Back to Blood: A Novel

by Tom Wolfe

  Sergei eyed the boy blankly, but not for long. Now he gave him a look that said, in no uncertain terms, “Disintegrate!” What the boy’s arrival on the scene meant—it took Sergei a moment or two to size it up—Oh, great… this whole stupid business could wind up in the newspaper!

  “Happen?” said Sergei. “Nothing happen. My friend Mr. Flebetnikov fell down. It was an accident. We call the doctor, for the safety. But Mr. Flebetnikov was stunned only a few seconds.”

  “But this gentleman over here”—John Smith looked back over his shoulder vaguely—“told me that Mr. Flebetnikov tried to hit you.”

  “He trip and fall,” said Sergei. “It’s nothing, my friend.” Eets nozzing, my fran.

  “Golly…” said John Smith, “I need some clarification. This gentleman back here”—another vague nod over the shoulder—“he saw the whole thing and he said Mr. Flebetnikov swung at you. But you ducked the punch—‘just like a professional boxer,’ he said. You ducked the punch and countered with a blow to the body that knocked Mr. Flebetnikov out! He said it was really cool!” He put on a big awed smile, probably figuring Sergei would melt from the flattery. “Have you done much box—”

  “What do I tell you? Do you hear? Nothing. I tell you nothing happen. My friend here, he trip and fall. It was an accident.”

  Meantime, the fat man had begun groaning, and his whisper rose to a low mutter mutter mutter.

  “What did he say?” said John Smith.

  “He said, ‘That is true. It was an accident.’ ”

  A voice from directly above them: “I only wish it had been an accident. But I’m afraid it was no-oh-oh-oh accident!”

  Sergei, Magdalena, and John Smith looked up. Sidney Munch was standing over them… in his grossly outsized guayabera… so long, it looked like a dress. He peered down at them intently.

  “This is him!” said John Smith. “The man I was telling you about!” He glanced at his spiral notebook. “Mr. Munch! He was here the whole time and told me what happened!”

  “It was not a pretty sight,” said Munch. He began shaking his head. He pursed his lips and turned them down glumly at the corners. He expelled a profound sigh. He addressed his words to John Smith: “I don’t know why, but suddenly”—he motioned with his chin to indicate he was talking about Flebetnikov—“he started bellying his way through all these people”—he gestured at the mob of guests—“and came straight at Mr. Korolyov. They exchanged a few angry words and then”—he did the number with the chin again—“swung at Mr. Korolyov, and Mr. Korolyov ducked just like a prizefighter and gave”—the chin again—“such a shoulder in the midsection that”—again the Flebetnikov semaphore—“went down like six sacks a fertilizer!”

  Out the corner of her eye Magdalena could see one of the mobile camera units barely four feet away with its red eye on, recording it all all all. She nudged Sergei. He pulled out of the huddle and saw it for himself.

  He was seething. He straightened himself up fully erect, looked down at Munch, and stiffened his arm and forefinger and aimed them at the camera and said in a steely voice, “You filming this, too—you ubljúdok!”

  His steely voice rose to a shout: “This is your little play! You send your little director over to tell lies to Flebetnikov—to make him mad! Flebetnikov didn’t do this! I didn’t do this! You did this! You make up this lie! This is not reality—this is a lie!”

  Munch put on the face of a man who has been terribly wounded by a cruel remark uttered for the sole purpose of hurting his feelings. “But Mr. Korolyov, how can you say this isn’t reality? All of this just happened! Once something happens, it becomes real, and once it’s real, it becomes part of reality. No? Mr. Flebetnikov didn’t pretend to be angry. He was angry! Nobody told you that you had to defend yourself. You decided to defend yourself! And quite rightly! And quite beautifully and athletically, if I may say so. Have you ever been a prizefighter? In the ring did you—”

  “THAT IS ENOUGH!” said Sergei. “You listen to me! You don’t run anything that shows me, and you do not use anything I say! You do not have the right! I will sue! And that is only where we begin. You understand?!”

