Fantasy: The Best of 2001

by Robert Silverberg

  “I’ll be along soon,” Chemayev said, annoyed by this interruption to his routine.

  Polutin straightened and blew on his hands. A big-bellied ursine man of early middle age, his muscles already running to fat, hair combed back in a wave of grease and black gleam from his brow. All his features were crammed toward the center of his round face, and his gestures had the tailored expansiveness common to politicians and actors out in public, to all those who delight in being watched. He introduced his companion as Niall March, a business associate from Ireland. March gave Chemayev an absent nod. “Let’s get on in,” he said to Polutin. “I’m fucking freezing.” But Polutin did not appear to have heard. He beamed at Chemayev, as might a father approving of his child’s cleverness, and said, “I promised Niall I’d show him the new Russia. And here you are, Viktor. Here you are.” He glanced toward March. “This one . . .”—he pointed at Chemayev—“always thinking, always making a plan.” He affected a comical expression of concern. “If I weren’t such a carefree fellow, I’d suspect him of plotting against me.”

  Asshole, Chemayev thought as he watched the two men cross the lot. Polutin liked to give himself intellec­tual airs, to think of himself as criminal royalty, and to his credit he had learned how to take advantage of society’s convulsions; but that required no particular intelligence, only the instincts and principles of a vulture. As for the new Russia, what a load of shit! Chemayev turned his eyes to the nearest of the krushovas no more than fifteen yards away, the building’s crumbling face picked out by wan flickering lights, evidence that power was out on some of the floors and candles were in use. The fluorescent brightness of the entranceway was sentried by a prostitute with bleached hair and a vinyl jacket who paced back and forth with metronomic regularity, pausing at the end of each pass to peer out across the wasteland, as though expecting her relief. There, he thought, that was where the new Russia had been spawned. Open graves infested by the old, the desperate, the addicted, perverts of every stamp. They made the stars behind them look false, they reduced everything they shadowed. If the new Russia existed, it was merely as a byproduct of a past so grim that any possible future would be condemned to embody it.

  The prospect of spending an evening with his boss, especially this one, when so much was at stake, weighed on Chemayev. He was not in the mood for Polutin’s condescension, his unctuous solicitude. But he could think of no way to avoid it. He stepped from the car and took a deep breath of the biting, gasoline-flavored Moscow air. A few hours more, and his troubles would be over. All the wormy, enfeebling pressures of the past year would be evicted from his spirit, and for the first time he’d be able to choose a path in life rather than accept the one upon which he had been set by necessity. Strengthened by this notion, he started across the lot. Each of his footsteps made a crisp sound, as if he were crushing a brittle insect underfoot, and left an impression of his sole in a paper-thin crust of ice.

  Chemayev checked his pistols at the entrance to Eternity, handing them over to one of Lebedev’s young unsmiling soldiers, and descended in an elevator toward the theater that lay at the center of the complex. The empty holsters felt like dead, stubby wings strapped to his sides, increasing his sense of powerlessness—by contrast, the money belt about his waist felt inordinately heavy, as if full of golden bars, not gold certificates. The room into which the elevator discharged him was vast, roughly egg-shaped, larger at the base than at the apex, with snow white carpeting and walls of midnight blue. At the bottom of the egg was a circular stage, currently empty; tiers of white leather booths were arranged around it, occupied by prosperous-looking men and beautiful women whose conversations blended into a soft rustling that floated upon a bed of gentle, undulant music. Each booth encompassed a linen-covered table, and each ta­ble was centered by a block of ice hollowed so as to accommodate bottles of chilled vodka. The top of the egg, some thirty feet above the uppermost tier, was obscured by pale swirling mist, and through the mist you could see hanging lights—silvery, delicate, exotically configured shapes that put Chemayev in mind of photographs he’d seen of microscopic creatures found in polar seas. To many the room embodied a classic Russian elegance, but Chemayev, whose mother—long deceased—had been an architect and had provided him with an education in the arts, thought the place vulgar, a childish fantasy conceived by someone whose idea of elegance had been derived from old Hollywood movies.

