The dwarf disappeared from the spotlight and reappeared at the other end of the lawn, where a large group of men were entertaining themselves by spraying jets of champagne onto the dancers on stage. The idea was that if they hit their target, the girl would take off the item of clothing where the champagne landed. The performers on stage were joined by several women who were clearly guests at the party. The dwarf decided to liven up the game with his magical chalice. He began to weave among the dancers, tossing handfuls of cocaine into their faces from below, causing a panic, the girls squealing in fear. The men below let out a defensive volley of champagne, and the dwarf, protecting his cocaine, dove back into the darkness.
Stanley saw him again a minute or two later. A waiter was carrying a tray with glasses in front of him, and the entertainer was smearing the edges of the glasses with powder.
At the same time, however, Stanley noticed various people in elegant suits and evening gowns conversing quietly. Light sparkled on diamond necklaces and flashed off the gold frames of glasses, shining in the ripples of silk dresses. It was like watching two different, completely separate, realities, intermingled on the same screen.
But McKnight walked past them both; neither was his reality.
He seemed to be in some kind of third dimension where only snatches of strangers’ conversations and the polite, inquiring glances of waiters reached him. Several times, Stanley automatically took strange drinks from their trays before setting them down again without a sip the first place he could find.
I need to find somewhere to take a break from this hurricane, he thought. Or maybe it’s time for me to get so drunk this craziness starts to make sense. Then we’ll see what happens.
Remembering Biryuza’s mention of a cigar room, Stanley decided to seek it out. Maybe the guests snorting coke and diving into fountains hadn’t made it there yet.
He got stopped twice on his way. The first time, he ran into Peshkov, who was thoroughly drunk, and supported by twin girls dressed as rocket ships. One of them was labeled Soyuz, and the other Apollon. From the looks of the girls’ eyes, they had recently met with the ubiquitous dwarf. Maybe not for the first time, either.
“You have to come fly with us!” Peshkov cried. “Look what excellent rockets I have. If you come, we’ll have a truly international crew. This guy”—he turned to the girls—“is an American, and a Swiss banker. Have you ever heard a thing like that?”
The twins liked the idea of taking another pilot on board.
“We have enough fuel!” said one of them with a laugh.
“Just don’t knock us out of orbit!” added the other.
He was finally able to get away only after they talked him into having a drink. By the time they released him, McKnight felt that the smile on his face had turned into a grimace—he didn’t recognize himself in the mirror behind the waiter who was serving them.
But the tests to his willpower didn’t end there.
Robert Durand was the next to grab him—he couldn’t find the bathroom, where, he was certain, the woman of his dreams was waiting for him.
“Or man?” he interrupted himself. “Doesn’t matter. Gotta end up on the toilet either way. Can you take me there?”
He was so drunk it took him three tries to get the last word out. Robert latched onto him, and McKnight was too cautious to knock him off like he wanted to. There were definitely security cameras all around. In the end, he had a drink with Durand as well. That was the only way to get rid of him.
McKnight set off toward his destination once again, but fate had other ideas.
“I know my man by the way he walks!” a voice sang out behind him. Stanley turned slowly; Anastasia stood in the doorway, listing slightly to one side from the weight she was carrying. An enormous bottle of champagne rested on one shoulder, and her short dress was embossed with a Veuve Clicquot label.
“Hey!” called Stanley. “Are you part of the masquerade?”
“I am.”
“How much does one of those ‘widows’ cost?”
“Are you asking about me or about the bottle? Either way, they’re not going for cheap!”
“How much?”
“I am not on sale today, noncommercial days, you know, but I can share the champagne,” she said, nodding her head toward the bottle. “Can you give me a hand? This bottle’s too heavy, just like my life.”
McKnight sighed, trying again, without success, to remember the unpleasant circumstances of their night in the hotel room, and took the bottle from her.
“What’s eating you, Stanley? Don’t sigh like a lonely orphan, please,” said Anastasia with a grateful smile.
“Me? Ah, nothing serious—I just can’t remember anything from last night. I remember you pulling me towards the shower and then—it’s a blank.” Stanley cradled the bottle in his arms as if he was rocking a baby.
“You’re right. That’s not serious. I know an excellent way to restore your memory.” Anastasia pulled her dress back into place. “Follow me! I’ll show you the master’s mansion. I know everything from top to bottom here. Not my first time.” She took off her shoes and started up the staircase.
Anastasia pressed some numbers on the code lock leading to the third floor, and they passed down a long hallway into a spacious room with high ceilings and a balcony overlooking the park.
“We won’t turn on lights or music, and no one will know that we’re here,” Anastasia said as they entered.
“Who’s looking for us?” McKnight asked in surprise. “And anyway, it’s Independence Day today.”
“Forget it. Let’s open up the champagne. Just be careful. There’s some glasses on the table. See them?”
“Yes, and don’t worry. I’m pretty much the world’s best champagne opener.”
Stanley didn’t hold onto the cork, and it shot up to the ceiling, the stream of champagne just missing Anastasia. They could barely see to fill their glasses.
