways past on roller blades. A tramp with his bag of newspapers for a pillow on the bench. Tourists in their bright “mug me” shirts, the canals and the domes and the crosses and the sickles and, ah … even the mud by the river …
I breathe because I can’t not. I love Rudi because I can’t not.
“Tatyana,” I say, leaning over the railings and looking into the water. “You’re wrong.”
“Not far,” her voice says. “Can you get there?”
A police boat moves down the river. Its red and blue lights are beautiful.
All I remember about Tatyana’s flat is a sober clock, which dropped tocks like pebbles down a deep shaft. Things gleamed, and swung, and Tatyana was close, saying she wanted something, she was warm, and I didn’t want to leave for a while. At one point I remember that today is my birthday, and I try to tell Tatyana, but I’ve already forgotten what it was I wanted to say. I remember Tatyana loading me into a taxi and her telling the taxi driver my address as she pays him.
Rudi was home when I got back. It was about three in the morning. I hesitated for a moment before going in. He’ll want to know where I’ve been. I can safely tell him about Tatyana. He shouldn’t mind. He can even check up on her if he wants to, though of course he trusts me completely.
I turned the key, opened the door, and had the shock of my life to find Rudi standing in the hallway in his boxer shorts and socks, pointing his gun at me. A pump of adrenalin flushed my wooziness away. The bathroom light was on behind him and a tap was running. He tutted, and lowered it.
“You’re a naughty kitten, Margarita. You didn’t use the code. I’m disappointed.”
Nemya bounded across the hallway and arched herself around my calf, shoving my leg in the direction of the kitchen. “Darling, I didn’t use the code because I live here.”
“How was I supposed to know that you weren’t the police?”
I didn’t have an answer. I never do with Rudi. But he was in a calm frame of mind: he hadn’t shouted at me yet. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. Most of us make mistakes from time to time. But kitten, don’t make this one again, or you might cause an accident. Come in, come in. You’re late back, aren’t you? I was getting worried. There’s a lot of nasty doggies out there that could eat up a little kitten.”
“I’ve been out with a colleague from work—she’s called Tatyana, and—” I began to explain but Rudi didn’t seem to be interested. In the living room was a big bunch of roses, red and yellow and pink ones.
“Rudi! Are they for me?”
Rudi smiled, and I melted. He remembered my birthday! For the first time in our three years! “Of course they are, kitten. Who else would I be buying flowers for now, hey?” He came over and kissed me on my forehead. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth to kiss him full on the lips, but he’d already turned away. Rudi had forgotten to put any water in the vase, so I carried them through to the kitchen. They had a beautiful scent. A garden from long ago.
“I have a small favor to ask,” Rudi called through. “I know you won’t mind.”
“Oh?”
“I have a business partner coming to town for a short time. Actually he’s a friend of Gregorski’s. Very high up in all the right international circles. He’s from Mongolia. Runs the place, virtually. He needs somewhere to stay.”
“And?”
“I thought the spare room would suit him.”
I watched the water brimming over the top of the vase. “If he runs Mongolia, why can’t Gregorski put him in a penthouse?” I ignored Nemya, who was reminding me that she had claws.
“Because then the police could keep tabs on him. He runs Mongolia unofficially. Even Mongolians have to pretend to have elections to get loans.”
“So you want me to put up a criminal? I thought we’d left those days behind.”
“We have, kitten, we have! I’m just doing a friend a favor!”
“Why not go the whole hog and open up a flophouse for junkie pyromaniacs?”
“For Christ’s sake don’t overreact! I keep boxes of merchandise in the spare room: where’s the difference? And he’s not a criminal. He’s an official with enough high-level contacts to not be searched at the border beyond Irkutsk. Helsinki’s off, by the way. Gregorski’s found a buyer in Beijing. Our friend will be taking the Delacroix back. The less evidence of his tracks the better.”
“Why doesn’t Gregorski just buy the police off like he always does?”
“Because Gregorski only holds sway at the Finnish and Latvian borders. He can’t trust his usual channels as far east as Siberia. He can only trust me, and us. Kitten …”—I felt Rudi’s arms slide around my stomach—“let’s not argue.… It’s for our future.…” His thumb wormed into my navel. “This is where our baby’s going to be one day.…” He nuzzled his face into my neck, and I tried to stay cross. “Babe, kitten, baby kitten … I know it’s a lot to ask, but we’re so close now. I’ve been thinking, about what you were saying earlier, at Jerome’s. About Austria. You’re quite right, you know. We should get out while the going’s good. I apologize for flying off the handle. I hate myself afterwards. You know that. It’s the stress. I know you understand. I sometimes lash out at the things that are most precious to me. I hate myself sometimes,” Rudi was murmuring. “Look at me. Look at me. Look at how much this stupid man adores you.…”
I turned and looked into his beautiful young eyes. I see how much.
