by M?ta Smith
“No, baby, don’t be silly. This is a sari; I got it in India. Saris are wonderful, baby. They’re all the same size; the secret is in how you wrap them. I have a fishtail petticoat that goes underneath. It may be a little long, but we’ll work around it,” she explains. “We can make you look like a Bollywood queen,” she says, referring to the colorful Indian musical movies.
“That would be kind of obvious,” I say. “I love Indian clothes, but just wearing a sari isn’t really screaming anything at me. Folks just might think I’m Indian, not in costume. Plus, I don’t need any fabric hanging down and getting in my way, and if we wrap this over my shoulder I’m going to be messing with it all night.”
“I’ve got it,” she says. “Trust me, baby, you’re going to look fabulous.”
I put on the petticoat, which drags a bit along the ground, but Amara assures me that it will be okay. Then we wrap the sari around my bottom half, until it has an exotic, mystical, ethereal vibe. I like it, but I wonder what Amara is going to do with the rest of me.
“Let me see your tits,” Amara says, her accent making the word tits sound more like teats. I giggle because my perky and full boobs are far from the triangular, floppy, puppy-dog-ear-shaped boobs I think of when I hear the word teats.
“Are you crazy? What the hell are you up to?”
“Take off the tank top. Don’t act like it’s a problem because I know how you perform. Besides, I’ve seen them before, and then some,” she says, giving me a wink.
I laugh and take off my top. She draws designs on my bare breasts with liquid eyeliners and colors them in with body paint, then she highlights the designs with eye shadows and pigments, and accents them with crystals and some body glitter. Finally, Amara wraps dozens of strands of pearls and beads around my neck.
“What are your friends like? Do you think they will like me?” I ask her as she fluffs my hair and puts an orchid from a vase above my ear. She takes the flower away from my ear and grabs the rest from the bouquet. Then she pulls out a needle and thread and some hairpins and ribbons. I have no idea what she’s up to, but she better not have me looking like some crazy flower child from the ’60s!
“They will adore you, baby. You look fucking gorgeous. You just do what you do, and don’t worry about them. They’ll buy whatever you sell them. They’re not that deep,” she says, laughing.
Amara’s hands get busy wrapping the flowers together with thread and ribbons. She fashions a wreathlike crown and places it on my head in a matter of minutes.
“Damn, girl, this is banging! You’ve got skills! Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask her, admiring my reflection in a lighted full-length mirror. “Do you know jujitsu and how to disarm bombs and stuff too?” I kid.
“Of course,” she says, and laughs, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she isn’t joking at all.
I DECIDE TO GO CHILL IN THE BUSINESS CENTER RATHER THAN mix or mingle with the guests before the party. I need a quiet place to take some time to meditate and get mentally prepared for my set, and for once Mikhail and Dimitri aren’t barricaded within. I leave the light off, take a seat in the huge leather chair, close my eyes, and take some deep breaths. Then I get that feeling again; something is going to happen, or there’s something I should know. I try to shake it off but I can’t. I sit there in the darkness, not moving, waiting for something or someone to clue me in.
Open the drawer, I hear a voice inside my head say. I don’t really want to do it. I’m not a snoop. I never went through Kaos’s things; insecurity isn’t my style. Plus I’m afraid of what I might find. I’ve always believed that if you go looking for trouble, you’ll certainly find it.
Open the drawer, I hear the voice say again. I’m too compelled not to open the drawer now. I put my hand on the handle and give it a slow pull, and I’m surprised to find it unlocked. I take special care not to disturb anything. There’s a bunch of papers all neatly stapled and clipped together, and some manila folders, nothing out of the ordinary except for a brown accordion folder that would be more at home in a file cabinet. I pull it out and look at the labeled tab that reads simply —Q.
The label seems odd, very James Bond, so I peer inside and inspect the contents. I find a manila folder that has a picture of me clipped to the outside. On the side of the manila folder is a label bearing my full name, Roberta Ann Hayes. What the fuck?! I pull out the folder and open it carefully. There before my eyes is a complete dossier. There’s all kinds of info about me in here, including a credit report. There’s a copy of the deed to my condo, and my DMV records. There are clippings about my family from magazines and my freakin’ yearbook photo! My heart stops when I see a photo of Kaos and me. We’re posed on his motorcycle in front of Wet Willies on Ocean Drive, but we’re clearly not posing for whoever snapped this picture. It’s taken from a distance, like someone was spying on us.
