She obeyed. “Yuri?”
“Yes, beautiful Carla.”
She smiled. “Don't start that beautiful Carla stuff. I'll drag you into this tub.”
Yuri blushed. “What was your question?”
“What made a guy like you join the KGB?”
He pursed his lips. “Good pay. Travel. To help my country.”
“How did you avoid the shit jobs?”
He knew what she meant. Intimidating dissidents. Standing outside churches, taking photographs of those who entered. Arresting citizens for talking to foreigners. All of that seemed so distant now. Like bad dreams. “They did not arise,” he told her. “From the beginning I was First Directorate although it was three years before I was trusted to travel.”
“Have you done any wet work?
“Carla...”
“Come on. You know all about me.”
“The answer is no.”
“Bullshit.”
“Wet work is assassination. It is very rare and it is seldom useful. Also, it was permitted to refuse. I would have refused.”
She reached for his hand. She studied it, tracing her fingers over its surface. “I've heard about these hands. In Los Angeles, you ripped a man's throat out with this.”
He tried to pull away. “An exaggeration. He shot me. I groped blindly.”
“But he wasn't your first, was he.”
Yuri cleared his throat. “Could we not find a more pleasant subject?”
”I just... like to know that you can protect me.”
“Hmmph.”
“What's Hmmph?”
“More likely that you would protect me.”
It was meant as a compliment, said with respect. She did not seem to appreciate it. The sadness came back in her eyes. He felt her grip tighten around his fingers. She began pulling him closer.
”I. . . should leave you to rest.” He said. ”I can call Mr. Bannerman for you if you wish. And then I must...”
She guided the hand to her lips. Caressing it. Tasting it. Now she lowered it to her chest and held it against her, submerged beneath the foam. She stifled a yawn.
The yawn gave him hope that the pills would work quickly. There was little time for this, much on his mind, much to do. But now she was pulling him again. He yielded. She turned her face toward his. Her lips parted. He dropped to one knee. Her arms twined around his neck.
Her kiss, the things that she did with her tongue, sent shocks through his body. In all his life, he had never been kissed in this way. Her tongue was alive. Almost violent. Probing deeply. It seemed to him, almost, that she was trying to force herself inside him. To hide there. Her small arms held him with a strength, an intensity, that he would not have imagined in her.
In his mind, he saw Maria's face. Her expression, at first, was one of surprise and then of confusion. In his mind, he explained to her that this had not been his intention but now, perhaps, it cannot be avoided. Maria seemed to understand. She turned away, going about her business as if she had seen nothing at all.
More shocks. One of Carla's hands was now against his chest, the fingers reaching inside his shirt. He slid his own right hand behind her back, the other beneath her knees, ignoring the effect upon his wristwatch and jacket. He lifted her as he had in the elevator. From her waist down, all was foam. She was like a mermaid.
It was true, he thought, that Maria would understand. Carla was in pain. She had need of him. To refuse a woman, when she offers herself, is something that is never forgiven. To refuse a woman such as Carla, in this circumstance especially, might also be unsafe. That he also wanted her, was thrilled by her, was in this case irrelevant. He would never have taken the initiative. Maria would know that. She would understand.
Best, however, not to mention it.
He carried Carla to his bed.
20
“You're an ungrateful prick, Lesko.”
He heard Katz in his head while he was urinating.
“You got no appreciation, you know that?”
Lesko was in no mood for this. Elena was already sore at him.
“She should be,” Katz scolded. “Guy invites you to Russia, picks up the whole tab, and all you do so far is noodge.”
He had left them at the large fountain on the main floor of GUM, sipping sweet champagne from paper cups, while he went to find a toilet.
“Guy sees that his whole country is in the shithouse and all you can say is stop your whining, Leo. Get off your ass, Leo.”
“David. . . he asked for it. He was pushing for it.”
“Would you have said that in the South Bronx? In Harlem? You've been living off the Bruggs too long, Lesko. You got no compassion.”
”I earn my keep, David. Fuck you.”
