Red Russia

by Tanya Thompson

  Frankly, I don’t like the nation state, or the corporate state, or even the state of humanity, and just as honestly, I know I’ve made a rather capitalist pact with the corporation to avoid a state of social assisted living. For all of that, at least Peter isn’t a hypocrite.

  He’s a proud motto-spewing, logo-bearing inspirational shitstorm of a corporate citizen.

  And I’m trailer trash that’s joined the elite but is disappointed with the move.

  Disappointed with the move, myself, and the duplicity of my life. It’s my astrological nature, my two-faced double-dealing Gemini sign, addicted to pills so the two halves can tolerate the proximity of each other, but it’s also my American right—yes, my damn American right—to recreate myself in a capitalist meritocracy. Don’t judge me, it’s the Ambien talking.

  The promethazine is more of a socialist.

  The zopiclone an anarchist.

  And the methaqualone is only in it for the giggles.

  Without them, I’d have to figure out who I am, with whom I stand, and for what, if anything, I might fight.

  I’m not going to figure it out in the few minutes I have to get ready, not with the four of them rioting in my blood, and especially not with Ooh Rah chanting in the background.

  Thankfully, experience has taught me Peter doesn’t know five minutes’ worth of leadership quotes. In three, he’s quiet. In five, I emerge to find him in clean clothes and closing the flap to my shoulder bag. He hands it to me and takes both our carry-ons.

  In the hall at the top of the stairs, he politely motions for me to go first.

  I smile, say “Thank you,” and put one foot forward. Then the Ambien makes the wallpaper undulate, and the zopiclone trips on the first step. The promethazine swears to god it’s the rot in the balustrades shaking the handrail, and the methaqualone throws itself off twelve seemingly endless cliffs for the bottom.

  I can’t help but count each one as I fall: One, two, three, fourfuckfive, six, seven, skip eight, nine, ten—Christ—eleven—help me—twelve.

  12

  1 + 2 = 3

  Sprawled on the foyer floor, I don’t even have to check if anything is broken because three ensures the only injury is pride. Three keeps it in the ethereal, the spirit world, the realm of possibilities not yet realized. Everything up and until three is safe.

  Sid Vicious obviously doesn’t know his numerology and is unduly concerned. “Bozhe Moi,” My God, “are you alive?” He reaches down to help, offering a tattooed hand.

  Seeing the black widow leave the web of his fingers and crawl up his wrist, I recoil, and something like “Paukov hell i chërtov fury,” Spiders in hell and the devil’s fury, comes out of my mouth as I scramble to my knees.

  “Uspokoysya.” Calm down. Stroking the ink on the back of his hand, he explains, “She is just a harmless little heroin addiction.”

  I may be stunned by the fall and stupid from the drugs but I can still read the signs, and I don’t want that poison anywhere near my skin.

  He offers it anyway. “That had to hurt. If you want, she can take away the pain.”

  As I stagger to my feet assuring, “I feel nothing,” Peter clangs to the bottom step with our luggage and asks in horror, “Jesus Christ, baby, what was that?”

  “Oh, probably just a little omen of things to come.” I try to make it sound almost pleasant.

  He stares at me worried. “Did you hit your head?”

  No, just jarred loose my soul, and Peter got an unintended glimpse of the superstitious thing.

  Gathering my wits, my soul, and the bag of pharmaceuticals, I point toward the front door and insist, “We should go. You’re meeting Konstantin.”

  The Hierophant

  Alone in the back of the Jaguar, we wait for the Zomanov Pakhan. Peter looks over the yard filled with cars and Bratva, and says, “Christ, it was bright out there.”

  Relieved to be hidden behind the dark tint of the windows and no longer under the scrutiny of the brothers, he sinks into the seat and drops his head into his hands. He wants to know: “How long does it take Tylenol to work?”

  “Maybe thirty minutes.”

  Squeezing his temples, he asks, “So I’ve got to live with this pain for another twenty minutes?”

  30 – 20 = 10 = 1: Something momentous has been initiated.

  My muddled brain starts processing the numbers and what they mean in numerology compared to what they mean in this moment. This moment and also ten minutes ago…

  Something happened ten minutes ago.