  Polutin’s booth, as befitted his station, was near the stage. The big man was leaning close to March, speaking energetically into his ear. Chemayev joined them and accepted a glass of vodka. “I was about to tell Niall about the auction,” Polutin said to him, then returned his attention to March. “You see, each night at a certain time . . . a different hour every night, depending on our host’s whim. Each night a beautiful woman will rise from beneath the stage. Naked as the day she came into the world. She carries a silver tray upon which there lies a single red rose. She will walk among the tables, and offer the rose to everyone in attendance.”

  “Yeah?” March cocked an eye toward Polutin. “Then what?”

  “Then the bidding begins.”

  “What are they bidding for?” March’s responses were marked by a peculiar absence of inflection, and he appeared disinterested in Polutin’s lecture; yet Chemayev had the sense that he was observing everything with unnatural attentiveness. His cheeks were scored by two vertical lines as deep as knife cuts that extended from beneath the corners of his eyes to the corners of his lips. His mouth was thin, wide, almost chimpanzee-like in its mobility and expressiveness—this at odds with his eyes, which were small and pale and inactive. It was as if at the moment of creation he had been immersed in a finishing bath, one intended to add an invigorating luster, that had only partially covered his face, leaving the eyes and all that lay behind them lacking some vital essential.

  “Why . . . for the rose, of course.” Polutin seemed put off by March’s lack of enthusiasm. “Sometimes the bidding is slow, but I’ve seen huge sums paid over. I believe the record is a hundred thousand pounds.”

  “A hundred grand for a fucking flower?” March said. “Sounds like bollocks to me.”

  “It’s an act of conspicuous consumption,” Chemayev said; he tossed back his vodka, poured another from a bottle of Ketel One. “Those who bid are trying to dem­onstrate how little money means to them.”

  “There’s an element of truth in what Viktor says,” Polutin said archly, “but his understanding is incomplete. You are not only bidding for status . . . for a fucking flower.” He spooned caviar onto a silver dish and spread some on a cracker. “Think of a rose. Redder than fire. Redder than a beast’s eye. You’re bidding for that color, that priceless symptom of illusion.” He popped the cracker into his mouth and chewed noisily; once he had swallowed he said to March, “You see, Viktor does not bid. He’s a frugal man, and a frugal man cannot possibly understand the poetry of the auction.” He worried at a piece of cracker stuck in his teeth. “Viktor never gambles. He picks up a check only when it might prove an embarrassment to do otherwise. His apartment is a proletarian tragedy, and you’ve seen that piece of crap he drives. He’s not wealthy, but he is far from poor. He should want for nothing. Yet he hordes money like an old woman.” Polutin smiled at Chemayev with exaggerated fondness. “All his friends wonder why this is.”

  Chemayev ignored this attempt to rankle him and poured another vodka. He noted with pleasure that the pouches beneath Polutin’s eyes were more swollen than usual, looking as if they were about to give birth to fat worms. A few more years of heavy alcohol intake, and he’d be ripe for a cardiac event. He lifted his glass to Polutin and returned his smile.

  “To be successful in business one must have a firm grasp of human nature,” said Polutin, preparing another cracker. “So naturally I have studied my friends and associates. From my observations of Viktor I’ve concluded that he is capable of magic.” He glanced back and forth between Chemayev and March, as if expecting a strong reaction.
/>   March gave an amused snort. “I suppose that means he’s got himself a little wand.”

  Polutin laughed and clapped March on the shoulder. “Let me explain,” he said. “During the early days of glasnost, Yuri Lebedev was the strongest man in all the mafiyas. He made a vast fortune, but he also made enemies. The dogs were nipping at his heels, and he recognized it was only a matter of time before they brought him down. It was at this point he began to build Eternity.”