“Now we just have to avoid stepping in that puddle,” said Anastasia, drinking from her glass. “Or we’ll get stuck for good. Champagne makes the best glue, and I hate getting stuck to someone more than anything else in the world.”
While she was talking, she reached down with one hand and deftly unzipped Stanley’s pants, then pushed him down into a soft chair.
“This is how you recover memories.” Anastasia took a little champagne into her mouth and got onto her knees in front of Stanley, pulling his zipper down further. Her agile tongue and the champagne bubbles quickly did the trick—he closed his eyes and began to remember.
At some point, Stanley’s member was so far down Anastasia’s throat that he couldn’t hold back a shout.
“Did you remember?” asked Anastasia, raising her head.
“Not entirely,” whispered Stanley, “but that’s really helping, what you’re doing…”
“Then we’ll continue!” Anastasia took another sip of champagne, but just then, they heard the door creak, and a cold draft blew into the room. The curtains at the balcony fluttered in the breeze, their shadows snaking across the floor.
“Who’s there?” a sharp female voice called out.
Their uninvited guest searched around and found the switch of a large floor lamp. Stanley squinted. The intruder was a young woman—tall, slender, with a proud bearing and black hair flowing down to her shoulders.
“What is going on in this house!” she said. “There’s a blowjob in every room. It’s not Independence Day. It’s Blowjob Day. May I ask why you’re doing this in an area closed to guests?”
“Damn!” said Anastasia, quickly gulping down her champagne and leaning down to whisper in Stanley’s ear. “Sorry, honey, I have to run!” She kissed his cheek, her lips sweet from the champagne. “Till next time!”
Anastasia grabbed her shoes, and with the parting words, “Sorry, girl!” ran past the woman standing
in the doorway and down the dark hallway. The woman walked further into the room, and Stanley quickly covered himself with his hand. Her silhouette was familiar to him, as if he’d seen it already today.
“Who are you?” she asked.
McKnight could tell from her voice that she was very high. The lamplight fell on the girl’s long legs, illuminating the thin fabric of her dress, and Stanley thought she might not be wearing any underwear.
“Guard? Dancer? Guest?” she continued, flipping her long back curls behind her back.
“Guest,” replied Stanley. “I was invited…I’m a financial consultant…at your service!”
“I hear an accent. You’re not Russian. Definitely not Russian.”
“The accent gave me away?”
“You’re too handsome for a Russian.”
“You don’t like Russian men?”
“They’re boring. And usually ugly. They don’t like good-looking men like you in Russia. Suspicious. Except if you’re gay, or a lowly physical trainer at the gym.” The girl laughed. “A Russian man should be fat, with a potbelly, and a second chin.”
“Like a penguin?” Stanley recalled the appearance of the party guests down below.
“Exactly. An emperor penguin.” The girl walked closer, wiping the palm of her hand across her nose. “Where are you from?”
“California. A small town called Carmel. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I’ve played golf there. You look like their famous mayor, but shorter.” She fell silent, studying him intently. “Are you married, financial consultant?”
“I’m getting divorced.” Stanley came to a full realization of the foolishness of his situation. He awkwardly felt around for the edge of his pants, stood partway, and pulled them back up. Then he located the bottle of champagne and lifted it up with two hands to take a sip.
“That’s what you all say. Champagne? Excellent. I’ve got coke. Not the stuff that everyone’s been using tonight. This is high quality, from Argentina, the purest you can find in Moscow. Here, try some.”
“I don’t do coke,” Stanley answered gloomily. “I don’t like drugs; I’d rather drink.”
“You’re boring.”
“I’m an alcoholic. And proud of it.”
“I’m going to call security now,” she threatened and sat down on the wide arm of the chair, leaning against the back so closely that Stanley could feel the heat of her body.
Suddenly Stanley realized where he knew her from. He’d only seen her from behind—when he got out of the car after Biryuza. Why had he remembered her? Ah, definitely her height. The woman walking next to her had been in six-inch spike heels. But this girl had been half a head taller nonetheless. And it was all in the legs. They were nothing short of breathtaking. The stranger threw one leg over the other, bringing her knee just inches from Stanley’s lips.
“Come on, handsome stranger with the mysterious accent. Let’s do it!” She held the packet out to Stanley. “Let’s go!”
“What’s so mysterious about my accent? And I’m surely not handsome,” Stanley protested, but the woman spilled a mound of cocaine onto the arm of the chair, cut two lines with her credit card (J. P. Morgan Reserve card, Stanley noted automatically) and pulled out a silver tube.
“Ok,” she agreed. “Not as handsome as a fairy-tale prince. And your accent isn’t mysterious, my American friend. But you have a nice look about you. I can tell you’re a good guy. Otherwise, that slut wouldn’t have been on her knees in front of you. How did she do it?”
“Do what?”
“You know what.”
“She had champagne in her mouth and…”
“What a pro! Here, have some!”
Stanley could see there was no getting out of it. He couldn’t see what he was doing in the dim light, and inhaled more than he meant to. Stanley hadn’t touched coke since he’d been a student at Berkeley. The icy cold burned down his throat, and the chill hit his temples. In an instant, he felt wild energy flood down his arms and legs, a rainbow of colors appeared before his eyes, and, almost unconscious, McKnight heard a woman’s voice from a neighboring universe.
