The noon sun glints off the gilded mirrors causing refractions to bound mercilessly between the windows and marble floor. I enter the room squinting against the glare to ask Volikov, “Have you seen Peter?”
Shaking off the opiate nods, Isaak answers, “He is with Konstantin and crew at the pool.”
“Odd thing”–Volikov looks at me from the top of his eyes—“Demyan arrived with his shirt off.”
Isaak chuckles with the memory. “The Bratva, being what they are, took it as a challenge, and next thing you know, everyone is stripping to naked. Even Konstantin showed off his stars. Maksim and I could not hope to compete, so here we are, hiding inside like old gray bureaucrats.”
Laying down the tablet, Volikov says, “I must compliment your fiancé. With all the brothers proving their lawless worth, he did not hesitate to show he has no obvious criminal past.” Casually, he adds, “I heard you had a private chat with Demyan today.”
“Did you?”
“Be careful with him, he is an idealist.”
“You make it sound like a mental disorder.”
“In his position, it is. Like the worst of your American Mafia, he romanticizes the institution. Konstantin is successful because he is a realist. What Demyan cannot bear to accept is the thief in law of his imagination has not existed since the sixties, when the State made it a capital offense to be part of a gang. Do you think Demyan would die for his beliefs?”
I’m thinking Da, but I go with: “Hard to tell.”
“He thinks he is part of a noble tradition because he looks around and the only thieves in Konstantin’s family, besides the obvious Pakhan himself, are Felix and Oleg—you would have noticed Oleg for the polar bear on his head—but these days practically anyone can join the thieves. A few million rubles and I could have Isaak crowned a thief.”
“But not yourself?”
He dips his head and concedes, “They do have their limits.”
“Enough gold could get me crowned,” Isaak confirms, “but the guild would be looking for any reason to take the crown, and whatever tattoo they gave, off with a brick. It is not an honor many wish to suffer.”
Volikov’s sideways glance is a warning to Isaak against further contradiction. To me, he gestures to the seat across from him and says, “Sit. Peter has Demyan. He does not need you.”
That’s highly debatable. But, as most of the arguments support Volikov’s statement, I sit.
He says, “Tell me about the Azart Corporation.”
I should not have sat.
Following my gaze to the French doors that lead to the western gallery, the conservatory, and eventually to Peter outside, he says, “Do not be in a hurry to leave.”
“Or a hurry to reply,” Isaak adds whimsically.
As the previous sideways glance was far too subtle, Volikov turns full in his seat to put Isaak under a venomous stare.
“What?” Isaak shrugs. “You know this proverb: Never hurry to reply, but hurry to listen.”
Like the motto for the FSB. But I’m not brave enough to actually say it. Instead, I try to shift the topic by asking, “What do you think about the lion outside?”
“Completely harmless. We removed his fangs and claws years ago.”
As my expression turns to complete horror, Volikov corrects dryly, “Oh, you mean the lion in the cage. Still red in tooth and claw.”
“But not in spirit.” Isaak sighs. “With or without fangs, the lion’s share is always too big.”
“And the pride grows larger every day. What I would like to know is if the Azart Corporation is another mouth to feed, or a vulture circling for scraps.”
“Well,” I mumble, “your concern was the roads, and the Azart Corporation does offer a solution.”
“At what cost?”
“As I understand, thirty percent.”
Isaak’s pupils dilate like an anime character, and Volikov erupts with “Kak by ne tak!”
Literally: As if not so. It’s something you might shout when you’re so overcome with rage you can’t decide whether to exclaim As if, Not Likely, or So not going to happen, so you splutter a bit of each in one disbelieving interjection.
Recovering slightly, Volikov demands, “What did Konstantin say to this?”
“It might be better to ask Peter. Let me go get him.”
“Call him.”
“I… uh…”—look myself over—“don’t have my phone.”
“Use mine.”
“Right. Thank you.” Taking the offered phone, I heft it a couple times in my hand to appreciate the weight. “Is this a satellite cell?”
“Of course.”
“Yes, of course it is. Why would it not be?”
“When you are in the woods with wolves, you learn to howl. Or, you could use a satellite phone.”
“A very modern proverb.” Handing the heavy thing back, I say, “Peter doesn’t have his phone on him either.”
Losing patience, he draws out the question: “And why would he not?”
“He… uh… lost it. Yes, he lost it. Probably in the woods last night.”
Volikov moves an unspoken sentence around his mouth and seems to decide it would be easier to just swallow it than question it. “Isaak,” he snaps. “Go find Peter. And only Peter.”
The Hanged Man
As Isaak returns with Peter, Volikov is finishing his lesson on the thieves. “Because every thief must spend time in jail, it follows that every thief has been caught. This requirement ensures every thief is either careless or stupid. Of course, some are unlucky, but the average is on stupidity. For the rank and file, this is not necessarily bad, but the problem with the thieves’ hierarchy is the more times a member is caught, the higher he goes through the ranks. The most incompetent among them are constantly promoted. You understand what this means? The thieves in law are run by court-appointed idiots.”