  He gobbled the second cracker, washed it down with vodka; after swallowing with some difficulty he went on: “The place is immense. All around us the earth is honeycombed with chambers. Apartments, a casino, a gymnasium, gardens. Even a surgery. Eternity is both labyrinth and fortress, a country with its own regulations and doctrines. There are no policemen here, not even corrupt ones. But commit a crime within these walls, a crime that injures Yuri, and you will be dealt with according to his laws. Yuri is absolutely secure. He need never leave until the day he dies. Yet that alone does not convey the full extent of his genius. In the surgery he had doctors create a number of doubles for him. The doctors, of course, were never heard from again, and it became impossible to track Yuri. In fact it’s not at all certain that he is still here. Some will tell you he is dead. Others say he lives in Chile, in Tahiti. In a dacha on the Black Sea. He’s been reported in Turkestan, Montreal, Chiang Mai. He is seen everywhere. But no one knows where he is. No one will ever know.”

  “That’s quite clever, that is,” March said.

  Polutin spread his hands as if to reveal a marvel. “Right in front of our eyes Yuri built a device that would cause him to disappear, and then he stepped inside it. Like a pharaoh vanishing inside his tomb. We were so fascinated in watching the trick develop, we never suspected it was a real trick.” He licked a fleck of caviar from his forefinger. “Had Yuri vanished in any way other than the one he chose, his enemies would have kept searching for him, no matter how slim their chances of success. But he created Eternity both as the vehicle of his magical act and as a legacy, a gift to enemies and friends alike. He surrendered his power with such panache . . . . It was a gesture no one could resist. People forgave him. Now he is revered. I’ve heard him described as ‘the sanest man in Moscow.’ Which in these times may well serve a definition of God.”

  Apprehension spidered Chemayev’s neck. Whatever parallel Polutin was trying to draw between himself and Yuri, it would probably prove to be a parable designed to manipulate him. The whole thing was tiresome, predictable . . . . Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a tall girl with dark brown hair. He started to call to her, mistaking her for Larissa, but then realized she didn’t have Larissa’s long legs, her quiet bearing.

  “There is tremendous irony in the situation,” Polutin continued. “Whether dead or alive, in the act of vanishing Yuri regained his power. Those close to him—or to his surrogates—are like monks. They keep watch day and night. Everything said and done here is monitored. And he is protected not only by paranoia. Being invisible, his actions concealed, he’s too valuable to kill. He’s become the confidante of politicians. Generals avail themselves of his services. As do various mafiya bosses.” He inclined his head, as if suggesting that he might be among this privileged number. “There are those who maintain that Yuri’s influence with these great men is due to the fact that his magical powers are not limited to primitive sleights-of-hand such as the illusion that enabled his disappearance. They claim he has become an adept of secret disciplines, that he works miracles on behalf of the rich and the mighty.” Polutin’s attitude grew conspiratorial. “A friend of mine involved in building the club told me that he came into the theater once—this very room—and found it filled with computer terminals. Scrolling across the screens were strings of what he assumed were letters in an unknown alphabet. He later discovered they were Kabalistic symbols. Some weeks later he entered the theater again. There was no sign of the terminals . . . or of anything else, for that matter. The room was choked with silvery fog. My friend decided to keep clear of the place thereafter. But not long before Eternity opened its doors, curiosity got the best of him and he visited the theater a third time. On this occasion he found the room completely dark and heard hushed voices chanting the same unintelligible phrase over and over.” Polutin allowed himself a dramatic pause. “None of this seems to reflect the usual methods of construction.”

  “What’s this got to do with your boy Viktor?” March asked. “He’s planning a night club, too, is he?”

  “Not that I know of.” Polutin’s eyes went lazily to Chemayev, like a man reassuring himself that his prize possession was still in its rightful place. “However, I see in Viktor many of the qualities Yuri possessed. He’s bright, ambitious. He can be ruthless when necessary. He understands the uses of compassion, but if he wasn’t capable of violence and betrayal, he would never have risen to his present position.”

  “I only did as I was told,” Chemayev said fiercely. “You gave me no choice.” Furious, he prepared to defend himself further, but Polutin did not acknowledge him, turning instead to March.

  “It’s in his talent for self-deception that Viktor most resembles Yuri,” he said. “In effect, he has made parts of himself disappear. But while Yuri became an adept, a true professional, Viktor is still a rank amateur . . . though perhaps I underestimate him. He may have some more spectacular disappearance in mind.”

