He won’t remember telling us about his kleptomaniac mother.
He won’t remember Demyan taking his phone.
And he won’t remember his epiphany.
It’s also quite unlikely he’ll recall our arrival at Konstantin’s country dacha. If dacha is what you’d call the turreted Disneyesque palace ahead. Even Gaudy might blush and call it a tad ostentatious.
It looks as obscenely new as Demyan’s house looked dangerously decrepit.
Konstantin prompts me for a response, “Ah? Well? What do you think?”
“Enchanting.” Then pointing to the stairs leading to the arched entryway, “I see the inspiration for the marble Maserati.”
“You noticed?” He smiles with affection. “I brought it all in from Tuscany.”
While Konstantin tells me about using a Halo helicopter and its military crew to haul pretty rocks from Italy, Demyan continues his discussion with Peter, “Unless Morris and Hugo can supply extra two billion rubles to guarantee immediate road works, Konstantin insists on partnership with Azart Corporation. Morris and Hugo can still have majority shares, but without voting rights.”
“Gazump!” Peter says. “That’s a recontextualization we’d not anticipated.”
The return to corporate artifice is a reassuring sign of his recovery. Given a few hours of sleep, a couple hours of sobriety, and a selective recap of events, he’ll know how to handle Demyan and the Azart Corporation.
And no doubt fear of this very possibility sends Demyan from the car to organize the day’s continued festivities. “Move all forty cases into the kitchen. Put Peter in the blue room and Sibyl in the tower.”
The Tower.
Even the most naïve, New Age, everything-is-positive readers of the Tarot have the sense to dread the Tower. If you’re particularly attuned, you’ll shuffle the cards and feel the dark threat shifting through the timeline, and you’ll keep shuffling until you think it’s buried in the past. But then cut the deck three times and what you buried might come to the surface. And unlike every other card, there is nothing that can make the Tower any less calamitous.
The Fortune card is generally favorable, but pair it with the Tower and you get burning Ferris wheels.
The Queen of Cups is the promise of love, but next to the Tower it involves rivers of blood.
The fortuitous Chariot becomes the second horseman of the Apocalypse, the Knight of Swords turns into a tornado filled with rusty nails, the Hermit commits suicide, and the Priestess poisons the city well.
It’s just bad-on-bad with the Tower.
I might decline the tower room, but there’s no reason to fight it now. The Devil put the card into play as soon as he said, or essentially said, “Put the Eye in the Tower.” (You didn’t think that was Tolkien’s original idea, did you?)
And from the tower, I’ve got a pretty clear view of the events to come.
By the river is an outdoor living space with grill, adobe oven, and restaurant-styled kitchen. Recessed under a manmade hill is a sauna, and near the forest is a tactical shooting range with what appears to be spring-loaded targets. More than a dozen women in bikinis and six-inch heels rise from the recliners around the pool to greet the arriving Bratva, and just beyond the pool, servants in traditional uniforms fill the center of six picnic tables with shot glasses and plates of food.
Peter’s not been allowed to sleep but is instead with Konstantin at the gate of a savannah-themed enclosure. It looks like Konstantin is trying to convince Peter to put his hand through the bars to pet the lion.
Luckily, the Quaaludes are in retreat and Peter seems reluctant.
This seems particularly wise because I can think of only one reason Elvis is leading a goat to their location. Someone’s hungry.
Smelling the air, the goat offers a worried sounding “Meh.” Baa.
The assembled Bratva fall hushed. In one slow synchronized movement, they turn their attention away from the women and focus it instead on the bleating goat, and then, like the lion’s pride on a hunt, the intensity of their interest holds them deathly still.
If Peter succeeds on this trip, these are going to be our new friends.
I imagine Peter is thinking much the same thing at the moment. As he stares over his shoulder, I suspect I can detect the look of strained mental reckoning while he tries to figure out how exactly he’s come to be where he is now.
Like the goat, he has no easy escape, but I do. I turn away from the window and the scene about to unfold, and I’m not entirely surprised to find the Devil at my door.
* * *
The Devil smokes Sobranie Black. Standing at the threshold, Demyan cups the end of the cigarette against phantom wind and raises a disposable lighter to the tip.
While the flame ignites the tobacco, I read the inscription on the inside of his forearm: то что нас не убивает нас не интересует.
“That which cannot kill us does not interest us.”
Exhaling poison, he explains, “Nice sentiment shared by thieves and Bratva.” Waving away both the smoke and the idea, he gestures to the six narrow windows that circle the room. When his attention comes to the one overlooking the lion’s pen, he says, “I thought you would appreciate view.”
I ignore his oblique remark to complain, “This arrangement is going to prove inconvenient for Peter.”
“Peter does not interest me.”
“I do, though?”
“You could.”
“Think I could kill you?”
He slowly considers the cigarette before his eyes stray down his arm to the relevant tattoo. He says, “Women have been killing men since start of civilization. For women, men will die in prison. Men will die in business, in traffic, in vain. Every day, thousands murder own soul for career. Men will risk anything and sacrifice everything for women.”
