The backyard party is now condensed to four tables. A few rubles are scattered on the wind, but the growing bulk of it is weighed down by ashtrays and plates of pickles and bread.
At table one, Peter is doing well, considering. Considering he hasn’t slept. Considering he’s not a full-time alcoholic. Considering he’s not Russian. He’s got one hand resting on Alyona’s hilt, and he’s wearing Felix’s Armani slippers, but he’s otherwise composed.
Across from him, Felix is barefoot and the red smoking jacket is somewhat askew, but even with the wild ember-throwing shake of his smoking hand, he’s doing better than Elvis whose pompadour looks like a murder of crows trying to take flight from his head.
Beside table two, the Fat Man is down to his underwear. His skin is scratched bloody and raw from squirming through the rough boards of the picnic table, and his present solution is to pour a liter of olive oil over his body.
Two of the tattooed men are dipping bread in the hollow of his chest where his enviable breasts intersect with his belly, and four more are in tears watching it.
The Mongolian with a Mohawk struggles to hold James Dean’s head flat to table three while the plastic Ken Doll draws a mustache on his upper lip with a Sharpie. A nearby blonde and redhead shake their heads in dismay.
Johnny Rotten leaves table three to join table four, which is in an uproar because Louis Vuitton is trying to get any one of the three women there to suck the pickle in his pants.
Tables five and six have become the repository for empty bottles, one nearly unconscious brunette, and the urine of the Strongman who is pissing in a jar.
Being a heroin junky, Sid Vicious isn’t drinking but is lazily driving golf balls into the shooting range, and, just as bored, the lion is laid out spiritless on a rock. But miraculously the goat is still alive. Isaak is at the bars bottle-feeding it a six-pack. At first this strikes me as callous entertainment, but then I reconsider and think it might be the most compassionate thing I’ve seen in the past thirty hours. Why not be blissfully unaware when the lion eventually turns?
Four stories below, Demyan finally exits the house to rejoin the party. He’s arrived too late to join the game, so instead he attends to the fallen. He hefts the unconscious woman from the grass and rests her on a poolside recliner. Covering the naked buttocks of the woman to her right with a towel, he then shifts the woman to the left onto her side so she doesn’t choke on vomit. Unknown is whose puke is spreading through the pool, but Demyan directs one of the attending staff members to clean it.
Of any importance, only Volikov and the Polar Bear are unaccounted for.
I look back to where Konstantin is entertaining a buxom lady in a tiny sailor suit. A couch and table from the outside living space has been moved across the grass closer to the picnic tables, and the fat cat is lounging in the center with the squirming woman’s foot shoved deep into his mouth.
To look at him you wouldn’t think he’s long for this life. He’s aged, he’s obese, and he’s puffing so hard to breathe he’s about to get his teeth kicked loose for tickling.
I figure his heart is pumping triple time to get the blood to every very extreme extremity, which really doesn’t bear thinking about, not when it’s safer to notice the fat on his stomach has his navel pushed a good twenty-four inches from other vital organs. His gold laden ring fingers are swollen past size 20, and his shirt is unbuttoned all the way back to the 70s.
There’s no overlooking the man is huge. And old. And apparently horny. I suspect Viagra and an imminent heart attack.
Before he dies, I need to talk with him.
I need a few of his voting shares.
And I need to get them without either Demyan or Volikov suspecting.
But before descending the tower’s spiral stairs—a dizzying prospect—I also need to stave off the impending alcohol crash. It’s a good time for promethazine. And maybe a Quaalude. Then what I wouldn’t give for cocaine.
Come on, you didn’t think I was doing all this other shit without trying cocaine?
I already told you I was raised in the endless circuit of Renaissance fairs, a hive of users, abusers, and escapists of every ilk.
Trust me on this, everyone—from the ticket sellers to the archers—is high.