I close the folder and return it to its place. I’ve heard of employer background checks, but this is obviously the work of a damn good private eye. I don’t know how comfortable I am with the details of my life neatly compacted into a file folder, even if it is business on Mikhail’s end. I mean, sure he’s filthy fucking rich, and he needs to be careful with who he allows in his inner circle, but I feel a little violated. And that just gives me more justification to snoop further. What’s good for the goose, right?
I thumb through the stack of folders to see if there’s anything else worth taking a look at, but the rest just looks like a bunch of shipping bills. I open another drawer and see a picture of Mikhail hugged up with a nondescript blond woman. They look pretty intimate even though they are flanked by a group of men, the Apostles, perhaps. But who is the mystery lady? Is this the ex he said he loved during the cell phone conversation I eavesdropped on? Is it someone he’s dating now?
I think I hear footsteps so I replace the folder, close the drawer quickly, and try to look normal. The knob on the door turns and the lights flutter on.
“Bobbi, what are you doing in here? I’ve been looking all over for you!” Mikhail asks. I can tell he’s trying to determine if I was snooping. He’s got a suspicious look on his face.
“Nothing. I came in here to look for you but you weren’t here. I decided to stay since it was nice and quiet. I just wanted to get my mind right before this performance.” This answer seems to satisfy Mikhail because he opens his arms and nods, signaling for me to give him a hug, which I do.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
“Hell, yeah!”
“Why? You’re the best there is,” he says reassuringly.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Well, my sweet angel, are you ready to rock?” Mikhail asks. I crack up.
“Am I ready to rock?” I ask. “Yeah sure, dude. Rock on!” I say. Then I hold up my hand in the international rocker sign and bang my head back and forth.
“You know what I mean, Bobbi. I’m going to take that as a yes,” Mikhail says.
“Let’s do this!” I exclaim, as I gather up my “mermaid tail” and follow Mikhail. I’ve got a lot of questions, things I want to investigate, but for now it will have to wait. I still have that fluttery feeling inside; my heart is pounding. I hope that for once I’ll be able to see what lies in the path ahead before something goes wrong. Damn my bogus psychic abilities!
When we reach the deck, Mikhail signals to Amara, the designated hostess for the evening. Amara winks at me and stands on top of a chair. She clinks a champagne glass with a spoon to get everyone’s attention.
“All right, babies, get ready. My absolute favorite DJ in the world is about to hit the turntables. She’s talented and absolutely fucking gorgeous. And I guarantee that after this, she’s going to be your favorite DJ too. So with no further delay, here is Miami’s own Ms. Bobbi!” Amara tosses her hair, steps down from her perch on the chair, and begins to scream and clap wildly.
Smoke machines from the disco have been set up along the deck, and one of the butlers cuts them on. Smoke billows as I walk thr
ough the crowd and approach the deck. I can hear an audible collective gasp as I pass by. I take a deep breath, say a quick prayer, and think of Kaos. I’m gonna show them how we roll, I tell him, wherever he is.
My jitters are gone; I’m in the zone. It’s just me and the music now. I cue up Stardust’s “Music Sounds Better with You,” then I segue into Earth People’s “Dance, Dance, Dance.” Amara gets on the dance floor and begins dancing all wild and crazy, and the other guests join her. When I put on “Lady” by Modjo, the crowd goes crazy, singing along and clapping, albeit not quite on beat. I decide not to look at the crowd, because all I need is for someone from the rhythmless nation to throw me off. Instead I choose my songs by instinct; I go with my gut.
I spin house for about another hour, then switch to hip-hop, using Missy’s “This Is for My People” as my transition record. As much as the crowd enjoys my house set, things really get hyped once I start playing rap. And the more hardcore my selection, the more they seem to get into it.
