Red Russia

by Tanya Thompson

  “Whoa now, stop driving beyond the headlights.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, like, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “What hits the optic nerve is Maksim Volikov.”

  “Right.”

  “And what kind of Kabuki dance I’ll have to perform for Morris and Hugo to buy in on Maksim’s starship proposal.”

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I have to make it work or we’re ruined. And more is at stake than just this little renumeration problem. I have my own plans for the sawmill. I’ve already bought land in Bereznik and secured leases on the two Soviet factories there. I have backing for a flat-pack furniture factory, sort of a Russian IKEA, and another that makes prefab walls with contracts pending with the Berserkistans.”

  “The who?”

  “You know, the crazy Stans: Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan… there’s like a dozen of them.”

  “You have contracts?”

  “Baby, I’m the hidden stockholder behind Aijan. I’ve got offshore companies in the name of the Swedes, the Fins, the Germans, all the companies contracted to buy the first wave of surplus below market value.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now don’t look like that. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bore you with the dull parts of business.”

  “Hardly dull.”

  “I know, right?” In the excitement, he forgets to be contrite. “We’re talking big-game strats here. The unintended consequence of some of my board moves is what Mr. Volikov discovered.”

  “What’s to be done?”

  “I’ll have to go deep diving and look for the answer in the RDB.”

  RDB?

  “Rectal Data Base. Because I’m going to have to pull some serious shit out of my ass to make this work.”

  “Truly poetic.”

  “It’s a real bag of snakes.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, this is no time to be disincentivized.” He stands with purpose. “Might as well go see if I can leverage some influence off the big boys.”

  Lust

  The big boys are in the backyard playing with fire and knives.

  At the furthest of six picnic tables, the Mongolian with a Mohawk shoves one end of a paper napkin into a bottle of vodka and lights the other. He pretends to lob it at Felix two tables away, but the flame chokes in the neck of the bottle before Felix becomes aware of the joke.

  At the nearest table, the Ken Doll is using a six-inch serrated hunting knife to cut the fringe off the Fat Man’s jacket.

  The Fat Man says, “Stop or I hold you down and fuck you.”

  “Who knows?” Johnny Rotten laughs. “He might like.”

  A woman at the table has a few doubts. “Something about the way he says it makes me think it will not be memorable for its agreeableness.”

  The Ken Doll cuts another tassel from the jacket.

  Booming over the laughter, chatter, and swearing of all the tables, a deep voice bellows, “Lev!”

  Lev?

  Lion?

  Lion!!!?

  Both women and Bratva scramble under the tables. Under the fucking tables.

  “Lev prishel!”

  The lion has come!

  !

  When Russian gangsters fight each other for cover, I know it’s time to run.

  With a squeak of fear, I spin to flee but only manage to fall into Peter.

  Peter, blissfully unaware—even a bit amused by the ruckus—holds one arm around my waist and spins us in a circle that goes nowhere.

  The squeak of fear turns into a squeal of terror.

  Peter smiles, strokes my hair, and questions, “Baby?”

  “Lion! Lion! Lion!”

  “The lion is tame,” he assures.

  While I struggle to get free of his grip, he pulls my head to his chest and comforts, “Shhhh.”

  The squeak turned squeal is now a muffled scream against his shoulder. Death is certain. It is not what I thought. I read the cards wrong. Death just meant death. And death by lion… Where is the damned grenade launcher?

  A rowdy cry comes from behind—They’re being eaten alive—and Peter chuckles. A forger, an embezzler, and now a psychopath as well?

  It’s too much to take in one day. My muscles shake. My knees go weak. My weight is only supported by Peter.

  Peter is laughing uncontrollably.

  He tells me, “You’re missing it.”

  He tells me, “They’re insane.”

  He tells me, “They’re under the tables knocking back shots.”

  How very Russian, I want to reply, but it’s just a whimper against his shirt.

  Trying to wrench my face around, he asks, “What are they doing?”

  “Is drinking game.” Demyan’s answer is as close as it is calm. “Is called Lion Has Come.” Casually, he taps a shot glass against my fingers until I release the death grip on Peter’s arm. He says, “Relax. The lion is still behind bars.”

  While I gulp vodka, Peter exclaims, “The fuck do you play it?”

  “Ante up. When Konstantin calls ‘lion has come,’ you get under table and drink.” From the bottle he carries, he refills the shot glass. “When Konstantin calls ‘lion has gone,’ you come out and ante up for next round. Last man able to crawl from under table wins money.”

  “I’d like to strap that on,” Peter says, and I swallow another shot.

  “You all right?”

  “Fine in three.” I offer the glass for refill.

  “Pace your positive momentum there, baby.”

  Peter doesn’t see me down the third because Konstantin shouts, “Lion has gone,” and the area erupts with laughing Russians emerging from shelter.

  “I save you place at table,” Demyan tells Peter. “Sit with my friend, Alyona.” He takes Peter’s arm and directs him to the table with Felix and Elvis and the sleek back of something so dangerous there’s a blade tattooed down the length of her spine. The sword’s crossguard extends across her shoulders, and the placement of the handle… well, I assume that’s something of a dare: anyone who hopes to weld this weapon will have to grab her by the neck.

