Katya had copied her performance from some movie. Maybe she went to the pictures with Momo. She knew the part, the modern Russian business broad, direct, confident, clinging, flirtatious, all at the same time. There was a Russian creep I once nailed who watched The Godfather like it was a training manual. It made him cry, he said. The Italians had more style than Russians; they had honor. I told him he was an asshole and got him locked up for a long time.
I drank my tea and played along with Katya Strogonoff.
“Business, pleasure, I don’t know,” I said. “What’s going?”
“You are actual friend of Maurice Gourad?”
“You bet.”
“Professional friend?”
“What other kind is there?”
“Momo likes party, maybe you are special party friend.”
“Call it professional.”
“I see.” She straightened up. She understood I was a cop, and if I was, there was nothing in this meeting for her except maybe trouble. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, they were hard and smooth like marbles, and very cold. She squashed the cigarette in an ashtray and waited. It was quiet now, both of us sitting out the silence.
I went first. “I’m looking for someone who did this. Someone who hurt this friend of a friend.” I tossed the picture of Lily onto her desk. “Momo says maybe you can help. Someone found her and hurt her very bad.”
“Who is she?”
“Like I said, a friend of a friend.”
“What makes you think I can help?”
“Momo Gourad thinks you know a lot of people.”
“I don’t know people who do these things.”
“Would it help if my friend’s friend had money?”
“It can always help, sure.”
“So let’s say my friend’s friend has a lot of money.”
“Is not real issue.”
“This is your place, Katya? Your whorehouse?”
“I am not understanding,” she said coolly, so I translated into Russian for her. She asked me my Russian name and I told her.
In Russian, she said sharply, “Don’t be stupid, Artemy Maximovich Ostalsky. This is my flat. These are my friends. We have tea parties here, we play cards, we get together when we’re not working. They each have their own flats also, you see?”
I looked at her.
“I’m telling you the truth.” She leaned over the table. “It doesn’t work like you think. People are stupid. They assume everything.” Her Russian was educated.
“What were you?” I asked in English.
“What was I?” She spoke English in reply.
“In Russia?”
“I was doctor, pathologist. In Moscow. What do you care? You think it is only ignorant women, uneducated women do this thing, going with men?”
“I don’t think about it.”
“Doctors. Lawyers. Teachers. I knew brilliant girl who was nuclear physicist, but not paid for three years. She had two choices, sell nuclear materials to Iraq or work as whore in the West. She decides whore was more honorable. Also profitable. Which do you prefer? Her mom gave her life savings for face-lift. Also tits.”
“Christ.”
Katya laughed. “She did OK. She has nice husband in Silicon Valley, California, now. Two kids. Nice home. Her mom is living with them.”
“So the girls are strictly on a take-out basis, is that it? They go with the men to their places.”
“Something like that, but more complicated. Or not. Depends.”
“What on?”
“Taste.”
“So who owns this apartment?”
“I do. I told you. This is for parties.”
“You don’t live here?”
“No.”
“You must make good money.” I figured she took poor, vain Momo for some ride.
She said acidly, “The apartment is good investment.”
“Who are your investors?”
She started blowing perfect smoke rings.
I picked up Lily’s picture and held it out. “You don’t know any men who beat up women this way?”
Katya picked up another cigarette and looked at it. She toyed with it, turned it around, examined the filter, then tossed it onto the desk, sipped her tea, put the cup down, picked up the picture and leaned back in the chair.
Suddenly I was so tired I couldn’t play the game. “Never mind. I’ll go.”
“You swear this is Momo who sends you?”
“So you and Momo, you and my new good friend Momo Gourad, you’re an item?”
As if she couldn’t resist, she smiled. The hard features broke, the eyes warmed up; she blushed.
Katya got up and went into another room, where I heard her call Momo on the phone. Then she came back, pulled a cardigan off the back of her chair and put it on, buttoning it up to the collar. It made her look more like a schoolgirl than a high-priced hooker, except for the pearls. She fidgeted with her tea.
I said, “Memo’s broke.”
“I don’t care. Money I can get. Momo gives me his soul.”
“His soul?”
She looked up at me. “Yes. Why? You think I am only hooker for hire? You don’t know anything, Mr Cohen. You forgot how it works over there, in Russia, at home. You do what you do for getting out. Like Americans say, you get a life.”
“Momo helped you with your papers?”
“Momo, other people.”
“How did you meet?”
She laughed. “I sometimes did forensics for police in Moscow. I am attached to police sometimes.”
“You worked for the cops?”
“Sure. Momo was on conference long time ago. International police work. I keep his number.”
“You thought it might come in handy?”
“Yes.”
“What other people?”
“Not now.” She looked at the ceiling. The old habits never really die.
“Someone’s listening?”
“Is reflex.”
“Why did Momo send me here, Katya?”
“Maybe he thinks I can help you with your sad friend of friend,” she said. “Your lady was raped?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry. I think about it because Momo wants me to. He asks me to. Do you want to walk with me, Artemy Maximovich? OK? Let’s go walking. I love cold weather.”
