because at one time the intelligentsia of Moscow regularly met in the Orlov apartment to debate ideas, read poetry and drink. Esenin, Mayakovsky, Blok had attended at a time when, as Victor put it, poetry wasn't romantic slop. Victor could recite them all. Some people called the building the House of Poets. A cat delicately approached across a yard of empty bottles and dandelions. A pair of kittens watched from a bed of dirty towels.
Victor was refreshed. The shakes had passed and hearing the price of a ticket to Nijinsky Fair snapped him awake.
'Ten thousand dollars to get in the door? Then there'll be free food?'
'I think it's likely. By the way, the prosecutor called. He wants me to resign and he wants you to call Olga an overdose and fold the case.'
'Wait. We're in the middle of a homicide case. He's not only fucking you, he's fucking me on the bounce. He's fucking Olga too. I don't mean you, puss.' The cat weaved between Victor's feet. 'So, what are you going to do?'
'Go to bed.'
'No letter of resignation?'
'My heart wouldn't be in it.'
'And then?'
'And then I think it would be a shame to miss a night with millionaires. Mix. Show as many people as possible the photo of Olga but be on your good behavior.'
'No problem. I can offer them sentiments from Blok: 'John, you bourgeois son of a bitch, you can kiss me where I itch.'' Victor smiled with self-satisfaction. 'Poetry for all occasions.' Arkady's apartment was a distinctly bourgeois affair of paneled wood and parquet floors inherited from his father. There were no photos on the walls. No family gallery on a piano. The women in his life were irretrievably lost. The food in his refrigerator accumulated until he threw it out.
He dropped into bed but slept badly and in a dream found himself in a white room between a stainless-steel table and a laundry bin. In the bin were body parts. It was his task to reassemble the girl he called Olga. The problem was that the bin also contained parts of other women. He recognized each by her color, texture, warmth. No matter what he switched, however, he couldn't complete any single one.
11
In the blaze of crystal chandeliers nothing was too expensive or ridiculous. A child's bird rifle that had belonged to Prince Alexei Romanov, once heir to the Russian empire, was offered at $75,000.
An emerald necklace once owned by Elizabeth Taylor: $275,000.
For $25 million, a ride to the International Space Station.
An 1802 Bordeaux left behind by Napoleon as Moscow burned: $44,000.
Models as beautiful and silent as cheetahs lined the red carpet and watched for labels: Bentley, Cartier, Brioni. Arkady, on the other hand, looked as if he had been dressed by a mortician. The disappointment he provoked in women made him feel guilty.
As guests shuffled into the fair Arkady recognized famous athletes, supermodels, marginal celebrities, private bankers and millionaires. Onstage a tennis star giggled through her script. 'Welcome to the Nijinsky Fair of luxury goods… top social event… sponsors like Bulgari, Bentley and the Vaksberg Group. All the proceeds to Moscow children's shelters. Really?'
Their gossip was all about real estate. The Golden Mile was the most expensive real estate in Moscow. In the world, for that matter.
'With an Anglo-American school right around the corner.'
'Twenty-four-hour security and roller shut windows.'
'Twelve thousand dollars a square meter.'
'And a wonderful small church if they would only get rid of the beggars.'
Ahead of Arkady a man with sloped shoulders and a pockmarked neck confided to a woman so elegant she had no eyebrows, only pencil lines, that the item he was after was an audience with the pope. 'It can't hurt.'
Arkady recognized the pilgrim as Aza Baron, formerly Baranovsky, who spent six years in prison for fraud. Upon release, he ran the same scams but called it a hedge fund and became wealthy enough to have his conviction expunged. Voila! A new name, a new history, a new man. Baron was not the only rags-to-riches story. Arkady spied an Olympic official who, as a youth, beat a rival to death with a cricket bat. Another man's shaved head bore the nicks of a grenade attack, reminders that climbing the ladder of success involved a certain amount of ducking.
A long display case held wristwatches that told time, date, depth, split seconds and time for medication. Up to $120,000. A cello played by Rostropovich. A giant commode employed by Peter the Great.
Security men in Armani black filtered through the crowd. Arkady wondered how to even begin. He imagined tapping Baron on the shoulder and saying, 'Excuse me. I am investigating the death of a cheap prostitute and, for all your money, you seemed a likely candidate to ask.' Followed by immediate ejection.
A woman on the runway announced, 'Fifteen minutes before closing the fair for the night. Thanks to you and your demand for only the best, luxury helps the needy, especially all those innocent girls. Fifteen minutes.'
Arkady posed as a man trying to decide between an armored Bentley at $250,000, a Harley-Davidson cruiser studded with diamonds at $300,000 or a Bugatti Veyron as black as a storm cloud at $1.5 million. Security men were definitely coming in Arkady's direction. Someone had checked his name against the VIP list after all. Arkady thought he could live with the social disgrace. He was only angry at himself for failing to show Olga's photo to a single soul.
'What on earth are you doing here?'
It was Anya Rudikova, Arkady's neighbor from the apartment across the hall. A leather satchel hung off her shoulder and a camera around her neck.
To Arkady she was the sort of self-dramatizing journalist who was almost as famous as the people she wrote about. Arkady had seen her on television flushing out a covey of the rich and politically connected. She attacked them and wooed them in equal measure.
'Browsing,' Arkady said.
'Do you see anything here that you like?'
'Something that fits my budget. I'm leaning to the Bugatti. One thousand horsepower. Of course, at top speed, you run out of gas in twelve minutes and in fifteen minutes the tires catch fire. That could be exciting.'
She pointed toward the mezzanine. 'I've been watching you from up there. You have 'police' written all over you.'
'And what are you doing here? I thought you were a serious journalist.'
'I'm a writer. A writer covers all sorts of stories and this is the social event of the year.'
'If you say so.' At least the enforcers of Security were backing off. It also explained why Anya was in a black pantsuit and carried a notebook and pen. She should have brought stilts; she was a head shorter than anyone else.
She studied him in turn. 'You don't care much for high fashion, do you?'
'I don't know enough about fashion to have an opinion. That's like asking a dog about flying.'
'But everyone has a style. A man answers the door wearing little more than a gun? That's a definite fashion statement.'
As Arkady remembered, he had been merely shirtless, maybe barefoot when he answered her knock. The odd thing was that he rarely carried a gun. He didn't know why he had picked it up that time, except that he must have heard a scuffle in the hall. Anya had not been frightened then and wasn't now; she seemed to be a small person who enjoyed keeping larger people off balance. 'You didn't say how you feel about the rich.'
'How rich?' Arkady asked.
'Millionaires. I don't mean small-time millionaires. I mean at least two hundred or three hundred million or more. Or billionaires.'
'There are actual billionaires here tonight? That makes me feel less like a dog and more like a speck on the windshield.'