“Guess where I went today, kitten. To the travel agents, to check ticket prices to Zurich.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. They were closed, because of the holiday. But I went. And I’m not going to have that greasy curator bastard insult my kitten no more. Once we’ve gone, Margarita, his life is in your hands. Just one word from you, and I’ll have someone press the button on him. I swear on the Virgin Mary Mother.”
See? Tatyana was wrong. Rudi wants to make me happy. He’s going to give everything up, for us. How could I have doubted him, even for a moment? We kissed, long and hard. I whispered, “Rudi, you are the best present I’ve ever had on my birthday.…”
Rudi murmured, “Yeah? It’s coming up soon, isn’t it?” Eventually he drew back, his hands on my hips. “So. It’s okay for our buyer’s agent to keep a low profile here, yeah? It’ll only be until after the swap. Cleaning night. Just two weeks.”
“I don’t know, Rudi. I was hoping you and I could spend a little time together, before we leave Petersburg. We’ve got a lot of planning to do. When’s he due?”
Rudi turned away. I opened a can of cat food. “He came today. He’d flown in, and really needed a bath, so I ran one for him. He’s in there now.”
“What?”
“He’s, er, already here.”
“Rudi! How could you? This is where you and I and Nemya live!”
I opened the kitchen door and felt like I’d entered a piece of theater.
Standing against the window with his back to me stood a short, dark, lithe man. He was wearing Rudi’s dressing gown, one I’d made for him out of scarlet flannel, and was inspecting Rudi’s gun. I heard myself say, “Huh?”
Moments passed before he turned around. “Good evening, Miss Latunsky. Thank you for your hospitality. It’s good to revisit your majestic city.” Perfect Russian, an accent dusty with Central Asia. Nemya yowled for her supper behind me. “Your little cat and I are already acquainted. She considers me her very own Uncle Suhbataar. I hope you will do the same.”
————
My gallery is empty now, so I walk over to the window to stretch my legs. A storm is coming, and the air is stretched tight like the skin of a drum. Walking to work today, the city felt left to brew. The Neva is sultry, turgid as an oil spill. An election is being held next week, and vans with tinny speakers are driving around the city talking about reform and integrity and trust.
A mosquito buzzes in my ear. I splat it. A smear of human blood oozes from its fuselage. I look for somewhere to wipe it and choose the curtain. The guide is approaching, so I quickly sit down again. The guide turns the corner, speaking Japanese. I catch the word “Delacroix.” In eight days the same guide will be saying the same things, waving the same pointy stick at a completely different picture, and only six people in the world—Rudi, myself, Jerome, Gregorski, that Suhbataar man, and the buyer in Beijing—will ever know. Jerome says the perfect crime is that which nobody knows has been committed. The sheep nod. Inside, I snicker. They’ve already taken photographs of several fakes today. And paid their foreigner’s price for the privilege.
A little girl walks over to me and offers me a sweet. She says something in Japanese and shakes the bag. She looks about eight, and is clearly bored by our wonders of the art world. Her skin is the color of coffee with a dash of cream. Her hair is plaited, and she’s in her best dress, strawberry red with white lace. Her big sister sees her, and giggles, and several of the adults turn around. I take a sweet, and one of the Japanese cameras flashes. That annoys me about Asians. They’ll photograph anything. But what a beautiful smile the little girl has! For a moment I’d like to take her home. Little girls are like old cats. If they don’t like you nothing on Earth will make them pretend to.
My Kremlin-official lover insisted that I have the abortion. I didn’t want to. I was scared of the operation. The priests and old women had always said there was a gulag in hell for women who killed their babies. But I was more scared of being cast off by my lover and winding up in the gutter, so I gave way. He didn’t want to risk bad publicity: an illegitimate child would have been evidence of our affair, and although everyone knew corruption and scandal kept the Soviet Union ticking, appearances had to be kept up for the plebs. Otherwise, why bother? I knew that doing it would make my mother howl with shame in her grave, and that was a pleasing thought.
Most women have had one or two abortions during their lifetime. It was no big deal. I had it done at the old Party hospital over at Movskovsky Prospect, so the quality of care should have been better than that for ordinary women. It wasn’t. I don’t know what went wrong. I kept bleeding for days afterwards, and when I went back to see the doctor, he refused to see me, and the receptionist got security to escort me out. They just left me on the steps, screaming, until there was no more anger left and there was nothing to do but sob. I remember the cropped elm trees leading down to the waterfront, dripping in the rain. I tried to get my lover to pull strings, but he’d lost interest in me by that point, I think. He’d come to see me as a liability. Two weeks later he dumped me, at the tea shop in the Party department store. His wife had somehow found out about my pregnancy. He said that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut and go quietly he’d have my housing reallocated. I’d become damaged goods. I’d damaged his conscience.