“So, what is her name?”
“Whose?”
“The woman for who you’re risking death by involving the Azart Corporation.”
“For now, she is just idea. Man needs money and power before he acquires mate. His value determines what is on offer.”
“I see you’re not a big fan of romance.”
“Not true. Prison libraries have limited material, and officials think it very funny to stock shelves with romance. Romance books teach me everything about women.”
“That is utterly horrifying.”
“Women are simple, but there is something that confuses me. They want rich and powerful men, but they also want to be only thing he thinks about. I do not know how this is possible.”
Shaking my head in dismay, I mutter, “I don’t know whether to try and save you or not.”
“Men do not need to be saved. It is women who want to be saved.”
“…”
I close my mouth and try again. “…”
But my entire brain is overwritten with an ellipsis.
Six years of study and everything I know about life, literature, and relationships is erased and replaced with periods of ellipsis.
…
It seems impossible, but Demyan is right. Romantic literature is a testament to how much women longed to be saved, but free the woman of fiction and it is she who routinely saves the man; and yet, if Demyan’s earnest statement is true, men themselves do not wish to be saved.
…
The paradigm shifts. Core competency collapses. Reality demands recontextualization.
I wonder what Demyan’s favorite book is.
I wonder if he’s had sex with a man.
I wonder how the goat is doing.
The Devil moves farther into the Tower, bringing with him smoke and ash and doubt. Red embers flare on the black cigarette as he opens a window. Softly, so his voice doesn’t carry over the grounds, he says, “Come here. Look at this.”
Standing beside him, he points across the front of the house, past the parked cars that brought us here, beyond the granite drive and the gilded gate, and into the thousands
of miles of woods that surround Konstantin’s modern castle.
“All this money and how does he use it? He builds playhouse. He swore oath to thieves to put them before all others. He swore to have no home other than prison. He swore to provide their needs as his own, but rather than improve thieves’ lives, he decorates weekend dacha with gold.”
I notice his body temperature is higher than mine. He smells of tobacco and rage. His lips audibly part as he brings the cigarette to his mouth, and as he inhales, there’s a catch in his breath that’s sensual; the exhale is even more so. He’s tense and riled and dangerous, and I’m acutely aware of him. And he’s done this deliberately. He’s called me to stand beside him for the very effect it has.
If I were the careful, devoted type, I’d back away.
And I do consider it.
But then he says, “I need from you cooperation. I would prefer you give willingly.”
Prefer. The veiled threat is too provocative to ignore. It’s reckless. It’s thrilling. It’s azart.
It occurs to me: “The Azart Corporation is yours.”
Before he can conceal his enjoyment, a fiendish grin confirms it. He ducks his head, pulls on the cigarette, and wrestles his face back into some fashion of austere. For the moment, I suspect his amusement is too close to the surface to risk looking at me. Instead, he points farther north and says, “Forest lease is three million hectares—like size of Belgium. This could produce billion rubles a year.”
“And you’re already a trillionaire?”
As though I’ve not registered a single complaint he’s made against Konstantin, he glares at me with indignation.
“Then how are you going to fund the roads for something the size of Belgium?”
“Federal Forestry Agency was provided fifty billion to modernize industry.”
“And you’ve been granted some of it?”
He nods.
“How did you get it?”
“Normal way: bribes and favors.”
“And the money for the bribes came from…?”
“Same place as favors.”
“Vory v zakone.” Thieves in law.
“Ya vor.” I am thief.
He’s a thief that reads the classics, a convict who’s only a few definite and indefinite articles away from perfecting English, a career criminal who undoubtedly controls an offshore corporation with a board of directors neither Konstantin nor Volikov can trace back to him, through which he’s procured billions in grants and by which he intends to accumulate more. It’s not intentional, but as I process this, I find myself shaking my head No.
“You doubt me?”
“How many years were you in jail?”
“I show you.” Flicking the gold filter of the Sobranie across the rooftop, he closes the window and pulls me with him to the center of the room.
I’m not even surprised this time when the shirt comes off.
“I was sixteen first time I went to prison. That was seventeen years ago.” Pointing to his left shoulder and the rose wrapped in barbed wire, he says, “This means I turned eighteen in jail.” He offers me his fists. “Crosses are for time spent in solitary.”
Six knuckles bear the emblem.
He flips his right hand to show me the inscription on the forearm: вор во́ра кр́оет.
Vor vora kroyet. A thief covers another thief.
“Thief should do anything to protect another thief. This includes going home.”
“By home, you mean jail?”
Nodding, he looks down to his abdomen where a cathedral similar to Red Square’s Saint Basil is inked over his stomach. “Every spire is different stint.”
I really shouldn’t, but I reach out to trace each dome with my finger. Five spires cover six well-defined muscles.
“How long have you been out?”
“Ten months.”
Stepping back, I shake my head No again. “You want my cooperation but all evidence suggests—” How to say this tactfully? “—you suffer a high rate of failure.”
