The bitter taste in my mouth grows stronger, demanding to absorb the rest of me. Panicky, I look around and spot a bottle of cognac in the minibar for private clients – just what I need … but even after forcing myself to down almost an entire glass, I’m still trembling.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE WHORE OF BABYLON
‘Sweetie, how are you feeling?’
…
‘Can you walk?’
…
‘How’s your stomach? Have they taken the stitches out yet?’
…
‘What? You spent the morning in a church?’
…
‘Well, me you know, I’m seeing the guy I went to Monaco with … He’s taking me to an exclusive Sotheby’s preview tonight.’
…
‘Of course I know what I’m doing.’
…
‘I’m actually on my way to wire some money to my dad … he’s always wanted to own a car.’
…
‘I’ll come and visit you soon. Do you need anything?’
…
‘Love you too,’ I say, stepping into a branch of the Savings Bank full of grouchy, smelly old people.
I flash my platinum card at the reception desk and get a green ticket, granting me the right to skip the line.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ yells a sulky old woman, threatening me with her walking stick, blocking my access to the only working cashier.
‘I’ve paid for the priority, babushka!’ I argue, showing her my little green ticket. ‘It’ll only take a minute, I just need to deposit some money and get the check …’ I justify myself, still trying to push through.
‘I paid for my priority during the war years, and I’ve been paying for it my whole life in this desolate, bloodsucking country - and now I have to stand in line all day long just to get my four thousand roubles of pension money?’ she rants on, still trying to get me with the stick, though I manage to maneuver away.
‘Are you crazy?’ I shout back, slipping past her to the cashier’s desk.
‘You’re an ungrateful whore,’ she shouts after me in vain - I’m already passing my dad’s card details and fifty thousand roubles to the clerk.
‘Purpose of the payment?’ asks the melancholy middle-aged woman behind the glass.
‘Mm, returning funds,’ I respond after a moment’s thought … fair payback for the money he sent to my mom and me when we needed it …
I grab the receipt and hurry out past the abhorring gaze of the crowd.
‘Shame on you!’ the babushkas tut-tut, making no secret of their loathing. ‘With your skirt above your panties - is that how you got your priority? Whore!’
Pulling down my tight, semi-transparent black dress, I quickly walk out of the branch, away from this incivility, towards the Sotheby’s party.
Exasperated, I pick up my pace, perspiring in my little synthetic dress, through a fragrant park blooming with orchids. The straps of my diamond-studded Dior heels painfully scrape my skin, but I keep going until I reach the basement of the Christ the Savior cathedral, where the private auction is due to take place.
Akbar’s message catches me right at the cathedral gates: ‘Katyusha, I’m stuck at some emergency meeting. Do go in without me. Your name is on the list. I’ll join you as soon as I’m done here. Hugs, Gromov.’
Feeling somewhat unsettled, I approach a doorman in a red jacket with a vacuous stare, and say my name.
He officiously checks his list and finally gives me a cursory ‘Welcome,’ letting me through into a beautiful, bohemian-style garden, redolent with the smell of roses. Violinists and cellists play Bach concertos, while Moscow’s elites mingle in the foreground.
The crème de la crème consists mostly of overweight women in pastel designer outfits. Their features betray a certain fondness for vodka, facelifts and nose jobs. They are holding an invisible fort around their even more overweight men whose suits appear to have been tailor-made to accommodate their bellies.
Swaying my hips and flashing a dazzling smile, I pass through the high-profile crowd. This is where I belong - in the midst of the utmost luxury.
A cold glass of Cristal from a polite waiter’s tray quenches the fire inside me from the altercation at the bank, and I walk down to the back door of the cathedral, to be admitted to the auction.
Marble stairs flanked by red granite saints lead to the mezzanine level, hidden from general public access. Unlike the golden chapels and fearfully-ornamented marble high reliefs of the ground floor, it is rather grim in here, with no signs of traditional rich Orthodox symbolism and no ambience of celebration. It doesn’t even smell like incense – more like whiskey, champagne and seafood canapés.