For a moment, it appears Volikov might actually chuckle, but the grin that threatens to curl his lips is instead wrenched into a painfully fake smile at the sound of Peter’s voice.
“Volikov, my man, glad to see you back at the keyboard.”
I’m not about to remind Volikov that he went AFK with Felix after swallowing an aspirin. I’d rather Peter had said, “I am glad you sent for me.”
“Yes,” Volikov agrees, “we have much to discuss.”
“Like the destructuralization of the blueprint.”
“Not only the change in agreement, but we should also resolve the issue of the roads as well.”
Settling into the gilded chair beside me, Peter takes a moment to look around the room and comment, “R backslash Room Porn. R Russian Immersion. R Overkill. Pick a subreddit, baby, and for maximum karma be sure to include that hideous thing in the corner. Have you ever seen that many doors or drawers on a cabinet? R What’s In This Thing?”
Volikov interrupts his ogling to say, “Peter, I want to think of you as my friend.”
“Not just your friend but your partner.”
“It is your friendship I want, Peter.”
“You are top of my BFF list.”
“But friends work for the benefit of friends, Peter, not just themselves.”
“Only rust works more tirelessly than me.”
“Very good to know, Peter, because as my friend I would like you to show me the same generosity you provided yourself in the H2Y0 deal.”
Peter opens his mouth to reply but stops short.
“I particularly enjoyed how you allocated funds in the advertising campaign. Very creative.”
Closing his mouth, Peter stops smiling, stops breathing, stops moving. Seconds pass.
“What was the account you managed before H2Y0? Remind me, Peter.”
Being the translator, Peter looks to me as though I’m the one toying with him.
“You have managed so many accounts, I know it is hard to keep track, but this one was more interesting than most.”
Looking back to Volikov, Peter says nothing.
“It had that very, very large manufacturing budget.”
Deathly still, Peter stares ahead.
“Hmmm, I’m trying to think… what was the name of that account you managed? Isaak, do you remember?’
“The Logstein account.”
“Yes, the Logstein account.”
Peter is now ashen, and I’m feeling pretty certain the second kompromat is in play.
“Strange to pay such inflated manufacturing costs, but then, who really understands these Chinese agreements?”
With a desperately hopeful expression, Peter shrugs.
“Well, of course, we Russians do, but we did teach them the system.”
Peter nods dismally.
“I find Peter’s silence disquieting. Sibyl, have you been delivering my words exactly?”
Yes, and I translate that exactly too.
When Peter finally speaks, it’s to say, “Baby, I want you to go upstairs and lock the door.”
“No, I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“Baby… I’ve done things.”
“Clearly evident.”
“I don’t want you involved.”
“It’s a bit late for that.”
“It’s never too late.”
“Yes, Peter, sometimes it is too late. You’re in Russia. You don’t speak the language. You’re in the middle of a business deal with the mob and the government. It has never been so late.”
Volikov’s tone is sardonic. “Perhaps you two would like some time alone to—”
“Shut-the-flibbertigibbet-up,” Peter snarls.
I open my mouth to speak, but Peter snaps, “For fuck’s sake, baby, he doesn’t need that translated.” Then glaring at Volikov, he adds, “Some things are universally understood.”
Raising both hands in a sign of Take all the time you need, Volikov sits back to wait.
“Baby, I’m serious, go upstairs and lock the door.”
“Peter,” I try to match his severity, “dialogue is the only way to resolve this. You’re stuck with me. It’s either me or Demyan, and I promise you, you don’t want Demyan.”
“Richard Branson’s Virgin ass!” Peter swears. After a moment’s struggle for composure, he says, “All right, baby, we’re going to do this, but you translate exactly. I mean it, baby, don’t fuck with my words. Understand?”
Hand raised, I swear a silent oath to translate verbatim. It’s not a hard promise to keep, not when the language of rage is devoted to clarity.
* * *
Neologism is out. Traditionalism is in.
Back straight, eyes hard, Peter says, “Mr. Volikov, succinctly, what do you want?”
“I want you to be my friend.”
“Fuck you. What do you want?”
“If you cannot offer friendship, Peter, how can I be certain of your loyalty in business?”
“Extortion, Mr. Volikov. When loyalties waver, extortion prevails.”
Tapping a thoughtful finger against the upholstery, Volikov says, “Perhaps I misjudged you.”
“Well, fuck-a-doodle-doo.”
And don’t think I can’t translate fuck-a-doodle-doo into Russian. With the same flippancy as Peter, I say, “Yebukoo-kah-re-koo.”
Volikov responds with disappointment, “Peter.”
“What do you want?”
“First, the Azart Corporation.”
Peter’s eyelids droop in bored contempt.
“This thirty-percent ploy is merely an attempt to secure half.”
“You’re a genius.”
“Even fifteen percent is too much.”
“For the capital they’re offering, ten percent is sufficient to keep them onboard.”
“Agreed.”
“Perfect.”
“Wonderful,” Isaak says.
Things are indeed going rather well, considering each thinks the other will pay for the roads for an extra ten percent, but then Volikov says, “Morris and Hugo will have to forfeit voting rights to maintain majority shares.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Yes, Peter, it will, and you are here to ensure it. Thankfully, for you, we are friends so Morris and Hugo will never learn of your previous indiscretions.”