“You do not understand. Ya vor v zakone.” I am thief in law. “First time I was stupid, but every arrest after was deliberate. You cannot be crowned thief unless you do time. More time, more chances for promotion. For wealthy silovik, education leads to connections, but for someone like me, jail is best university. I have ten arrests, five convictions, and more trials than I can count, but I earned my degree, and it gives me permanent tenure with Bratva. It was not failure, it was enrollment.”
“Nice. What’s the retirement package?”
“It is what I make it. What is yours?” His face is hard with condemnation. “You plan to accept what others offer Peter?”
Said like that, it does sound rather contemptible.
His judgmental tone turns harsher. “Why do you not earn it?”
Because, to make money with a degree in Russian literature requires a doctorate and I barely managed a master’s. I’m hoping Demyan’s question is rhetorical so I don’t have to admit that aloud, but time stretches into an uncomfortable silence while I stare at the floor.
“Work with me once and I will give you more money than you will ever see from Peter.”
My expression turns to the amused side of skeptical.
“Ya vor v zakone,” he says. “It is not profession, it is title. We have laws. We have codes. We pay all debts.”
“You’re loyal?”
“I am loyal.”
“But you’re asking for a difficult betrayal.”
“When is marriage?”
“At the end of next month.”
“You read Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn?”
“The Gulag Archipelago.” I can’t keep the bitter smile from my lips. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
“Then say it.”
“Only those who decline to scramble up the career ladder are interesting as humans. Nothing is more boring than a man with a career.”
“Take my money. End your engagement.”
* * *
Turgenev—novelist and playwright, Russia’s original nihilist, fomenter of the Russian Revolution—is tattooed on Demyan’s back: Возьмите для себя, что вы можете и не исключено другими.
Take for yourself what you can and do not be ruled by others.
As if that two-part maxim is not enough to consider, here’s something else: all tattoos inked in Russia’s prisons must first be approved by the ruling thieves.
It’s not only the stars on Demyan’s knees that prove he’s worthy to wear Turgenev, but his bold plan to steal from Konstantin further supports it.
He walks along Turgenev’s cliffs with fearless abandon.
No two ways about it, it’s attractive.
There is to it a reckless temerity that’s enviable.
It’s devil-may-care.
It’s Demyan.
About as far removed from the stability of the Prince of Coins as Greenwich from any trailer park.
But Demyan’s favorite Turgenev quote is a hard one to embrace. Take for yourself what you can is simple survival, and easy enough to accept; it’s the last part that sticks: Do not be ruled by others.
More than just assuming responsibility for one’s own fate, it’s the rejection of oversight, guidance, and direction, a rejection of compromise, of societal mores, government laws, and religious doctrine, of all beliefs and institutions that have not been reasoned by the holder to be fit. It is to denounce all authority. To think for oneself. To go it alone.
And it is alluring.
At this particular moment, with marriage impending to a man I don’t respect for status I don’t deserve, it’s more than alluring; it’s azart.
The Universe
In the hocus-pocus cookbook of fortune-telling, the use of color as a predictor of personality is at the front with umbrella cocktails and toothpick appetizers. No one mistakes it for a meal, but the colors you choose can still tell a lot about you.
; Take, for instance, red.
If you’re wearing red, I might assume you want attention. If you’re a woman, I might also assume you’re ovulating. Attention for you might involve sex, love, or a baby.
If your living space is red, the matter moves from the body to the mind. Not to alarm, but there’s a high chance your psychological profile will register abnormal on the psychotic scale. Not a serial killer, mind you, just more comfortable with aberrant ideas than most of your neighbors.
If your car is red, this clearly means you want people to think you’re dangerous. And maybe you are. But you’re probably not.
Based on color, I undoubtedly know more about Konstantin’s interior decorator than Konstantin himself, but assuming he signed off on the gold color scheme, it’s safe to assume he doesn’t really trust his wealth. He doesn’t feel rich. He feels like a fraud. And the bedazzling décor is meant to convince both himself and others of his success.
Leaving the tower, crossing the foyer, and entering the main hall, I’m left with little doubt of his worth.
The presiding style is Louis XIV. Everything—from the fittings to the moldings to the furniture—is carved and gilded. Gold tassels hang from gold rope around heavy gold drapes fringed in gold cord. Gold clings to the ceiling in ornate plasters. It drips from the chandeliers as garland. It accents the floors and overwhelms the walls. The armchairs, the sofas, the statues of the Virgin Mary, the paintings of the Baby Jesus, the tapestry of Saint John’s ascension, and the fountain of Satan’s defeat, every knickknack, every light switch, hinge, and door handle is gold.
If the Vatican were to swallow Versailles and a truckload of Goldschläger, this is exactly what it would vomit.
It doesn’t surprise me the Bratva are outside. Inside is not a place many would feel comfortable. But in the vaulted living room, Volikov sits on an overstuffed sofa reading a tablet while Isaak has somehow managed to fall asleep in the hard arms of a Baroque throne.
Red Russia Page 25