It is just an ordinary open space gallery underneath the most magnificent Orthodox church, with expensive paintings carefully hung on the black walls, and a jazz quartet at the back of the room.
The first painting that catches my eye is a beautiful Gothic depiction of the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. Their sweet, innocent faces with shiny haloes and sophisticated, well-painted flowers strike me with their purity - a ray of light after the Roman Empire.
Next to it is a familiar sketch of Europa helplessly sprawled on her back, holding onto the bull’s horn.
After that, a careful composition, painted in transparent colors with brilliant use of light, of a shy Dutch village girl holding a basket of fresh apples and grapes, suggesting her cheerful, romantic mood.
Next in the line there is a huge Roerich painting occupying the entire wall, which hits me with the vivid sharpness of the phosphorescent mountains, softened by the poetry of the female zither player.
Dürer’s bored Melancholia angel sits in the next frame, with a very blurred score above him. I get closer to the gloomy engraving, trying to check the number.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a polite voice. I turn and see a young man in a silky brown velvet suit approaching me.
‘Mm, I was just wondering what the number of this engraving is,’ I muse.
‘It is the original Dürer’ he proudly starts to say.
‘I understand,’ I interrupt, getting impatient. ‘What’s its number?’ I ask, adopting a superior tone that reminds me of Akbar. ‘You know every Dürer engraving has a number. The higher the number, the lower the price.’
‘Mm, I need to check,’ he says with a nervous smile, highlighting the pimples on his face, fresh out of teenage acne. ‘I’ll call my supervisor.’
A few minutes later, a petite, energetic brunette arrives on the scene. She has voluminous blow-dried hair, breasts and lips à la Dolly Parton, and is dressed in a gray Yves Saint Laurent business suit. She confidently bares her bleached teeth at me, approaching on her enormous heels, which still don’t bring her head level with my shoulders.
‘Did you have a question?’ the pint-sized Dolly Parton lookalike asks with a fake smile, glancing at my attention-grabbing legs.
‘I asked your colleague for the number of this engraving,’ I say disdainfully.
‘It is an original Durer from his printery in Nuremberg,’ she explains.
‘Of course it is from his printery. The original plate is still there. These engravings can still be made …’ I interrupt, losing my patience.
‘But it’s printed on the paper of that epoch - just look at the texture. And you can see the ink is also authentic,’ she argues.
‘Do you even understand my question?’ I ask in aggravation. ‘What is its number?’
‘It’s thirty-two,’ booms Akbar’s voice behind my back, making me regret the imperious tone I’ve just been taking - I don’t sound like ideal girlfriend material.
‘Oh hi,’ I say, beaming, impressed with him for knowing it.
‘Hello, darling,’ he says, greeting me with a kiss on the lips, ignoring everyone else in the room, including the brunette employee.
‘It’s an impressive piece of art,’ I say proudly.
‘It is mine,’ he says prop
rietorially.
‘Thirty-two is a good number,’ I simper.
‘It’s not number one, though,’ Akbar smirks, distracted by his phone. ‘Darling, I need to talk to a colleague. Why don’t you just look around, enjoy the art? I’ll come and get you … OK, Katyusha?’ he asks, gently touching my nose with his cold index finger, prompting a bubbly feeling more potent than any glass of champagne.
‘OK,’ I involuntarily nod.
After a few canapés and a couple of glasses of champagne, my glance lands on a small, colorful illumination depicting two stern angels with spears pushing down on the womb of a fiery beast, and a smiling young girl in a ruby-studded red samite and an emerald mantle, with a diamond-studded diadem on her head. The three kings above her seem to have tears of joy in their eyes.
I get up close to study the look of idyllic happiness on her face - her joy would be almost convincing, if it weren’t for the fact that she was inside the red dragon … the dragon who reminds me of the one from my nightmares … who’d paralyze me with fear, so I could not make a sound when I wanted to scream.