Peter silently considers it before coming to the conclusion, “They’ll never agree.”
“What need do they have for voting rights?” Isaak asks. “They do not understand Russian business. They should be happy to take their profit and focus their time on American business.”
For a moment, Peter’s mouth hangs open and then he deadpans, “Yeah, hoss, that’s exactly how I’ll sell it too.”
Volikov calmly insists, “You will know what to say.”
“I’ll just tell them my candied-coated nuts were too sweet for you to resist.”
I don’t exactly know how to phrase that so I put Turgenev in the driver’s seat and we go a little off-road in translation: “I want ten of your voting shares in Sibyl’s name.”
Amused, Volikov nods thoughtfully, and Peter nods back.
Volikov says, “So we understand each other: There are sixty-one voting shares. I own twenty-two and Isaak eleven. Konstantin has eighteen and Azart is granted ten. Giving Sibyl ten of our shares has the potential to give Konstantin voting majority. Whose friend are you, Peter?”
The shifty Turgenev translates that to Peter as: “You were granted legal authority to sign on Morris and Hugo’s behalf. You need not tell them anything until the deal is complete.”
Peter replies, “This deal is from the bottom of the deck.”
To Volikov, the nihilist Turgenev repeats, “I want ten voting shares in Sibyl’s name.”
Volikov says, “She can have one of Isaak’s.”
Thinking Volikov said, “The deal is on the table,” Peter responds, “And the dealer just dealt himself six aces from a standard deck.”
Badass Turgenev maintains, “Ten voting shares.”
Volikov counters, “Two of Isaak’s.”
Isaak mutters, “Ummm…”
Peter is told Volikov said, “Only half are mine,” so he screeches, “Who’s responsible for the rest?”
To Volikov, Turgenev responds from my mouth, “Ten.”
“Isaak gives three. End of discussion!”
And in all the circles of confusion, Turgenev passes out leaving me to translate that last bit exactly.
Adjustment
Studies in neuroscience show our decisions are made moments before the conscious mind is even aware a choice needs to be made and everything that happens after is merely the mental wrangling of the troubled conscience trying to justify the subsequent actions. It’s a solid argument against free will.
And, at times like these, any defense against self-determination is comforting.
Never mind that the absence of free will practically validates prophesy, fate, and divinity, and therefore, by extension, offers a certain legitimacy, and perhaps even dignity, to fortune-telling; the greater solace at this moment is that without free will I might not be entirely responsible for the events about to unfold.
I could say it was all in the cards and destined to happen.
That the decision to break my sworn oath was assured before I gave it.
That the choice to help Demyan was guaranteed from the start.
And backstabbing Peter is simply prophesy realized.
I mean, if you give even a passing nod to astrology, you can’t very well believe in free will, now can you?
Not that free will stands up very well against science either.
Then religion kicks it right in the face.
And the Problem of Evil is just Christianity gratuitously burning it at the stake while simultaneously insisting it’s God’s Will (omnipotent and benevolent) and also man’s inherent nature (limited and evil).
So, let’s set the notion of free will aside for the moment. The fates are at work. Consider this Dostoyevsky, where all seemingly insignificant misfortunes lead to one inevitable catastrophe.<
br />
Think of this as the Tarot, consulted mostly when one is already assured of the worst.
Or the old art of chiromancy: In Peter’s palm is the promise of betrayal. I hold his hand in my lap and try to cover the looming turmoil in his love life, but I know it’s there.
I know every line by heart, both the paths of his subconscious mind in the left hand and his conscious in the right. The major lines are strong, well-defined channels in his skin. Lines you’d find on an Earth sign, the Prince of Coins, a Taurus. There’s no misinterpreting lines like these. But they are all—each and every one of them—broken.
Every line is split by duplicity and chance.
Strong and enthusiastic, his lifeline circles around the base of his thumb, but it’s cracked twice at the start, once in the middle, and again at the end. His life will have many turns of fortune.
His heart line begins covered in tiny X’s (probably his mother), and then there’s the break and bold X that marks the big betrayal (probably me), which leads to a life of distrust.
His fate line is a choppy river ripped apart by events far outside his control.
Luckily, though, the head line is short: he won’t spend much time dwelling on it.
He is not, however, entirely a victim of providence. He’s played his part.
In his room on the second floor, he explains, “I’m just guilty of a little renumeration.”
“Do you mean remuneration?”
“No, it’s renumeration. Like when you negatively renumerate staff salary during a budget contraction. Or you make a positive renumeration on your expense account. Or a creative renumeration on your tax return. Renumeration, Sibyl. You’re not this weak in Russian, are you?”
“So, what did you renumerate?”
“A few business accounts.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is embezzlement. That’s khishcheniye in Russian. There’s also krazha for theft and moshennichestvo for fraud.”
“All really harsh sounding words.”
“Fine, we’ll call it innovative renumeration.”
“Exactly, baby, exactly. I knew you’d log on.”
“What happens if Morris or Hugo find out?”
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