  “But Mr. Korolyov, you signed a release!” Munch said in his same hurt voice. “You gave us permission to record whatever you did and whatever you said on our show. We proceeded on your word. We accepted you as a man of your word. You signed the release. It couldn’t have made it any clearer. And certainly what we filmed will show you in a positive light. Mr.”—he gave the Flebetnikov semaphore—“attacked you and you defended yourself with courage and strength and speed and athletic sureness when a man”—Flebetnikov semaphore—“double your size, double everybody’s size, launched a surprise attack, a physical attack. Please think about it! You will want to appear on Masters of Disaster. Miami knows you as a noble, immensely generous benefactor of the museum, of all of South Florida. This program will show the man behind the great generosity. This program will show the world… a real man!”

  Magdalena noticed that the reporter, John Smith, was recording all with his digital-recorder ballpoint pen. He was eating it all up every bit as much as Munch. And Sergei? He was deflating before Magdalena’s very eyes. His big powerful blood-gorged neck was shrinking… likewise his marvelous sculpted chest—even his strong, wide shoulders were deflating rapidly. His jacket seemed, to Magdalena, to be sticking inches out beyond those once-strong, once-wide shoulders of his and drooping down. Magdalena could tell: Sergei realized that this little Sidney Munch had outsmarted him… him, the mighty Russian who could handle anybody, and certainly a little con man like Munch… and now Munch had tricked him into performing precisely the self-abasing, humiliating dancing-bear number he wanted him to perform—

  And he had signed the release! He had surrendered his rights like the most pathetic mark who ever lived!

  Sergei shot Munch one last malevolent stare and said in his low, seething voice, “I hope you heard me. I didn’t ask you not to show that film. I said that you will not show it. Suing is not the only thing that can happen. Other things can happen. You will never see that film on television.” Magdalena couldn’t see Sergei’s face, but she could see Mr. Munch’s as he looked at Sergei. His face was frozen, except for his eyelids, which blinked blinked blinked blinked.

  “Mr. Korolyov! Mr. Korolyov!” It was John Smith, coming up behind them. Sergei gave him a look that could kill, but the pale reporter, thin as an earphone wire, was relentless. “Mr. Korolyov—before you go! You were awesome just now! You—well, I know you’re leaving, but could I give you a call? I’d like to give you a call, if that’s—”

  John Smith recoiled in midsentence. The look on Sergei’s face seemed to take his breath away. This was not the mere look that kills. This was the look that kills and then smoke-cures the carcass and eats it.

  They left the mansion and began walking back to the gatehouses. Sergei stared straight ahead—at nothing. The look on his face was as morose as any Magdalena had ever seen on a human face, even at Jackson Memorial Hospital in the moment of freefall that precedes death. He began muttering to himself in Russian. He was still walking beside her, but his mind had departed to another zone.

  “Muttermirovmutterlameimutternesmayamuttermilayshmutterkhlopovmutter—”

  Magdalena couldn’t stand it. She broke in: “Sergei, what’s wrong? What are you muttering about? Come baaaaaack!”

  Sergei looked at her crossly, but at last he began speaking English. “This little midget, this bastard, this Munch—I can’t believe I let that happen! That little ball of American scum—and I let him trick me! He knew exactly how to put ‘me’ into his stinking reality show—and I didn’t see it coming! He makes me look like some idiot brawler from the streets! One minute I’m the big—what is the American word? donor?—and they honor me for giving tens of millions of dollars’ worth of paintings to a museum—and now I’m a fool who sinks so low as to appear on this garbage ‘reality show’! Do you know what Flebetnikov said when I l
eaned over him to see if he was still breathing, still had a heartbeat—I was afraid he was dead! But thank God he’s still alive. He can barely talk at all, but with this pitiful voice he whispers into my ear, ‘Sergei Andreivich, I did not mean it.’ He didn’t have to say any more. The look in his eyes—he was pleading. ‘Sergei Andreivich,’ he’s saying, ‘please forgive me. They tell me, “You got to go start a fight.” ’ Poor Boris Feodorovich. He’s broke, he’s desperate. He needs the money they offer him. Then they start making hints. If he performs well on this show, maybe they give him a ‘reality show’ of his own. Maybe they call it The Mad Russian?—I don’t know, but now I see how these slimy Americans work. They force Boris Feodorovich to drag me into their cesspool by attacking me—physically! Once he swings his pathetic punch, I’m in their filthy show, like it or not. I, who showed such contempt for this Munch—he tricks me like any other poor lokh. I can’t believe this! Some slimy little American!”