It is impossible for the devils to forget to drag me down to hell when I die.
‘With whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication,’ quotes the energetic brunette, ruthlessly cutting into my silent panic, asphyxiating me with every word. ‘The Whore of Babylon, 1160, by Herrad of Hohenburg - a very rare piece,’ she says.
‘Impressive composition and graphics for the twelfth century,’ I retaliate, trying to sound like an art connoisseur.
She disregards my comment. ‘This interpretation of the Great Whore stands out from all the others - including Dürer’s, with its grim colors and the look of horror on her face. This one is brightly-colored, and she looks joyful - as if she hasn’t realized what’s going on.’ She seems to wink at me, but all of a sudden I feel short of breath, as if I were running miles … away from this painting.
‘Excuse me,’ I mutter distractedly, and make my way back to the garden on the torturing hills.
The honeyed orchid breath makes me feel slightly better, with a new glass of champagne complementing the freshness of the misty azure sunset over the six hills of Moscow, visible from these heights.
A few yards away I can see Akbar debating in hushed tones with a man half his size, with almost identical glasses: ‘Those asset-backed securities are just the way Wagners and their like extract the cash surplus; like we did with privatization and loan-for-share auctions. It’s their game. It was clear from the beginning you’d be on the losing end … I think we’ve discussed everything,’ he says, noticing me. ‘Call my treasurer.’ Akbar leaves the chap and walks towards me, gloating.
‘You only play the game you can win?’ I cheekily ask.
‘With you I don’t need any games,’ he says, softly kissing my cheek, making a pleasant, soothing wave rush through my body. ‘I got you a little bracelet made from Sardinian pearls, but forgot to bring it.’
‘You really thought about me?’ I ask, amazed.
‘Of course,’ he says firmly in his authoritative baritone. ‘I always think about you, my dear, so to speak.’ He downs his Scotch. ‘You really helped me with the cash allocation,’ he says, grabbing a plate of red meat from the tray of a passing waiter and bringing it to the nearest stand-up table.
‘It’s a good time to cash in, I guess,’ I say, following him. ‘The markets look awful. With more and more rumors that some banks are about to crash, people are concerned they won’t get any bonuses … the industry is dying.’
‘Banks will always exist while the system allows someone like me to use it to wash money through …’ he says, observing the setting sun reflected in his glass. ‘And even if it won’t pay as well as it used to, the industry will still be driven by some enthusiasts … usually underpaid juniors. It’s always like this … in any field.’
‘I was an underpaid junior and they sacked me,’ I moan, as my feet keep painfully slipping out of my shoes.
‘That’s because they’re stupid … I would never sack you - well, not in that sense, so to speak,’ he says, suggestively ogling my cleavage.
‘So how was your trip to Sardinia?’ I ask, capriciously changing the subject as I try some tartare.
He sighs. ‘Well, I had to give another chunky donation … to reduce the import tax … not directly, of course …’ he says, smirking. ‘And not even to reduce it - just to keep the status quo … You know it better than me, you can’t sort anything out without a little stimulation one way or another, so to speak.’
‘Isn’t that called corruption?’ I ask naively.
‘Such a loud word,’ he counters. ‘Bribery is not corruption. Corruption is what happens on a national level.’ He makes a sweeping gesture with his big hands. ‘Bribery is just a way to facilitate things, so to speak. Very often it can save time, and sometimes even lives. It’s just a tool to nip problems in the bud.’
‘But bribes are the foundations of corruption,’ I argue. ‘You steal a bit, you get away with it, then you steal more, you keep doing it until you get caught.’
‘OK,’ he calmly acknowledges, taking his time and a sip of wine. ‘What if a state like the Soviet Union imposes a famine on its citizens and the death penalty for stealing an ear of wheat? Wouldn’t a mother of starving children try to steal to feed them?’ he asks, cutting his rib-eye steak. Then, getting personal all of a sudden: ‘You’ve never stolen anything yourself?’