  Following Felix’s nod of recognition, she turns and smiles at both Peter and Demyan, but the red on her upturned lips is a ruse. Her mouth is no warmer than her eyes. She’s cool, remote, unaffected.

  “Alyona, this is friend Peter I tell you about. Take care of him.”

  “Is what I do, yes?” Her expression is high-dollar professional.

  Peter looks back to me and says with concern, “Baby, I don’t think you’ll want to play this game. It’s going to get intense.”

  “I think you’re right. I’ll be in the tower.”

  The Devil follows.

  * * *

  If I laid out a spread that showed the Devil and the Moon in the Tower, I’d scoop up all seventy-eight cards and bury them in salt until they found a better attitude.

  Not just cards, but any instrument of magic can be cleaned with salt. Salt erases the energy that people and events project onto objects. Salt neutralizes the vibes. It wipes clean the board. It restores to factory settings.

  Used correctly, salt can save us from fate.

  Salt can ward off the future.

  Salt can deliver free will.

  Salt is more powerful than you ever imagined.

  If used correctly.

  I mean, it’s all occult nonsense, but I’d still like fifty-five pounds of it brought to the tower.

  Demyan brings vodka.

  But then, I did bring the shot glass.

  I don’t know why because I was determined to stop at three. Remember, three is safe. Everything up and until three is still just a thought, an idea, a possibility not yet realized. And the Three of Cups is Abundance. A lovely place to stop.

  At least until Demyan strides across the room, saying, “We talk business.” Kicking back the ottoman from an armchair, he motions for me to sit and t
hen knocks the ottoman close again to sit as well.

  Taking the shot glass, he says, “Tell me what Volikov wants,” and the Four of Cups is poured.

  “He wants the Azart Corporation to pay for the roads.”

  Without actually smiling, Demyan’s face shows pleasure. He assumes, “You accepted my proposal,” and returns the glass to my hand.

  The Four of Cups is Luxury.

  If I drink it, we’re out of the ethereal and into the material. Four is for real.

  Running his knuckles over the inside of my knee, he says, “You will like business with me.”

  Four’s not that bad. It’s just one little fall from grace, and it is still stable. I’ll stop after four.

  He takes the empty glass, fills it, says, “To thirty percent,” and throws it back.

  I mutter, “Not exactly.” And he holds the vodka in his mouth. “More like ten.”

  It looks like he might spit or spew or possibly choke on the word that’s drowning behind his lips.

  “It’s the highest either will go with neither being aware it isn’t the other’s idea.”

  He swallows to demand, “Desyat?” Ten?

  “Why are you mad? Your investment is covered by grants.”

  “Is much less than expected.”

  “When you nationalize the expenditures but privatize the revenue, everything is profit. Ten percent of an expected billion is a hundred million more than zero.”

  “Rubles,” he enunciates. “One hundred million rubles, not dollars. In US dollars, fifty rubles is less than zero.”

  He pours the fifth shot and downs it in an angry huff, and when he pours the next, I quickly drain it for mettle.

  “That’s not all,” I say. “I want five of your ten voting shares.”

  I think he’s about to hoof the ground to signal a deadly charge, but he’s just hooking his foot around the chair to drag the two of us closer so he can ask the murderous question: “You want what?”

  “F-Fiv—our voting shares.”

  “Four is it, now?” He yanks us closer.

  “I—I could be good with three.”

  He can’t haul the furniture any closer, so he wraps an arm around my waist to wrench me from the cushion. “Why you want voting shares?”

  He’s the Devil and he’s wonderfully dangerous. I push against his chest for a distance I don’t really want.

  A breath away from touching skin, his mouth moves across my cheek to the ear. Lower now, he asks again, “Why you want voting shares?”

  I keep the shot glass in my right hand, but with the left, I circle his hip to run my fingers under his shirt, along his back, beneath the hooves of the bull, in the dirt with Turgenev, and after a moment, I quote from memory the creed on his back: “Take for yourself what you can and do not be ruled by others.”

  He exhales a slow breath of laughter, which turns into a growl of arousal.

  Few know it, but the Devil rewards insurrection. After all, rebellion is the original sin, and he did conceive it.

  Demyan holds the bottle to my mouth and offers the sixth shot. The last shot, the Five of Cups, was Disappointment, and we can’t very well stop there, not when the Six of Cups is Pleasure and his lips are on my neck.

  I drink long and lustful from Pleasure while shivers run my spine. My throat is still burning when I turn the bottle back on him, catch the lobe of his ear in my teeth, and make certain he drinks from the same cup as me.

  I release his ear to whisper, “I want three of your voting shares.”

  “You’re greedy.”

  “You promised me more money than I’d ever see from Peter.”

  He scoffs. “You have too high estimation of him.”

  “Without him, the Azart deal won’t happen.”

  “He knows truth?”

  “Your version of it.”

  “You didn’t betray me.”