In total, my debut set lasts close to three hours. As soon as I step down from the decks I’m swarmed with people telling me how fabulous I am. I eat it up like Sunday dinner. Amara’s friends speak myriad languages, and even though I don’t know what the majority of them are saying, I know that it’s complimentary from their smiles, hugs, and kisses. Mikhail rescues me from the throng, telling me that there are some people he wants me to meet.
“First we will do a little business, and then I want you to meet my friends,” he says, motioning toward two couples standing together drinking champagne and smoking, and then to a louder, more lively bunch of men who look as if they are having the time of their lives.
The fishtail sari swishes about, and the pearls and necklaces clink together and bounce across my breasts as we head toward the couples. Mikhail points out a few people as we walk along the deck, giving me bits of info about the partygoers.
“That man over there is a British ambassador, the woman he’s talking to works for the Dutch consulate.” He shows me some more politicos and folks with important-sounding titles before we reach his friends.
Mikhail kisses the women who are too thin and look like they’ve had too much plastic surgery. One looks like a cat, and the other looks like she’s in a constant state of surprise. They don’t look happy to be here, but on those faces, I’m not sure what happy would look like anyway. The men are both fat, not very attractive, and have gone way overboard with the spray-on tan. They’re as orange as Oompa Loompas, and they stare at my boobs for a very long time before acknowledging me. Mikhail is talking away with them, and hasn’t bothered to introduce us. I fold my arms across my chest to end the peep show and give a little cough. The shorter man speaks up.
“Ms. Bobbi, you were absolutely phenomenal. Welcome to Spain! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marco Delgado, and I can’t wait to have you play at my club Mystery here on the island,” the pudgy, middle-aged man says in thickly accented English as he chomps on the end of a smelly cigar. “Mikhail, where have you been hiding this gem?” Marco asks him as he slaps him hard on the back.
“She’s been in Miami,” Mikhail tells him. “But now she is here, and just like a gem, she is very precious, very rare, and very expensive,” Mikhail says to Marco, grinning and returning the hearty slap on the back. The two of them look like they’re going to knock each other down with all the backslapping they’re doing. It definitely has to be a European thing because, in the good old U.S. of A., anybody I know would be ready to go to blows over getting hit in the back so hard.
“Ah yes, but of course. I was thinking ten thousand American,” Marco says. “How does that sound?”
Good as hell, I think to myself. I can roll with that.
“Come on, my friend . . . Bobbi is a beautiful young woman. She’s so exquisite she could walk the runway for that kind of money. That’s not enough,” Mikhail says.
“Mikhail,” I say, interrupting him. I’m not about to let him talk me out of ten g’s.
“Just a minute, my sweet angel,” he says.
Ain’t this some shit? I think to myself. Here he is discussing my career like I’m not even here. But before I can object Marco speaks up.
“Okay, how about fifteen thousand?” I shut my mouth quick and let Mikhail do all the talking.
“Make it twenty thousand dollars, my friend, and we’ve got a deal,” Mikhail says.
Marco leers at me again and sucks on the end of his wet, smelly cigar. I’m sure his bulimic girlfriend, or whoever she is, has him convinced that he’s one of the most handsome men in the universe, because he stands there as if I should be leering at him in return with lust in my eyes. He winks, clears his throat, makes little facial tics like he’s got Tou-rette’s syndrome, and shrugs a bit, as if to say, “Hey, you know you want me.” I can’t believe it because, for one, he is disgusting, but also, Mikhail is standing right here. I snake my arm through Mikhail’s and draw him closer. I make sure my body language screams I’m taken!
“You drive a hard bargain, Mikhail,” Marco says. “I guess that’s why you’re so fucking rich, eh, my friend?” Marco returns to the backslapping.
“Ms. Bobbi,” Marco says, grasping my hand and planting a slimy kiss on it, “it will be a pleasure working with you. I know you’ll enjoy your time here in Ibiza.”
“ Mucho gusto,” I say, telling him in the little bit of Spanish I know that it was nice to meet him. I retrieve my hand and wipe it off discreetly behind my back. I don’t want his saliva on me.