It’s not unknown for the jousters to recover on ketamine, the pike men on codeine, and who doesn’t know the barkers are blazed for days on meth? The jugglers regularly roll on X while the magicians trip on shrooms, but you’ll be happy to hear the sword swallower only rages once on PCP.
Food vendors, crafters, my parents, all stoned out of their gourd.
I was taught to smoke weed in a potato by the Russian armorer. And then I learned how to drink, fuck, and read Cyrillic in chainmail.
Ah, the good old days of the Renaissance fairs, they made me what I am today: a fortune-telling Russki lover with a drug habit.
Shameful really. That’s why I hide it from Peter, and also Peter’s society-conscious parents, and Peter’s presentation-is-everything employer, and Peter’s wealthy friends, all raised on Connecticut’s Gold Coast with summer yachts and trust funds. They’d no more understand my gypsy upbringing than recognize the full moon is opposite the sun, currently sextiling Mars, an alignment which makes Leo recklessly favorable to Gemini, something I really must go and take advantage of.
* * *
Walking on Quaaludes is not unlike walking on an inflatable raft, and the number of Quaaludes taken determines the swells in the ocean. Having taken only one, the water is calm but the floor is still rubber.
The grass extending across the back lawn seems to ripple underfoot.
From the various tables, laughter mingles with conversation and the occasional voice stands out.
“The woman could mangle firewood.”
“Oy-yo.” Oops.
“I think conversation with her is empty pizza, but later she sends me picture of pilótka.”
Pilótka: military field cap, which looks surprisingly similar to a vagina.
Nearer the pool, I hear Johnny Rotten shout, “I have biggest dick here!”
“My dick in your mouth does not count,” Felix calls back.
At table two, the Fat Man watches Peter sitting too close to Alyona, and says sardonically, “And the wolves are fed and the sheep are safe.”
The rest of the table turns to stare. Then table three wonders what’s happening and turns as well, and four can’t resist joining in.
Standing beside Felix, Demyan explains the attention to Peter as: “They happy you come.”
“It requires confident humility to embrace learning in public,” Peter’s voice rises to fill the space. “For the authentic dialogue, I thank you all for the invitation to your gracious space.”
Alyona translates, “Peter is grateful for gracious space.”
“Gracious space? The fuck is it?”
“Is like IKEA.”
“Did someone get him coffee table?”
“I got no fucking coffee table. He gets coffee table and I must hold coffee in hand?”
“You do not need coffee table.”
“I need a fucking coffee table.”
“When you run the bald dude through your fist,” i.e., masturbate, “as much as American, then you need free hand and get coffee table.”
“He has two hands.”
“Other is for abrikosy.”
Abrikosy = apricots = testicles.
Demyan translates, “They thank you too.”
It’s 6:00 p.m. but the evening sun is still high in the sky. Squinting against the glare, I finally weave my way past the pool. Alyona sees me coming and twists her shoulder so Peter’s hand drops from the crossguard tattooed across her back.
Another time under different circumstances and without the Quaalude, I might care, but at this moment, subverting her seduction of Peter doesn’t serve me. I’d rather she have space to work, so I angle sharply away toward Konstantin. He still dominates the couch but is now deeply engrossed in
exploring the woman’s cleavage. It’s not really the time to interrupt.
Unobtrusively, I take a chair at the edge of activity.
Demyan’s face creases with worry.
To prevent his expression from twisting into full-blown suspicion, I turn my head west, past the grill, and watch Vicious as he continues to drive golf balls into the shooting range. He sinks a ball into the nearest pit and then another into the one beside it. Pulling three balls from the thirty-gallon bin at his side, he tees them all up. One after the other, he knocks turf and tees into the range’s activation pillar while burying all three balls in a single faraway target.
Intent on watching Vicious and not arousing Demyan’s mistrust, I only notice Alyona has taken the seat beside me when she asks, “Is first time in Russia?”
“I did all my summer courses here.”
As though she’s been caught in the wind—and not a Russian drinking game—wisps of hair fall from the bun on her head and soften her sharp features. From her sky-blue eyes to her grass-stained knees, she could not be more striking.