“You spilled! There’s a little left…on my leg.”
Stanley leaned over again and licked the remainder of the powder of her tanned skin, rubbing a little over his gums.
“Oh wow!” she said. “You’re sweet, American.”
Ten minutes later, she pulled out yet another packet. She inhaled its contents, switching between nostrils.
“Don’t worry. I don’t do this often,” she said, catching Stanley’s eye on her. “I mean, I’m not like these sluts they rounded up for the party. But it’s so fun with you!”
“With me or with the coke?”
“With you, dummy, with you. A chance meeting with a handsome stranger…”
She looked past Stanley, reaching for the neck of the champagne bottle. Stanley moved to help her, and they ended up in an accidental embrace.
“Sorry,” said Stanley, pulling back a little.
“No problem,” she said, taking a sip from the bottle.
“Those legs are works of art,” Stanley said, surprising himself. “They belong in a museum, a Botticelli painting, maybe. But I always thought that romantic Italian was exaggerating, making things up. Or that he had something wrong with his eyes. Because legs like that just don’t exist in nature. But you look like his Spring. Except that one was a redhead, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“Oh my god! What is this? I’ve never heard such compliments! Are you saying I’m the Spring?”
“Long legs aren’t that rare,” Stanley went on, still with no idea why he was speaking so openly. “That’s not it. But there are certain rules of harmony. No, not rules. Laws. And there are exceptions to the rules. Violating those laws. But with you it’s the other way around.”
Stanley thought that the cocaine had done a good job of loosening his tongue. This drug is the best thing in the world, he thought. An entirely different thing than the cocaine he’d tried as a student. It was as if, after long years of blindness, someone had handed him magical glasses, and the world was filled with marvelous colors. His senses were heightened, and he could smell every cell of this woman’s body.
“Are you still talking about my legs?”
“No, not just your legs. Now I can see that it’s not just your legs.”
“And what do you see? It’s pretty dark here, with just this lamp.” She reached out and ran her fingers over McKnight’s face. “But to the touch, you’re not bad, either. And you smell like champagne.”
She tried to continue the conversation in a mocking, independent tone, but she was doing worse and worse at it.
“We don’t know each other,” said Stanley. “And we probably won’t get to know each other. Ever. So there’s no point in pretending to be someone else, given our situation.”
“Okay, then! Carry on about Botticelli. I liked that. I will just suffer from my curiosity about the sophisticated romantic who ended up here. We mostly have penguins here.”
She shivered a little and smoothed her curls across her forehead.
“I just have one personal question. It’s important to me.”
Stanley nodded. He was ready to answer all her questions, but he couldn’t let go of the fear that everything he was experiencing was just the effect of the drug.
“You said you were getting divorced? I know it’s stupid to ask. It’s just that I’m married, myself. But free to do what I like. If you see what I mean.”
“Legally, yes, I’m also married, but practically single. You could say that it’s an open marriage. My wife lives in San Francisco, and I live in Zurich. We see each other twice a year, and haven’t had time to get divorced.”
“It doesn’t matter how often you meet; what those meetings mean to you—that’s what matters.
And by the way, if the spouses do not live together, good marriages are more frequent.”
“But you have a different situation, I think? Married for money?”
“All marriages are a calculation,” she answered. “Everyone counts on finding happiness, after all.”
Stanley decided that he didn’t care what she said, because all he needed to do was watch and remember. Remember that profile. And how she ran her little finger over the corner of her mouth. How her eyelashes fluttered, and how the moonlight caught on them.
She leaned forward slightly, and her breasts brushed against his face.
“Let’s not get into details about me.” Her voice seemed to be fading. “I’m just officially someone’s wife. Everything else is just details.”
For the first time in a long time, there was a break in their conversation.
“That’s it? No more Botticelli?” she asked, interrupting the silence.
Now she was peering through the moonlit dark, trying to make out the face of her unknown companion.
“I saw you, you and your girlfriend. I saw you from below, from the courtyard, when you were coming here. I thought it was Polina. My friend Polina. Although she’s in another city now. But that’s what I saw, what I imagined I saw. I thought something stupid and came here. And it was Anastasia. I know girls like her. A model from the escort service, but she had the nerve to act like I was her friend!”
“Sorry, weren’t you saying something about Botticelli?” Stanley returned to the conversation with some difficulty. The cocaine made him feel like his eyes had frozen in place, that he’d never be able to blink again. His new acquaintance had been telling the truth—either this was very pure cocaine, or someone had added a hallucinogen.
“Too bad that you’re done with the compliments. I liked those.”
“To be honest, I just started thinking out loud. Because it was so strange—when I got here today, I saw you from a distance. For only a matter of seconds. And I didn’t even see your face. But it left a mark on me, somehow. You know how it is, some insignificant moment from childhood gets stuck in your memory forever, down to the smallest detail. And for some reason, your figure, your walk, how you climbed the stairs, all of it was stamped in my mind. I’m looking at you now, and it’s as if I’m remembering all of you.”
The Banker Who Died Page 9