Lesko said this aloud. The little man selling folds of toilet paper was suddenly nervous. He began edging toward the door.
“David?” Lesko returned to his mind. “Something's going on here. What?”
It sure as hell isn't sensitivity training.”
Lesko showed his teeth. But maybe, he thought, Katz was right.
Katz ... his own conscience . . . whatever. Even so, he didn't need this.
Sometimes he could will Katz away. He tried it. He waited until Katz opened his mouth again and then he zapped him. Katz exploded into a flash of light. Lesko gathered the light into a ball and sent it to Lenin's tomb where he rematerialized him, unconscious, inside the glass coffin. Let him wake up there in the morning. Lenin was probably a bargain compared to some of the skags Katz woke with over the years. Meanwhile, if it gets too dark and scary in there he can always use Lenin as a candle.
Lesko sighed.
There he went again, getting smart-ass disrespectful. If Belkin wanted to feel bad about Lenin being thrown out with the bathwater, he had a right. Lesko would try to be nice.
He finished at the urinal and went to rinse his hands. Rusty water, cold, no soap, no paper towels. He checked the stalls. No paper there either and the little guy selling it was gone, probably to find a cop. Place stank, he thought, rubbing his hands dry. It hadn't been hosed down in a month.
See that? He was still doing it. Being negative. He was beginning to sound like John Waldo.
Here he was, he told himself, in this incredible department store! They'd been wandering up and down the first-floor gallery for about a half hour and he had yet to say anything positive. But it was really an amazing place. You look at the architecture, the details, and this was every bit as awesome as the Gallerias of Naples or Milan. Here, that first-floor gallery was the length of two football fields, and there were two more levels above it with little bridges running across. Maybe a hundred little shops on each level. The whole thing covered with a greenhouse roof. And Belkin said there were two other galleries, running parallel, just like this one. Probably just as mobbed.
Valentin said that most of the shoppers were from out of town. Some, he said, traveled hundreds of miles because they had nothing like this selection of goods back home. That was the thing. What made it hard to say anything nice was that he'd never seen such crap in his life.
Years ago, back in Queens, there was this old Kresge Five & Dime. A new mall opened just down the street on Queens Boulevard. The Kresge's hung on for about a year and then it went out of business. By the time it finally closed, about half the shelves were empty, but they were still trying to unload whatever dusty, picked-over junk they still had for ten cents on the dollar.
That was what these shops looked like. Cheap clothing with seams already coming loose. Bath towels you could push your thumbnail through. One place sold hand tools, hammers and such, that were dumped in a bin and coated with rust. Raincoats made out of oilcloth which you could smell from three shops away. Sales clerks with expressions that said if you want it, fine, if you don't, go away. Any halfway-decent merchandise was easy to spot because it always had a sign or a little flag saying it was from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Italy, the implication being that if it was made in Russ
ia it was probably a piece of shit.
Still... maybe on the way back he could find some little gift for Elena. Some flowers, anyway. Make up for being such a jerk.
As he started back toward the fountain, he noticed a little costume jewelry stall with a display of amber necklaces. Elena liked amber. It went with her coloring. One necklace was particularly unusual. It was a long strand of unpolished chunks in several shades. The tag said 600 rubles. If he remembered correctly from his guidebook, that was a month's pay for most Russians, but it was only a few bucks American.
He approached the counter. The sales girl did a double take. Her lips parted. Lesko was used to that. He tried a smile. It didn't help. He pointed toward the necklace of mixed amber and peeled a five-dollar bill from his roll. He held it up, questioningly.
She seemed tempted but, “Only rubles,” she muttered.
Nuts.
Lesko thought of the kids outside. He gestured that he'd be back and walked toward the exit. He realized that this was not the smartest idea he'd ever had. On the other hand, he wasn't planning to walk outside waving American dollars either. If someone approached him, fine. If not, okay. But he wanted that necklace for Elena.
When he passed through the exit, expecting to see St. Basil's all lit up, he realized that he'd been turned around. He was at the opposite end of GUM. He had barely oriented himself when a kid in his early twenties started toward him, then hesitated like the others. Lesko made a peace sign with his fingers. The kid came on.