‘Well, I don’t know …’ I mutter.
‘There must be something.’ He looks interrogatively into my eyes as if trying to see what I am hiding. ‘Someone like you must have taken their first step sometime.’
‘What do you mean, someone like me?’ I ask, genuinely not getting it.
‘You’re not too different from the rest of us here,’ he says in his chilling, metallic voice. ‘So who did you steal from?’
‘My mom,’ I whisper.
‘How much?’ he asks, chewing his beef.
‘About two hundred dollars.’
‘There you go. Your first step on the route to corruption,’ he says, soaking a piece of brown bread in the blood from the steak. ‘Don’t worry, Katyusha, humans are imperfect. They will always take advantage of loopholes in the legislation.’
‘If you say so,’ I mutter, abandoning my tartare.
‘Listen,’ he says, noticing he’s won. ‘There is no liberté, égalité, fraternité. Get rich and live by your own rules.’
‘You’re right.’ I study him closely for a second, realizing he has got a point … It’s my responsibility to get rich enough not to have to steal or lie.
‘I like it when you agree with me,’ he smiles demonically, wiping his fingers clean. ‘Let’s go.’ He leaves a few thousand roubles as a tip, and starts to make his way out of this place.
No sooner have we reached the gate than an irritating voice calls out ‘Mr Gromov!’. I turn around to see the vulgar brunette from Sotheby’s running after us. ‘Your painting,’ she says with a wide, ultra-white-toothed smile, handing Akbar a wrapped frame whilst punitively gazing at me.
‘Thanks, almost forgot it …’ Akbar says dryly, taking the bundle. ‘This is for you.’ He passes it to me, continuing to walk towards the exit.
‘For me?’ I ask, stunned, holding the wrapped masterpiece in my trembling hands, knowing it is The Whore inside there. ‘You shouldn’t have …’
‘The way you looked at it … It was so earnest, so real. I just couldn’t resist buying it for you,’ he says kindly. ‘It’s yours. I told you I’d make up for leaving you alone in Monte Carlo.’
‘It’s OK … I don’t hold it against you,’ I say, trying to return the bundle to him … but it is a very expensive present, meaning he is investing in me … and a man like him will always protect his investments.
‘Nah, take it,’ he insists, letting me into the Maybach.
A short ride later we arrive at the façade on Leontievsky Lane. ‘Invite me in for a coffee?
’ Akbar hints, opening the door for me. ‘I can help you bring the painting up to your apartment.’
‘That would make you the most expensive delivery guy in the world,’ I mock.
‘It’s priceless for me to be in your favor, my queen,’ he says affectedly.
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ I say playfully, and get out of the car.
‘You have it all very conveniently organized, so to speak: a nice apartment in downtown Moscow … living on your own,’ Akbar mutters, following my undulating hips up the stairs.
The moment we cross the threshold, before I even manage to take off the killer shoes, he presses me against the wall with his huge body and passionately kisses me. His mouth still tastes of blood.
‘I know someone who might be interested in your lithium,’ I whisper, pulling away slightly, still thinking about Akbar’s advice to get rich and create my own rules. With the market shrinking day by day, the brokerage commission from Ahmad could be my only chance.
‘Darling, it’s not as easy as you think. I’m only interested in a buyer from a very specific area,’ he says with a superior smile, undoing the back of my dress.
‘It’s in the Middle East,’ I say, dropping the dress to the floor.
‘Where?’ he asks, kissing my neck.
‘The hot area you wanted,’ I say enticingly, kneeling down to unzip his pants and reaching for his balls to rub them through his pink boxers.
‘You’ve got my attention,’ he says, pulling his thick boner through the opening in his underpants.
‘It’s a client I’ve got from Lehman, providing financial services to a local sheik … He would marry me if I sold him some lithium,’ I wink, stroking him with my right hand in sync with my mouth movement.
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