  “The price of my loyalty is three voting shares.”

  “I give you one.” Then after a moment, he chuckles. “I don’t want you having more balls than me.”

  “Two or it’s off.”

  “You want two balls, you have mine,” and he moves my hand to his groin.

  “I will have yours. Two of yours.” Then applying gentle pressure, “And maybe I’ll take these as well.”

  Pulling me forward until I straddle his lap, he asks, “You always this much fun?”

  “No, but you bring it out in me.”

  “This is what you bring out in me.” I can feel him pressing hard against my pelvis.

  He grabs the bottle from the floor and pours the seventh shot.

  The Seven of Cups is Debauch.

  And who doesn’t want to drink to a bit of debauchery?

  I down the shot with one hand while the other rips back the top button on his jeans.

  The Seven of Cups is a chalice of poison that promises ecstasy but delivers regret.

  Regret is for later. Right now, it’s ecstasy. His hands are under my shirt unclasping my bra. His mouth is already tugging it away.

  Running my hands up his sides and over his chest, I free him of his shirt.

  To consume what it offers is to pursue false desires and sink into artificial security.

  I pour his seventh shot into my mouth, and then, my mouth to his, I give him a taste of debauchery too.

  The shot glass I toss over his shoulder, toward the mattress, and say, “Fuck me on the bed.”

  And Demyan—his voice a low rumble of need—demands, “Speak English.”

  “Govorit po-russki.” Speak Russian

  I unzip his pants as he rises from the ottoman, then slide my legs down his, taking his jeans and my feet to the floor.

  It is pleasure corrupted.

  “Mozhet byt' ya zastavlyu vas umolyat.” Maybe I make you beg for it.

  “My begging will lead to your pleading.”

  “Eskalatsiya? YA lyublyu eto." Escalation? I love it.

  “Standard American-Russian relations.”

  “Dlya etogo ja xocú tebjá výjebat.” For that I want to fuck you. But it could also mean, For that I plan to fuck you up.

  Either way: “I hope you do.”

  “Kakaya tvoya fantaziya?” What is your fantasy?

  “Whatever yours is.”

  His eyes narrow and he growls, “Togda davayte nachnem.” Then let’s get started.

  Oh, god.

  Hours later, the Devil has almost exhausted the Seven of Cups.

  Swilling from this cup will lead to acts of depravity so obscene the conscious mind will reel away in shame, but still the drinker will not stop as the easiest way to soothe the humiliation is to drink again.

  “Where’s the vodka?” I fumble over the side of the bed and find it under Demyan’s pants.

  At this point, swilling straight from the bottle wouldn’t seem crude, but the shot glass is beneath the sheets, digging into my ribs, so it’s just as easy to extract it and pretend to be civilized.

  The Eight of Cups is Indolence.

  Demyan lights his last cigarette.

  I drink, then pass him the full shot glass.

  Dropping the empty packet on the floor, he pulls on the Sobranie and says, “We’re going to have fun.”

  “I don’t think I can handle any more fun today.”

  “That leaves all of night.” He drinks with a smirk.

  “Luckily, it won’t arrive for another five days.”

  “Five days?”

  “The White Nights end at the start of July.”

  “July, big month. Konstantin has birthday.”

  “Yes, July twenty-third.” The date of my wedding. I spin the four carats around my finger and think, I really should have stopped at four.

  But that seems so long ago it might be best to just carry on, maybe shoot for oblivion or circle back to one again. But the bottle is almost empty. Twirling the remnants around the bottom, I know there’s only one shot left.

  The Nine of Cups is Happiness.


  I offer it to Demyan.

  The Ten of Cups would have been Satiety, but we’re a long way from there.

  The Moon

  I am the Moon. I have always been the Moon. In every reading, in every spread, no matter who shuffled or dealt or asked for guidance, if I’m going to appear, I show as the Moon.

  Some men are terrified by the dark nature of the Moon, but not the Devil. The Devil is afraid of nothing he can fuck. And there’s very little the Devil won’t stick his dick in. He’ll bugger the Priest, orgy with Art, and rape the shit out of Justice. The whole of the Universe is the only hole he won’t try to fill.

  But that still leaves twenty-one other divinities and sixteen nobles for him to ravish, possess, and molest.

  I feel a little dirty. A little ashamed. A little wanting.

  I feel… good.

  Yes, I feel good. And alive and changed. Death is change. Death is always change. Silly of me to think it was the lion.

  Konstantin is the lion.

  He’s the lion by right of astrology, the tiger by the Chinese Zodiac, and numerology and Western symbolism call him the cat with nine lives.

  And he’s a fat cat. Besides being the Pakhan, the reason he doesn’t ante up to play Lion Has Come is because he’s entirely too big to get under any table.

  Instead, he’s calling the shots, and based on the number of deposed, he’s been somewhat restrained. From the tower window, I notice a woman face down in the grass, and three more sprawled indecent across the recliners. Four, including Alyona, are still in play, but the rest have opted to quit before any serious amount of dignity is lost. The men don’t have that option. The men play until they can’t.

  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.