“What school?”
“Saint Petersburg State.”
“Liberal Arts?”
“Yes.”
She runs her hand over her neck as though her muscles are tense, but I suspect she’s really wrapping her fingers around the grip, straightening her back, readying the blade that runs the length of her spine.
“You know, this”—her hand spreads out to encompass the scene before us—“this is not…”
I think she’s going to say me.
This is not me.
But after a pause, she starts again with, “I have degree in economics, but I make more money doing this.”
“I have a degree in Russian literature, and I make no money at all. I suppose we’re not that far apart.”
“To educated whores, then.” She lifts an imaginary shot and tosses it back. Before I can close my shocked mouth, she turns on me with eyes of fury and demands, “What? You won’t drink with whores?”
“I… uh… I’m,” scared, “more of a pill popper.”
“Yes, you look the type.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just told you that.”
“Because you have no friends here.”
Brutal.
“Don’t worry, is just fact. Like this.” Again her hand sweeps across the scene, but this time she stops on Peter. “I know you have terrible thoughts of me but is job with him, nothing more.”
“Actually,” I cannot shut the hell up, “I rather appreciate it. Your work will make what I have to do easier.”
“Ah.” Understanding instantly registers on her face. “Sorry to hear of it.”
I look around for something to shove in my mouth: food, drink, more pills would be excellent at this point. It’s not like it would surprise her.
From the table before Konstantin, she hands me a hunk of bread and says, “You’re welcome.” And then, “You’re easy on the eyes,” and a moment later, she adds, “… to read.” And she smirks.
It could be the Quaalude, but I think she might be friendly.
While I nibble on the crust, she gathers her tousled hair and rearranges it on the top of her head. It’s still a beautiful mess when she gives up, crosses her hands and leaves them to rest over the pommel hidden on her scalp. She asks, “Why you end it with pretty Peter?”
“It was something I read. Do you know this quote, ‘Take for yourself what you can and do not be ruled by others’?”
“Who does not know quote? Demyan likes to take shirt off.” She almost rolls her eyes in contempt before adding, “Be careful with him.”
“He’s an idealist?”
“He’s pervert.”
A demented memory makes me smile, and she misreads my expression when I ask, “What can you tell me about Konstantin?”
“Aha.” She snaps the fingers of one hand. “You have your eyes on the big man?”
“Sort of. He wants you to seduce Peter for kompromat, yes?”
She shrugs and offers an impassive, “Eh.”
“Or do you work for Volikov?”
“I work for money.”
Her correction is so sharp I want to apologize, but for what offense I’m not entirely certain. The Quaalude, however, is still curious, and somewhat fearless, and, okay, stupid, so instead of expressing regret, I ask, “How much money?”
“More than you gain from Peter.”
Or was it: “More than you gain from peter.”
While I speculate on her English capacity for double entendre, she moves on to the rather cutting question, “I wonder, how stupid does girl have to be for man like Peter?”
I’m reduced to the ellipsis again. “…”
“I need to know. If I want nice, rich man, how stupid must I act?”
“…”
“You act stupid, yes?”
“Uh…”
“Is that how you do it? Do I make correct face? Ulllhhh?” She practically drools. “Is good, yes?”
“Like you were born to it.”
“I try again. Ulllhhh. Maybe Peter will enjoy me because I remind him of you.”
The Quaalude is certain. “You like me.”
She looks across the lawn to Elvis throwing cigarette butts at Rotten, and sighs. “I like you more than anyone here. I very much tire of this job.”
“But are you good at it?”
“The best.” Her smile is equal parts bravado before indignity and absolute certainty she’s right. “Why do you ask?”
“You say you work for money, and I need to buy a friend. Do you take Bitcoin?”
“I love Bitcoin.”