  Oh dear.

  “Peter, did you take Tylenol from my bag?”

  “Two. Maybe I should take another two.”

  2 + 2 = 4

  Four would definitely bring the situation out of the ethereal and into the material.

  “You don’t need four.” I don’t need four. No one needs four right now.

  And the numbers are changing. What’s still on the table is ten, which is one, but unknown is what suit of two we are dealing with. Tylenol would be nice, but as you may remember, and Peter never knew, in the Tylenol bottle are also methaqualone and Ambien.

  Now, if you don’t know what methaqualone is, that’s a Quaalude, and if you’ve never taken Ambien, it’s exactly like Salvador Dali redecorated your skull.

  Neither is suitable for introductions, as neither will facilitate a good first impression, but given a choice, I’d rather Peter had swallowed two Quaaludes than one Ambien because people who stay awake on Ambien turn very fucking weird.

  The primary reason Ambien parties have never gone mainstream is because nobody can remember a damn thing that happened. You just wake to the inexplicable: the walls graffitied in Oscar Wilde quotes, the cat half shaved, the car missing, and the palm plant from the lobby of the Holiday Inn is sitting on the couch in sunglasses and full Masonic gear: apron, sash, and collar.

  If you want to avoid suicide, for god’s sake, don’t look at your text messages, and just go ahead and delete your entire Twitter account.

  Whatever you got up to you’ll be lucky to never know, but you’ll catch glimpses of it in the weeks to come as Amazon continues to deliver boxes of roller skates and crossbows.

  By comparison, methaqualone should be legal. This is more like you’ve taken six quick shots of Tequila, a bar of Xanax, and are huffing nitrous in a child’s bouncy castle.

  Sure, you’re messed up, but you can still recognize your actions as an extension of your personality.

  It’s too early to know yet what Peter has consumed, but the emerging smile says Quaalude, and this alone gives me hope I can bluff us through first introductions. Never mind I’m also under the effects of methaqualone (and Ambien and zopiclone and promethazine, yeah, yeah, I know), but I’ve developed some immunity, even learned how to act straight so Peter would never accuse me of substance abuse.

  Peter, on the other hand, is now giggling, and says, “That fucker is fat.”

  Konstantin is coming.

  The driver gets in and starts the engine while the passenger slings an empty vodka bottle across the yard.

  And there is no way I can spin fat as phat. Pretty hot and tempting, Konstantin is not.

  No, as Peter points out, “He’s a big fat fucker in a suit that cost more than the house he’s leaving.”

  “Stay polite,” I warn, because Konstantin doesn’t strike me as the type to be amused by such observations.

  I might be honest and confess that Peter has taken my sleeping pills unaware, but Russians tend to be unforgiving of men who can’t handle their intoxicants. And I sure as hell am not about to admit to Peter that I just unintentionally ruffied him before his first meeting with Konstantin.

  As the door beside me opens and the Zomanov Pakhan joins us, the ominous fall down the stairs plays heavily on my mind. For all the sleeping pills, it might as well have happened in a dream, and in a dream such accidents represent a reckless lack of control.

  I wonder what the Devil has to do with it when nex
t the Bull enters the car and sits beside Konstantin. Eyes focused directly ahead, he’s staring at Peter with hate again.

  Konstantin introduces him, “Demyan Zharkov, my translator.”

  Of course. It—and my second underestimation of the Bull—all makes sense now. Konstantin would not have allowed Peter alone with Volikov without a spy—which confirms Felix doesn’t speak English—and the only way to ensure Demyan didn’t pass out like the passenger was to make him the driver. Beautiful. I wonder if Konstantin knows I drugged Felix with Volikov.

  And now Peter as well.

  Poor Peter, drunk and hung over, whacked out of his smiling skull by hypnotics, trying to shake Konstantin’s hand but missing by a foot.

  As Konstantin catches the wayward limb, Peter laughs it off and says, “Good to finally sit down and burn grass with you.”

  I open my mouth to translate, but Konstantin looks purposefully to Demyan.

  Demyan says, “He would like to smoke marijuana.”