Bundled up in a tawny sable coat, yellow Timberland hiking boots on her feet, Katya followed me out her door.
We went to the river. It was cold and clear. At the Alma Bridge, Katya pointed out the tunnel where Princess Diana died. She walked me across the bridge and along the river. We walked for a long time.
Katya smoked and talked in Russian. She had pushed her orange mane off her face, tucked it up under a pale-blue knitted watch-cap. She walked hard, swinging her arms, pushing the pace. “I am sorry for you,” she said. “About your wife. Her name is?”
“Lily. She’s not my wife, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the same.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“The way they hurt her, it’s known.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“Who are they?”
“Pimps.”
I waited. “They ran you?”
“They tried, but I got away. I think. You’re never sure. I met a decent man who got me out of Russia, and then Momo got me papers. I never owed anything to pimps.”
“But that’s not how it is for most.”
“No.”
“Where do they work out of, these pimps?”
“Everywhere. Everywhere and nowhere. For pimps, Europe is just a clean plate, they can eat whatever they like, a snack here, a snack there. New York, of course, everything starts and ends in New York. This is where new Russians put down new roots. I would like to see New York City.” She tossed her cigarette into the river. “You like winter? This is a healthy time.”
“You’re homesick
?”
“Sometimes. You know why these girls are so popular with Western men – Russian, Ukrainian, Kosovan, Bosnian girls – you know why, Artemy?”
“Why?”
She stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Same reason you go to war for Kosovo, same reason French intellectuals are crazy for Sarajevo. They look Western. They look like you. They’ve got blonde hair, blue eyes. They speak of films and philosophy. You’re cold?”
“Just tired.”
She raised her hand as a taxi passed, we ran for it and climbed in. Katya gave the driver an address, then leaned back against the seat.
“Russians were bad guys before the end of Communism, bad guys after,” she said. “Before, Communists. After, criminals. The whole country – one thousand years of hate, war, starvation, poetry, revolution, music, politics, art, literature, ideas, science, religion, killing, genius, people freezing in the snow, millions dying in wars – all reduced to this.”
It was a speech she had made before, but she meant it, it was what fueled her. She went on. “This is what we are famous for now, you know? Not for Tolstoy or Chekhov, Gagarin, Bulgakov, Nureyev, Sakharov, not even Lenin, we are famous now for killers, greed, whores, shopping. All shit that is seeping out into world. You know what they do with girls they take to Israel? They take them to Egypt where border laws are easier, walk them across the border to Israel. Promised Land. Nothing changes, you know, Artemy.” She took my arm and smiled. “OK, speech is now finished. You know Momo for long time?”
“No,” I said. “Not long.”
She smiled. “He is a very good guy. My mother would faint dead away if she saw me with Arab man.” Katya giggled. “I think she would rather I am whore.”
“You miss Russia?”
“I miss my mom. You are shivering.”
“It’s OK.”
“You would like some hot tea?”
*
Not far from the hospital, the cab pulled up to an old gray building on the bank opposite Notre Dame. Katya got out and I followed her into a little courtyard and through a second door that she unlocked. She climbed the stairs and I followed. On the top floor she led me to a door and fumbled for the keys in her bag.
Inside, Katya pulled off the blue cap and her bright hair tumbled out. She held the door open. “I always wanted studio. I read about this studio thing in books on Paris,” she said.
It was a small apartment, two rooms, the kitchen at the far end. The living room had white walls, a few pieces of modern furniture and, on a shelf, an exquisite little icon. There was a terrace covered in snow. I went to the sliding door and looked out. The view was wonderful. This was the Paris that was, on a brilliant winter day, so beautiful it could break your heart. Along the riverbank people strolled, tourists, students.
“What’s your real name?”
She slipped off the rich fur coat and put it neatly on the sofa. “Ykaterina Vladimirovna Slobodkin. As you should say, big fat mouthful. Better Katya. Kate.” She walked towards the bedroom. “Excuse me, please,” she said.
A few minutes later she reappeared in faded jeans and a pink sweatshirt, her hair in a long orange braid down her back, face scrubbed, sheepskin slippers on her feet. From the kitchen she produced tea, cheese and crackers, a jar of cherry jam, a bottle of Cognac and two glasses.
Katya sat on the edge of the low sofa and served the drinks and snacks. I sat beside her. Pouring out tea, smiling a little wistfully as she spooned jam into it, she looked like a young Russian housewife. Her face was bare and powdery, like a baby’s.
“I want to help you, Artemy. Anything you can tell me about this beating?”
I drank some of the Cognac and the tea and said, “They really hurt her. They broke her fingers.”
“On right hand?”
“Yes.”
“Bastards.”
“It means something to you?”
“I’ve heard of this, yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t remember, but I hear. Some girl. They beat her the same way. They broke fingers on one hand, knees, ruin her face.”
“Why did they do it?”
“Because she disobeys her pimp. Or gives money to her kids. I don’t know. Shall I find her? Shall I look?”
“Yes. Look.”