“ Tanto gusto,” he says, telling me it was very nice to meet me and winks once more. I think that the women would sneer at me but the Botox injections have their faces so frozen that they can barely move. However their thoughts are all too evident in their eyes. Fuck ’em; I’m making twenty g’s for one gig!
“That guy’s a piece of work,” I say to Mikhail when they’re out of earshot.
“You were driving him wild. You’re too sexy,” he says, kissing me lightly on the lips. “An old pervert like Marco can’t handle it.”
“Well, didn’t that bother you, him ogling me like that?” I ask.
“You wouldn’t give that slimeball the time of day,” he says. “And he knows better than to take it any further than staring at you. He knows not to cross the line.”
“My, my, my, aren’t we cocky?” I ask, grazing his crotch. “Oh yes we are,” I say.
“We’ll have time for that later, dirty girl,” Mikhail says, licking his lips.
“Ooh, not even a quickie? Making money makes me horny,” I tell him.
“Later, sweet angel; that is, if you have any energy left over. We’re going to get this night started now!”
We head to the all-male crowd that’s creating a straight up ruckus on the deck. There are a dozen men in total that are making toasts with vodka shots, smoking and laughing. Dimitri is with them, the center of attention, the vodka bottle in his hand refilling shot glasses as soon as they’re empty. Mikhail introduces me to each of them. They each kiss my hand and both cheeks when introduced, and they say their full names, which seem to be a mile long. They also state their lines of work, which range from antiquities to wholesale jewels, shipping to armaments. I inspect the men’s faces, trying to make a connection between them and the men in the picture I saw earlier. These are undoubtedly the Apostles.
They’re all Russian from what I can tell; at least they all speak what sounds like Russian, but their points of origin are spread out across the globe. Some are American and live in Brighton Beach, a section of Brooklyn. A couple of the guys live in Israel, and a couple more live in South America. The rest live in the Ukraine, Hungary, or the Czech Republic. They all call each other bratva, and I don’t know what that means, but I assume from the way they say it, that it’s something like homie, or yo, or ak, or son, like black folks call each other. It’s clear that they all like each other; they remind me of a fraternity.
And these men can drink! They down shot after shot of vodka,
practically forcing me to drink with them, and after each shot they break out into song, clapping and dancing, before the next drink. I can forget about asking this bunch any questions, because it’s clear that partying is the only thing on their minds. This revelry goes on for a good hour. By this time I’m good and toasted and you can’t tell me that I’m not a Soviet hottie after all the shots I take. I sing along with them in Russian, or in what I think sounds like Russian, and when I can’t produce any words that sound like what they are saying I just sing “da, da, da.” I mimic their dance, adding my own little flourishes, and I could care less that I probably look like a drunken John Travolta from that scene in Saturday Night Fever when he did those swooping kneels and kicks all around the dance floor. The mermaid tail sari gets in the way, so I trip a lot and end up on the floor, but I roll around on the floor like Madonna singing “Like a Virgin,” and no one seems to mind.
When Amara eventually joins us, accompanied by a few of her female friends, I’m plastered.
“These guys are such a bore,” she says discreetly.
“I love these guys, what are you talking about?” I slur. “I love you too, Amara,” I hiccup, giving her a big hug and a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “We understand each other, don’t we?” I ask her.
“Sure, baby. I understand they got you drunk,” she says, tsking and wagging her finger at me. “Hey, you cretins, you got her wasted,” she says to the bunch.
“Lighten up, Amara,” Dimitri tells her. “She’s having a good time. Aren’t you, Bobbi?”
“The fucking best,” I say. I break into a rendition of “Back in the USSR” by the Beatles and Mikhail’s friends go wild with laughter and join in with me.
“Sailed in, from Miami Beach, didn’t get to sleep last night!” I sing while shimmying my boobs. Amara tries to stop me, but I’m unstoppable. Dimitri grabs her and makes her dance along with him. She resists at first, but she can’t help herself because after I sing the lyrics the way they originally went (or as close as I can muster), I add my own hip-hop twist and the Apostles love it. They get super crazy as I chant “Where’s Moscow? Go Moscow. Where’s Georgia? Go Georgia. U-kraine, U-U-Ukraine!” And the drunken posse chants right along with me.