The Emperor
Of course the Queen of Swords loves Bitcoin. Bitcoin is an idea that lives in the air, and this queen rules the air and all things intangible. Ethics, morality, and law, it’s all much the same for her. Same with concepts such as jealously, hate, and love, she’s quite above it, untouched by Earthly concerns. Not even the Devil can drag her down into the dirt.
Poor, dirty devil. The air, the heavens, and the emptiness of space are his undoing. He can’t ground them, though he tries. He’s trying now with Alyona, but after she whispered secrets of Peter in his ear, she kept herself just far enough away that his questions couldn’t be heard if not shouted, and now, plagued with doubts unanswered, he lets her lead him away.
She’s the best.
A real professional.
Worth every coin the Prince doesn’t know he lost.
I suppose on the embezzling front Peter and I have something in common. Yes, well, don’t fault me for not blatantly mentioning it earlier. It’s not like it wasn’t obvious. How do you think I pay for the pills?
Bitcoin and innovative domestic finance, that’s how.
And I’m not done innovating. Once Demyan is off the field, I’m free to talk to Konstantin. And then, after I have a couple of his voting shares, I’m going after Isaak.
But first, the little sailor whose foot is covered in Konstantin’s spit needs to set sail.
I figure she’s looking for an excuse to dip it in the pool, so there’s no opposition when I ask Konstantin, “Can we have a moment alone?”
After he calls, “Lev prishel!” and the party falls under the boards, he pats the now empty spot beside him.
The couch is large but still his knee, his thigh, and the fat of his upper arm press against my side. Peter would call this a tactile situation, because even the Russians would agree, things haven’t been sticky since the 90s.
“Now we are free to talk, I am unsure how to begin.”
“But you have something to tell, I know. You tried to tell me in the car. It has something to do with the Azart Corporation, yes?”
“Yes.”
“I know the moment I hear this name, Azart, it is no good.”
“Perhaps. But it could be turned to your benefit.”
“Ah, but always at a price, yes? Well then, let me hear it: what is the cost?”
/>
“Less than allowing Volikov to maintain voting majority.”
He looks at me sideways before bellowing, “Lion has gone!”
While table two births the Fat Man in a puddle of oil, Peter belly crawls from table one and then reaches back under to drag out Felix, but it’s table three that has our attention. With a rumbling growl, the table rises from the ground, tossing off detritus, and seems to be leaving the scene on skinny legs.
Johnny Rotten rolls as the table makes a quarter turn and bottles take flight, but Louis Vuitton is too slow to respond. The bench seat strikes him upside the head and sprawls him sideways.
Three women scream—“Oooyyyaaahhh!” Aaarrrggghhh!— and the goat screams back, “Meh!” Baa!
The women cover their heads against the rain of plates and pickles, and the goat tries to run but falls down drunk.
Under the table, the growl turns to a grunt as the weight is hefted onto the Strongman’s shoulders. He makes another quarter turn, bringing the opposite end of the table back at Rotten’s head.
Rolling again, Johnny swears, “Mne pokhuy.” Fuck me.
The women scream, “Oyah!”
The goat bleats, “Meh!”
And the lion lifts his head.
When the table is tossed—Bukh. Thunk.—the drinkers cheer—“Ura!” Yeah!— and the lion yawns.
Konstantin, motioning to the action, asks, “You like to play?”
“I was never that good at drinking.”
“But you like to play games?”
“I prefer not.”
“Now is the time for little foxes to play. The lion is gone.”
“But is he? The only time the lion leaves is to mark his territory or kill something. By that account, he is never really gone. Not really. Not safely.”
He thoughtfully nods his head before saying, “It is good we understand each other.”
As the redhead from table two vomits into the Strongman’s piss jar (still on table five), the lion lazily stretches off his rock and notices the goat trying to clamber to his hooves, but for all the stability they offer, the goat’s legs might as well be pasta. The lion is now decidedly interested. In a fast trot, he descends on the goat, and then, wrapping one big paw around its neck, he rolls with it to the ground.
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