“Good evening, sir. Are you enjoying your visit?”
“The time of my life.”
It never failed to amaze Lesko. He hadn't opened his mouth. Everything he wore was German or Italian. Haircut was Swiss. And yet everyone in the world seems to know an American on sight. ”I need some rubles,” he said. “How many for ten bucks?”
“Such transactions are illegal, sir.”
“Kid ... give me a break. How much?”
The young man smiled. “For ten dollars, twelve hundred rubles. For more dollars, the rate is better.”
“The ten's all I need.”
He held the bill in one hand and extended the other, palm up. The kid hesitated for just a beat more and then reached into his pocket. From a thick wad, he separated six little bundles of twenties. Lesko assumed that he was being cheated to some degree. Kid would be crazy not to start off low. But this made that necklace about a two-dollar purchase, and there was no point being greedier than that.
It looked like Monopoly money. Little colored bills less than half the size of a dollar. Lesko suddenly realized that he'd never seen Soviet currency before. They could have been kopeks for all he knew.
“Listen,” he said, ''I have a better idea. There's a necklace I want inside. It's six hundred rubles. Buy it for me and you can keep the five bucks plus the rest of the rubles.”
The young man brightened. “Agreed,” he said.
Lesko watched as the kid paid with the same twenties. He was straight after all. As he turned from the jewelry counter, Lesko held out a hand for the necklace, but the kid kept moving toward the exit. Must be safer to do business outside, Lesko realized. Lesko followed him onto the street where the young man did a sweep with his eyes and then passed him the small package. Lesko thanked him and started back toward the doors.
“Sir? If you want more amber . . .”
Lesko stopped. “This necklace. Is it any good?”
The kid rocked a hand. “Not so bad. Nothing in shops is the best. You always do better by trading.”
“Just out of curiosity, what else do you deal in?”
He shrugged. ”I have good unpressed caviar. Better than in Berioska shops. Fur hats made of muskrat, not rabbit. Also military hats and belts.”
“That's all?”
“Tell me what you want. Probably I can find it.”
“Drugs?”
A flicker of contempt. “Not from me.”
“Glad to hear it. What kind of stuff do you trade for?”
“Almost anything from America. Cigarettes, magazines, clothing, anything electronic, cosmetics . . .”
“You can't buy any of that stuff legally?”
He shook his head. “Hard to find. Someday, perhaps.” He cocked his head toward the shops of the gallery. “In there, someday you will see Waldenbooks, Radio Shack, even Safeway and Sears Roebuck.”
Lesko believed it. GUM was already a mall. Half the cities in Europe already looked like Cincinnati.
“Won't that put you out of business?”
“By then, perhaps, I will be in America. Do you think I could find work there?”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“English is adequate. German and French are better. I am learning Spanish.”
“Offhand, I'd say you can't miss.”
A shy smile. “Could I be a policeman? Like you?”
Lesko made a face. He knew that the kid wasn't serious. He was just letting him know that he knew. It was the eyes. You can always spot a cop by his eyes. The way they're always looking around.
“You're sure I'm not CIA?”
The kid almost laughed. “You are not CIA.”
Lesko extended his hand. “Nice talking to you. Name's Lesko.”
“Mikhail.” He shook it. “Your necklace,” he said. “The pieces are good but you must have them restrung.”
“Thanks. I will.”
The young man gestured toward the exit. “If you decide to buy or trade, I am there most evenings.”
“Take care of yourself.” Lesko slapped his shoulder. He reentered GUM in search of Elena.
The taxi driver's name was Ratmir. He was humiliated. He was furious.
His passenger, that lying pig of a man, was holding fast to his collar to keep him from taking the keys and running.
His clothing, his entire taxi, now smelled of oranges and Turkish tea. His pants were wet and sticky where he had crushed his tangerines. Three packages of tea had been split open. Totally destroyed. Their contents now clung to his knees and elbows. Only the smoked fish and about half of the tea could now fetch a decent price. On the tangerines he would lose money.