  They were now at the end of the walkway, approaching the twin gatehouses. The gatehouses looked enormous in this dim electric dusk. It didn’t so much illuminate them as suggest their size… an edge of slate on the roofs… the white architraves around the windows… the shadows in the deep relief of some sort of plaster medallion with fanciful figures in it.

  At the very end of the walkway, the big blonde, “Savannah,” was still at the card table. The light was just enough to illuminate her as she sat with her back toward them… her sleeveless dress, the whiteness of her broad, bare shoulders, the streaks of blond highlights in her hair… Sergei stopped in his tracks and said to Magdalena, “That kvynt… look at her. She’s the one who started it all.”

  He didn’t say it loudly. In fact, he didn’t so much say it as seethe it. But it was loud enough for this woman, Savannah, to hear something. She rose from her chair and turned about. Magdalena’s heart began racing. Sergei had the same look on his face he had just before he tore into the poor Number Five chess player at Gogol’s. ::::::Dear God, spare me! I can’t take another appalling scene like that one!:::::: She held her breath in absolute fear.

  The woman, Savannah, broke into a smile. She sang out, “Hi! How did it go?”

  A furious Sergei stared death rays at her for one beat, two beats, three beats, far too many beats… then… “It was amazing—wonderful!” It came out Eet vas amazing—vonderful!—but his great joy was unmistakable. “I am so glad we listen to you!”

  Magdalena couldn’t believe her ears. She took a half step forward and glanced ever so quickly at Sergei’s face. ¡Dios mío! Could that smile possibly be as sincere and… and… and as heartfelt as it looked? “Yes, we have you to thank, Savannah!” Oh, the comradeship, even love, he bathed her name in! “That was not a show,” said Sergei. “It was an experience, a—a—a lesson in the life itself! Flebetnikov—Boris Feodorovich—he demonstrate us what bravery”—came out brafery—“is made of!”

  He was giving Savannah a look of not mere happiness… but enchantment. He was Goodwill and Gratitude walking this earth in shiny leather shoes. So successfully did he personify these things, a remarkable smile came over Savannah’s face. It was huge, and it gleamed. Her teeth sure were long… but they were also perfectly even… and so white and bright, they overwhelmed the dim electro-gloaming out here on Flebetnikov’s front lawn.

  “Well, thank you,” she said. “But I didn’t really do very much—”

  “But you did! You did! You suffer my grumbles so patiently. You encourage me so much!” Sergei began walking toward Savannah, holding out both hands, the way one does when he offers his affection to a dear friend. The delighted, brightly luxodontic Savannah held out both hands to him, and he clasped them with his the moment he reached her.

  “Suddenly he has lost everything,” Sergei went on, “but he wants the world to know”—he gave his grip on her hands a good pump to underscore know—“to know that when the worst happens to a brave man, he has a strength inside him”—he gave inside a good pump—“and it is the power of the heart—the human heart!” He gave Savannah’s hands two pumps, one for the heart and another for the human heart.

  ::::::Talk about enchanted. Look at the expression on her face. She’s the very picture of a woman wondering if—barely able to surrender herself to the possibility that—this vision is real. This incredibly handsome celebrity with a European accent is holding both her hands in his and squeezing them—and pouring his soul into her wide eyes. Could this be true? But it is true! She can feel the touch of his very hands! Her eyes can’t gulp down his deepest emotions fast enough!::::::

  “He discover a power greater than what he live for these so many years, the power of money.” A couple more pumps. “I am so sorry you were not with us”—he gestured toward the house—“to see it, but I am sure that Sidney—Mr. Munch—a man of great talent and sympathy, by the way”—sympazy, by se vay—“will show you the film with haste. But please, I must ask you to check one thing”—von zing—“I told him I am at his service any time he have a question about Boris Feodorovich and what he did these years in Russia or anything else. But I want to be certain I put all the information on this form. I was in such a rush! The e-mail, the cell phone number, the address, all these things.” He gave her hands one last pump, then released them.