  “No, wait, wait, that is not—”

  Peter says, "Let’s start a conversation for blue-ocean opportunity."

  And Demyan translates: “The ocean is blue. Let us about talk it.”

  Holding up a finger, I mumble, “Umm…” while Konstantin makes a face of confused but otherwise congenial acceptance.

  The convoy of cars leaves the translator’s house as Peter says, “We’ve got a SWAT team dedicated to handling every moving part of your business.”

  And Demyan tells Konstantin, “We have a heavily armed and militarized team of sharpshooters who will manage your delivery trucks.”

  Konstantin turns his head to consider this unexpected offer and then gives a curt nod of appreciation.

  The Jaguar picks up speed, and Peters says, “I’ve been to the top of the strategic staircase on this, and the thinking up here is nothing but blue skies.”

  And Konstantin hears, “I have climbed the most important stairs, and I think the sky is blue.”

  Because Konstantin looks disconcerted, Peter makes an effort to focus. Taking a breath, he confides, “Level field play here, we’re fully prepared to open our Kimono.”

  Demyan struggles with this but finally says, “We would like to… undress and play on the ground.”

  Konstantin’s brows come together.

  I rise above the sedatives to forcefully intercede. “Please forgive us these misunderstandings. Translations can be difficult, and while your assistant has made commendable efforts to express Peter’s thoughts, to avoid further misunderstanding, please allow me to speak on behalf of Peter and M and H Enterprise.”

  Squeezing Peter’s knee too hard, his head finally sags in my direction. I tell him what I’ve said, and he responds, “Good. Tell him we need to make a paradigm shift and we’ll reengage from base.”

  I think I hear Demyan strangle a laugh into a joyous hiccup, and when I look, he silently mouths Pizda s ušami.

  Because I’m invested, I transform business speak into something comprehensible: “Please allow us to start again.”

  Konstantin nods and gestures for Peter to continue.

  Peter’s eyes glaze. “The core competency of our mission—”

  Core competency? Just what the fuck is that?

  “—is to align our goals with the strategic direction of your business.”

  Holy gibbering Jesus.

  Peter pauses for me to translate, and Konstantin is waiting.

  I begin, “In Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, the reader is introduced to a naïve prince.”

  Peter continues, “Since we were in diapers, we’ve served the manufacturing vertical...”

  “As you undoubtedly know, the Prince spent his youth in a sanitarium…”

  “… and now I’m going over the wall to bring this home.”

  “… and he immediately regrets leaving its safe confines.”

  Beside Konstantin, Demyan is delivering a slow and silent clap. Peter snaps back to the moment and smiles.

  I need to pull it together so at least one of us makes sense, but then Peter says, “We’ve got the bleeding edge on industry.”

  The bleeding-fucking-edge. Because what good is a cutting edge if no one gets hurt? Amirite?

  All the MBAs in the world can’t dig us out of this hole, and a master’s in Russian literature has only ensured we’ll have a highfalutin la-di-da quote inscribed on the tombstone.

  Not waiting for me to translate, Peter carries on, “We’ve got the best practice to deliver your company values.”

  I consider the possibility of crying. Perhaps I’ll win Peter the timber account through sheer pity.

  “As your prime equity partner, we’ll deliver on our connectivity from day zero.”

  Tears, yes, I think tears are in order. I can feel them.

  Demyan closes his eyes and shakes his head at what he’s about to do. He says to me, “You owe me for this.”

  As Peter continues, “M and H Enterprise is no goat rodeo. We’re value add,” Demyan picks up from where I left off to tell Konstantin, “M and H Enterprise is no naïve prince. They are oligarchs.”

  And I ask, “Is that a favor?”

  Peter says, “Penetration pricing will m-penetrate.”

  And Demyan translates, “Oligarchs who respect oligarchs.”

  “Really? This is you helping?”

  “Ride with our pathfinders to oxygen-move the entire industry.”

  “They are ruthless capitalists who do business with ruthless industrialists.”

  “Oh, dear god.”

  “And you, Konstantin Zomanov, will impact every key indicator.”

  “And you, Konstantin Zomanov, are a monster of industry.”