“There’s some children? Your Lily, she has a child?”
“Yes.”
She clutched my arm. “Make her safe.”
“She is safe. Can I see you again?” I was clinging to the wisps of information.
“Of course. Whenever you would like. I’ll make calls for you. I promise. For Momo I will do this. Anything you want.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s OK.” She poured more tea and for a few minutes we sat silently drinking the hot liquid and smoking her exotic cigarettes.
“I’m grateful, really, I swear to God, I’m grateful as hell.” I meant it. “I’ll tell Momo.”
“Don’t be so grateful. I am not, how do they say it?” She paused, grinning like a pussycat. “I am not whore with heart of gold.”
“No?” I smiled back.
She shook her head. “I don’t have much heart left.” I tried not to smile.
“So, Artemy, I know this is cliché, but I cannot resist to make you laugh,” she said and kissed me on the cheek.
10
The hotel phone woke me around six that evening. I’d left Katya Slobodkin earlier, gone back to the hotel, fallen asleep. When the phone rang it was dark. My head hurt from the Cognac.
Lily was dead. She was dead and my heart jumped around my chest in irregular patterns, the anxiety like a trapped animal running around, beating at the cage.
“Come immediately.” Some nurse, doctor, functionary on the phone. Urgent. For a minute, not knowing if this was a nightmare or real, I couldn’t move at all.
Come quickly. Please. As soon as you can. My heart went AWOL and missed a couple more beats. I dragged on some clothes, ran down the stairs and woke up the night guy on the desk who snarled at me. I kept going. Lily was dead. She was dead.
It was dark, I ran as fast as I could, head pounding, listening to the thud of my feet vibrating inside my head. The panic pulled me like gravity, made me feel I was falling, I could hear my feet, my own blood, moving me forward. I ran, crashing into a man who was out buying bread.
At the hospital, a guard tried to stop me, wanted ID. I pushed past him. Outside Lily’s room, at the end of the corridor, a group of people stood, heads down, talking, and I knew: she was dead, it was why they had called, and I didn’t know if I could live with it, if she was gone. How would I manage with the hole that opened up in my heart?
His huge face wrecked with fatigue and wet from weeping, Tolya Sverdloff sat in her room, bent over her, his hand around hers like a bear nursing a tiny bird. His huge black overcoat covered his body like a shroud. Lily’s bruised arm sprouted tubes, her face seemed sunk into itself and there was a flat, damp quality to her skin that was the color of cement.
I came through the door. I said, “She’s dead.”
Tolya looked up. His face, like an Easter Island statue except for the dimples, brightened. “No, no, Artyom. She’s better.”
“How better?”
Speaking Russian very softly, he said, “She’s conscious. She’s been talking.” He smiled. “A little talking. I think she’s exhausted. She’s asleep.”
Lily was alive. I turned my head to the wall for a while.
Tolya stayed where he was, holding her hand.
“What happened?”
“I got in from New York, I came here. I’m sitting, keeping her hand warm, talking to her and feeling only despair, as if she was falling away, and suddenly I could feel her hand moving in mine. I said, ‘Can you hear me, Lily?’ and her eyes opened for a split second and I could see she was in there. It was Lily. I swear it to God. And she says, ‘Tolya? Darling? Is this you?’ It’s going to be OK, Artyom.”
He went on talking Russian to m
e, the purring, educated, actor’s Russian Tolya speaks that always makes me feel I’m being had, that my soul is being fingered.
He hauled himself up off the chair so I could sit, then delicately passed me Lily’s left hand. It was cool, soft, still limp, but there was movement; a pulse twitched, the fingers were alive.
“How do you feel?” I said.
She whispered, “Stay here.”
“All you want.”
“Good.”
“Lily?”
“What?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No,” she said. “Stay.” Her mouth was dry, she forced the words out.
For an hour, more, I sat with her. She opened her eyes again. Her breathing was steady. She recognized Dr Lariot when he looked in. She formed a few words, though I had to lean down, ear by her mouth, to hear her. Tolya stood behind me, watching.
Lily didn’t know who I was.
“It’s Artie, sweetheart,” I said. “It’s me.”
Lariot, who stood at the door, asked us to leave. It was enough for her for the first day, he said, with a tiny officious gesture of his pudgy hand.
“You see,” he said to me, “it was right for her to stay here with us.”
“What?”
“You might have trusted me all along,” he mumbled under his breath, then added, “now, she needs rest. We must let her rest.”
In the hall outside Lily’s room, Lariot told me it was common, this memory loss.
“Will she get it back?”
“In time. Perhaps. Let her rest now.”
For now, it was enough she was alive. I went out into the street with Tolya. He lit my cigarette because I couldn’t keep my hands still.
“Let me help, Artyom. Please.”
“I can do it. I’ll take her home and I’ll take care of her.” I looked at Tolya. “What the hell are you doing here, anyhow?”
“I flew as soon as I heard. I wish you’d called me, I wish I didn’t have to hear it from Sonny Lippert. I’m Lily’s friend too.”
Skin Trade Page 10