That pig.
He never wanted the tea. He had waited until the trunk was open. Then he seized Ratmir by the neck and by the crotch and threw him inside, slamming the lid shut against his head.
“For your own good,” came the muffled voice of the pig. “Very bad area, the Shelepikha. Nothing but ex-convicts and those who live in Moscow illegally. You are safer in the trunk. Also you are here when I return.”
Now he promises to pay the fare plus twenty rubles extra if he is driven back to GUM. Ratmir did not believe him. Even if he paid it, the ruined tangerines and the tea were worth many times more.
“Don't stop. Go past,” said the pig, twisting his collar. Blood hammered at Ratmir's temples.
He glanced into his mirror. The pig was staring ahead, off to the right. Now, with his free hand, he was reaching inside his coat. Ratmir tensed. But the pig had no weapon, only squares of paper. No ... they were photographs. He was spreading them with his thumb and now staring again. Two men, talking together, had caught his interest. They were standing by the entrance of GUM. One look like a foreigner. He was even bigger than this one.
“Go past,” he said again, pointing. “Go in front of those trucks.”
The pig had released his collar, but Ratmir could feel his breath against his neck and he could smell him even through the tea and the juice of the tangerines. He smelled like rancid fat. Ratmir leaned away from him. With his fingers, he felt for the mallet that he kept under his seat. It was still there. He gripped it and tucked it under his thigh as he shifted gears and eased forward.
The trucks were parked for the evening outside a small loading area between the galleries. Ratmir could expect no help from the drivers. Either they were drunk by now or they were out selling whatever they had stolen from their shipments. At his passenger's order, Ratmir pulled in beyond the
second truck. There was an alley there. The pig urged him forward, into it.
Ratmir feared that once again this man would try to put him in the trunk. But as the taxi turned he was looking back up October, back toward the two men. Ratmir surged forward; then hit his brakes hard. The pig bounced off the front seat. His hat went flying. The motor shuddered and stalled. Ratmir scrambled from the taxi. The mallet clattered to the cobblestones. Ratmir groped for it, at the same time throwing his weight against the door that the pig was trying to push open. Once more, Ratmir's fingers found his mallet.
“First you pay me,” he shouted. “Not twenty rubles. Two hundred.” His voice was high in pitch.
Two pig eyes looked out at him. No fear, not even anger. Only contempt. The eyes also said that he had no time for this.
“Two hundred is fair,” he said.
He leaned away from the door as if to reach into his pocket for the money. Instead, his leg came up. He kicked at the door.
But Ratmir had expected this. He pulled the door open as the foot came forward. He swung hard at the ankle. The pig yelped. The leg bucked and flailed. Ratmir hammered at it. To do this, he let the door swing wide. It was a mistake.
The man lunged, his left hand clawing at Ratmir's hair. Ratmir threw his head back, but the hand now gripped his jacket. It jerked him forward, banging his face against the roof of the car, then throwing him backward against the alley wall. For a moment he was dazed. When his eyes could focus again, the man was climbing from the car. Ratmir heard him grunting from the effort but he saw a cruel light in his pig eyes. The man was going to beat him. Break his bones. Already he was finding pleasure in the thought of it. But now the man put weight upon his ankle and he cried out in angry pain. He swung the other leg from the taxi and, both hands gripping the door, pulled himself erect. He prepared to hurl himself at Ratmir.
Ratmir swung the mallet in a chopping motion. It glanced off the side of the bigger man's skull, tearing his ear. The man bellowed. He clapped a hand to it. Ratmir swung again, blindly, this time catching his elbow. The sound was that of an ax striking wet wood. The man's right hand, still clutching the photographs, grabbed at the elbow. His head, the right side of it, was unprotected. Ratmir sidestepped so that the open door was between them. He reached over it and swung the mallet again. It tore at the other ear. The head dipped forward. Now Ratmir pounded at his neck. He did not know how many times he struck him. He did not stop until the pig stopped grunting.
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