  “We’re going to die.”

  But Konstantin is suddenly pleased. “Da! Da! Finally, I hear the words that speak to my heart. Da, we are ruthless oligarchs! This is what is important: to take and to have. What is wrong with the man that will not?” And with that settled, Konstantin slams his hand flat on his knee to declare, “I like you!”

  Peter is startled awake. Blinking back into some state of coherency, he has no idea what’s just transpired or what it means that Konstantin is so pleased.

  “He likes you,” I offer.

  But this is no surprise to Peter because everyone likes him. He’s a damn likable guy, especially when he’s not plastered on vodka and Quaaludes.

  The Devil

  It’s a five-hour drive to Bereznik.

  If it were three, it’d be harmless, and four would at least be stable, but five is problematic. Five is the start of dissension, separation, the first break in an otherwise solid wall. There are times when it’s good, but this is not one of them.

  The second Quaalude kicked in an hour ago, and Peter has been talking about his mother. Neck resting limp against the top of the seat, he slurs his memories to the roof, “And then there was the time when I was six. We went to Tiffany’s and she stole a whole silver dinnerware set. All forty-eight pieces dumped right into her purse.”

  Demyan translates this to Konstantin as: “And this is why the Azart Corporation is crucial to finalizing the deal. Having procured grants from the Federal Forestry Agency, they alone have the funds to pay for the expansion, upgrade, and maintenance of the roads.”

  The Azart Corporation.

  Neither Peter, nor I, nor anyone at Morris & Hugo has ever mentioned the Azart Corporation.

  Azart: gambler’s rush, daredevil’s passion, thrill seeker’s high. It doesn’t translate succinctly, but it’s something like the excitement you’d feel after pimp slapping a lion.

  Konstantin wants to know: “How much do they want?”

  Demyan asks Peter, “How old were you again?”

  Peter sighs, “Six.”

  And Demyan tells Konstantin, “Thirty percent.”

  Me? Oh, I’m just counting the hours until we’re offered to the bears of the Bereznik forest. Perhaps we’ll be given the chance to play dead.

  I can’t get to
my phone in the shoulder bag without drawing attention, so while Peter waxes lackadaisical, “The most ironic time was when she stole padlocks,” I try to inconspicuously reach into his pocket and set his phone to record. But I’m no pickpocket so nothing about my groping is discreet.

  Peter says, “If I’d known your interest, I’d have cut a hole in the pocket.”

  Sitting calmly forward, Demyan removes my hand, adds his own, and then deftly confiscates the phone.

  To me, he says pointedly, “Peter lost this,” and then, while tucking the lost phone away in his own jacket pocket, he tells Konstantin, “Every year, Azart can guarantee two kilometers of paved roads, another four kilometers of logging access, and a further quarter billion rubles in upgrades.”

  “Uh, Konstantin,” I interrupt, “it might interest you—”

  “Did you know Peter had his juvenile records sealed? He has enough arrests we could make him honorary brother.”

  And the first kompromat is down.

  “F.Y.I.,” Peter’s head rolls sideways, “stealing money with a gun will get you twenty years. Stealing it with a pen: six months. Pen for the win.”

  “Depending on how you play cards,” Demyan continues, “we might even give Peter ace of spades. Tattoo it right on his neck.”

  “Ooh, cards?” Peter sits upright. “I’ll deal. Spades, was it?”

  Konstantin glares at the three of us and demands, “Speak Russian. What are you saying?”

  “Sibyl hoped we might stop so she could take pictures of the countryside.”

  Looking with skepticism at Demyan’s pocket and Peter’s unseen phone, Konstantin barks, “Chush' sobach'ya.” Dog shit. A bit messier than bullshit.

  “Yes,” I smile to agree, “that is what Demyan said also, you cannot take pictures of this beautiful scenery with an HTC twenty megapixel camera. Now, for fear I will not heed his advice, he is afraid to leave me alone with it.”

  In the uncomfortable moments that follow, I remind myself that Konstantin is nearly seventy years old and rules a criminal empire. He’s probably seen every game played with every innuendo known to man. He’s not buying it. I know this, and Demyan knows it.