I kept my mouth shut. When I could eventually see a gynecologist he took one look and said that he hoped I never planned to have children. He was a stubbly man who smelt of vodka, so I didn’t believe him. There was some iron cow of a counselor there, who said it was an old bourgeois conceit that dictated the only role in life for women was to provide for capitalists to exploit, but I told her I didn’t need her advice and I walked out. A year later, I read about my lover’s heart attack in Pravda.
I tell Rudi that I take the pill, because he made it known pretty early on that he thought condoms were only fit for animals. Who knows what can happen in Switzerland? The air is clean there, and the water pure. Maybe Swiss gynecologists can do things that Russian ones can’t. A little girl, half-Rudi, half-me, running around in the wildflowers. Ah, she’ll be beautiful. And then there’ll be a younger brother, and Rudi can teach him how to hunt in the mountains while I teach our little kitten how to cook. We’re going to learn how to make bird’s nest soup, which Jerome says they eat in China.
• • •
Head Curator Rogorshev seems to have been avoiding me today, even though tonight’s the night of our regular liaison. Fine by me. The Delacroix will be our last picture—Rudi promised. Rudi says he’s beginning to tie up loose business ends. He says he can’t do it overnight, and of course I understand. Rudi explained the situation to Gregorski, and tolerated no “if”s or “but”s, so Gregorski had no choice but to bow down. If necessary, Rudi said, I can go on ahead and stay in the best hotel in Switzerland for a few weeks until he can join me. That would be nice. I could surprise him by buying the chalet first and having it ready for when he’s sold his assets for the best possible price. As well as his pizza place—and, of course, the modeling agency that I work in when I’m not doing the Hermitage—he runs a taxi company, a construction company, an import-export business, has a share in a gym and is a sleeping partner for a group of nightclubs, where he handles security and insurance and such things. Rudi’s a friend of the president. The president said that Rudi is one of the new breed of Russians who are navigating the New Russia through the choppy waters of the new century.
My gallery is empty again. I stroll over to the window. Giant gulls are shouldering the wind. The weather will soon be changing for the worse. I admire my reflection in the glass. It’s true, what Rudi said last night, after we’d made love for the third time: as I age, I get younger. It’s not an everyday beauty I have, out of a powder compact or shampoo bottle. It’s more molecular than that. Wide, luscious lips, and a neck with curves that my admiral compared to a swan’s. After dallying with platinum hair, I returned to my native auburn, the bronze of tribal jewelry. I got my looks from my mother, though Christ knows she gave me nothing else. My talents as an actress and dancer I must have inherited from some illustrious, forgotten ancestor. My eyes, deep sea-green, I inherited from my father, who, in his day, was a famous movie director, now deceased. He never acknowledged me publicly. I choose not to let his name be known. I respect his wishes. Anyway, my eyes. Rudi says he could dive into them and never resurface. Did you know, I entered the Leningrad Academy of Arts as an actress? Doubtless—if I’d chosen to—I could have gone all the way to the top. My Politburo lover discovered me there, in the early stage of my career, and we entered the wider stage of society life together. We used to dance the tango. I can still dance, but Rudi prefers discos. I find them a bit common. Full of sluts and tarts who are only interested in men for their power and money. The Swiss have more class. In Switzerland, Rudi will beg me to teach him.
Jerome can’t bear the sight of his own reflection, he once confessed after drinking a bottle of cheap sherry, and he’s never owned a mirror. I asked him why. He told me that whenever he looks into one he sees a man inside it, and thinks, “Who in God’s name are you?”
The serpent is still there, coiled snug around the warty tree—
Christ above!
My dream’s just come back to me.
I was hiding in a tunnel. There was something evil down there, somewhere. Two people ran past, both slitty-eyed, a man and a woman. The man wanted to save the woman from the evil. He had grabbed her a
rm and they were running, faster than gas in air currents. I followed them, because the man seemed to know the way out, but then I lost track. I found myself on a bare hill with a sky smeared with oil paint and comets and chimes. I realized I was looking at the foot of the cross. There were the dice that the Romans had been using to divide Jesus’ clothes. As I looked, the cross started sinking. There was the nail, hammered clean through Jesus’ feet. His thighs, creamy and bloodless as alabaster. The loincloth, the wound in His side, the arms outstretched and the hands hammered in, and there staring straight back at me was the grinning face of the devil, and in that moment I knew that Christianity had been one horrible, sick, two-thousand-year-old joke.
Gutbucket Barbara Petrovich came to take my place while I went for a tea break. As usual, she said not a word. Pious and holier-than-thou, just like my mother on her deathbed. I walked down my marbled hallways. A shuffler with a guidebook garbled at me in a foreign language, but I ignored it. Past my dragons of jade and blood-red stone, through my domed chambers of gold leaf, under my Olympian gods, there’s Mercury, living by his wits, down long rooms of blue sashes and silver braid and mother-of-pearl-inlaid tables and velvet slippers, and down sooty back stairs and anterooms and into the murky staff canteen, where Tatyana was stirring chocolate powder into warm milk, all alone.
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