  Chemayev’s feeling of apprehension spiked, but he refused to give Polutin the satisfaction of thinking that his words had had any effect; he scanned the upper tiers of booths, pretending to search for a familiar face.

  “If I were to ask Viktor to describe himself,” Polutin went on, “he would repeat much of what I’ve told you. But he would never describe himself as cautious. Yet I swear to you, Viktor is the most cautious man of my acquaintance. He won’t admit it, not to you or me. Nor to himself. But let me give you an example of how his mind works. Viktor has a lover. Larissa is her name. She works here at Eternity. As a prostitute.”

  “Don’t tell him my business!” Chemayev could feel the pulse in his neck.

  Polutin regarded him calmly. “This is common knowledge, is it not?”

  “It’s scarcely common knowledge in Ireland.”

  “Yes,” said Polutin. “But then we are not in Ireland. We are in Moscow. Where, if memory serves me, underlings do not dare treat their superiors with such impertinence.”

  Chemayev did not trust himself to speak.

  “Larissa is a beautiful woman. Such a lovely face”—Polutin bunched the fingers of his left hand and kissed their tips, the gesture of an ecstatic connoisseur—“your heart breaks to see it! Like many who work here, she does so in order to pay off a debt incurred by someone in her family. She’s not a typical whore. She’s intelligent, refined. And very expensive.”

  “How much are we talking about?” March asked. “I’ve a few extra pounds in me pocket.”

  Chemayev shot him a wicked glance, and March winked at him. “Just having you on, mate. Women aren’t my thing.”

  “What exactly is your thing?” Chemayev asked. “Some sort of sea creature? Perhaps you prefer the invertebrates?”

  “Nah.” March went deadpan. “It’s got nothing to do with sex.”

  “The point is this,” Polutin said. “Viktor’s choice of a lover speaks to his cautious nature. A young man of his status, ambitious and talented, but as yet not entirely on a firm footing . . . such a man is vulnerable in many ways. If he were to take a wife it would add to his vulnerability. The woman might be threatened or kidnapped. In our business you must be secure indeed if you intend to engage in anything resembling a normal relationship. So Viktor has chosen a prostitute under the protection of Yuri Lebedev. No one will try to harm her for fear of reprisals. Eternity protects its own.”

  Chemayev started up from the booth, but Polutin beckoned him to stay. “A minute longer, Viktor. Please.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Chemayev asked. “Is there a purpose,
or is it merely an exercise?”

  “I’m trying to instruct you,” said Polutin. “I’m trying to show you who you are. I think you have forgotten some important truths.”

  Chemayev drew a steadying breath, let it out with a dry, papery sound. “I know very well who I am, but I’m confused about much else.”

  “It won’t hurt you to listen.” Polutin ran a finger along the inside of his collar to loosen it and addressed March. “Why does Viktor hide his cautious nature from himself? Perhaps he doesn’t like what he sees in the mirror. I’ve known men who’ve cultivated a sensitive self-image in order to obscure the brutish aspects of their character. Perhaps the explanation is as simple as that. But I think there’s more to it. I suspect it may be for him a form of practice. As I’ve said, Viktor and Yuri have much in common . . . most pertinently, a talent for self-deception. I believe it was the calculated development of this ability that led Yuri to understand the concept of deception in its entirety. Its subtleties, its potentials.” Polutin shifted his bulk, his belly bumping against the edge of the table, causing vodka to slosh in all the glasses. “At any rate, I think I understand how Viktor manages to hide from himself. He has permitted himself to fall in love with his prostitute—or to think he has fallen in love. This affords him the illusion of incaution. How incautious it must seem to the casual eye for a man to fall in love with a woman he cannot possibly have. Who lives in another man’s house. Whom he can see only for an hour or two in the mornings, and the odd vacation. Who is bound by contract to spend the years of her great beauty fucking strangers. Is this a tactical maneuver? A phase of Viktor’s development. A necessary step along the path toward some larger, more magical duplicity. Or could it be a simple mistake? A mistake he is now tempted to compound, thus making himself more vulnerable than ever.” He spread his hands, expressing a stagy degree of helplessness. “But these are questions only Viktor can answer.”