  “All right,” said Savannah, “let’s check.” She sat back down in her chair, reached under the table, and came up with a metal file box and put it on the tabletop. She produced a key from out of her handbag and opened it. “It should be right here on top…” With that, she withdrew a sheet of paper and said, “Here it is. Now what was it exactly you wanted me to check—e-mail did you say?”

  “Let me see it for a moment,” said Sergei, who was standing beside her. She handed it to him, and he gave her the warmest and most grateful smile yet… and folded the form in two the long way and in two again and slipped it into a pocket inside his jacket… smiling smiling smiling to beat the band.

  Savannah’s bright luxodontic glow dimmed a bit. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I must examine it in the better light.” Still smiling smiling smiling, he motioned to Magdalena, took her by the arm, undid the velvet rope, and headed toward the big gatehouse. “Thank you, dear Savannah, for everything.”

  Savannah, honey’s, glow now dimmed a lot, and her voice rose. “Please—Sergei—that mustn’t leave here!”

  ::::::Sergei, she calls him! All that talk—he must have put her under a spell!::::::

  Sergei quickened their pace and sang back over his shoulder in the cheeriest voice Magdalena could imagine, “Oh, my dear Savannah, don’t worry! Everything is for the best!”

  “No! Sergei!—Mr. Korolyov!—you mustn’t!—you can’t!—please!”

  Sergei smiled back at her as he walked, and he was walking fast. They didn’t follow the wiggly-curving walkway but cut straight across the lawn. He hailed a valet.

  “Mr. Korolyov! Stop! That’s not yours!” Her voice had reached a shrill, panicked level—and it seemed closer. She must be coming after them. And then, “Oh, shit!”

  Magdalena glanced back. The woman had tripped. She sat on the grass with one shoe on and one shoe off, rubbing her ankle. The pain distorted her face. Her high heel must have sunk into the lawn. No more glow at all.

  The valet pulled up in the Aston Martin. Sergei smiled at Magdalena and chuckled and laughed and said something and laughed and chuckled some more. Any normal, unbriefed onlooker—such as the valet—would think here was half-a-drunk who must have had a cool time at the party… and got himself sloshed enough to give a valet a fifty-dollar bill. As they pulled away, Magdalena could see Savannah hurrying back to the house barefoot—with a very contemporary high-heeled kind of limp.

  By the time they crossed the little bridge from Star Island to the MacArthur Causeway, Sergei was laughing so hard, he could barely catch a breath. “I wish I can stay and see the look on the face of that little toad, Munch, when the woman tell him what happen! I would give anything!
”

  As he drove, he put his hand on Magdalena’s knee and left it there for a while. Neither of them said a word. Magdalena’s heart was beating so fast and she was breathing so rapidly, she knew she couldn’t have said a word without her voice quavering. Then he slipped his hand three-quarters of the way up her thigh.

  Now Sergei had reached Collins Avenue. Magdalena stayed absolutely still. If he turned right, it would be toward her apartment. If he turned left, it would be toward his… He turned left!—and Magdalena couldn’t help herself. Immediately she telepathed Amélia over the fiber-figmental chimericoptic connection she had left on all evening, “I told you! It depends, it depends!” Very gently Sergei slipped his hand all the way to her crotch and began stroking it. She felt a rush of fluid rising up in her loins and telepathed Amélia again. “I swear to you, Amélia, I’m not making a decision. It’s just happening.”

  Sergei’s apartment was grander than anything she could have imagined. The living room was two stories high. The place had a very modern look but not modern in any way she had ever seen before—walls of glass so extravagantly etched with surreal swoops and swirls of women in phantasmagorical gowns, you could barely see anything through them. Sergei took her to the second floor up a curving staircase with a dark wooden banister inlaid with could-that-be-real ivory. He opened the bedroom door and bade her enter first… an enormous room lit by the sort of downlights she had seen in clubs… the bed—it was gigantic… walls of is-that-velvet—she didn’t absorb another detail, for at that moment he embraced her from behind, so powerfully she could feel the overwhelming strength of his arms, not to mention his pelvic thrust. He buried his head in the crook of her neck and with a single motion just like that swept her dress clear off her shoulders and down as far as her waist. ::::::Amélia’s dress—did he rip it?:::::: The V of the dress was so deep and so wide, it wasn’t made for wearing anything under it, and there she was… he slid his hands up her rib cage—