The machine went dead once again. I wasn't sure whether there was going to be some action now or not, so I stayed where I was.
After about two minutes there was the sound of bolts being thrown on the other side of the door. I moved out of the way as it was pushed open. Behind it was an iron grill door, still closed, and behind that was a guy of maybe seventeen or eighteen, who looked like the style fairy had crept up on him and waved her LA-street gang wand. I bet he owned the Lada.
'Do you speak English?'
'Yo! You want Konstantin?'
'Yeah, Konstantin. Is he here?'
He gave a big smile. 'Yes, he sure is, for that's me, man. You are the England guy, right?'
I nodded and smiled, holding back laughter as he tried to match his speech with his dress sense. It just didn't work, especially with a Russian accent.
He beamed as he looked me up and down. 'Okay, smart guy, come on in.'
He was right, I didn't look as if I'd come straight from the dry-cleaners. Or maybe he'd been expecting a man in a bowler hat.
The grill was secured from the inside with two lever locks. As soon as I'd walked in, both the door and the grill were locked behind me and the keys taken out.
He held up his hands. 'Hey, call me Vorsim.' He wiggled his fingers, or rather, the ones that hadn't gone missing, in the air. 'Everyone does. It's Russian for eight.'
He gave me another quick once-over as we both smiled at the joke he'd probably cracked a thousand times. 'Hey, follow me, England guy.'
I followed Eight up a narrow wooden staircase to the first floor.
The banisters and handrails were bare wood, and the exposed steps sagged with age. There was no light apart from the dull glow coming through the ground-floor windows. I could only just see where my feet were going.
It was an old, once-grand house. I couldn't see any evidence of a bar, but at least it was warm and dry- almost too dry. It had that dusty smell places get when the windows are never opened and the heating is on all the time.
Our footsteps echoed round the stairwell. Eight was about three steps above me, wearing a pair of the most blindingly yellow and purple Nike sneakers I'd ever seen, beneath a pair of baggy, blue hip-hop-style jeans that were stone washed-the kind with big horrible streaks of white-and a black leather bomber jacket with the L.A. Raiders pirate logo stitched on the back.
We hit a landing and turned for the next flight which would take us up to the second floor. Weak light filtered through the slatted shutters.
All the doors leading off it were paneled, with faded flowers painted on ceramic door knobs; it must have been a splendid place when it was first built.
We passed the second and carried on up to the third floor, then walked along a larger landing. He opened one of the doors toward the river.
'Your name is Nick, right?'
'Yeah, that's right.' I didn't return the eye contact as I walked past him into the room. I was too busy checking what I was walking into.
There was just one bulb in the center of the room, producing the dingy, yellowy light I'd seen from outside. The very large room was in semidarkness and was boiling hot. The only job the lighting did was expose a layer of cigarette smoke that clung to the high ceiling.
There was a glow from the TV to my left, its volume set at low, with a body in front of it. Directly in front of me, about forty-five feet away, was a single sash window, its shutters open in the hope of letting in a little natural light. The shutters on each side were still firmly closed. There were no carpets or wall hangings, just empty space.
To my right, near a large marble fireplace, three men were seated on fancy chairs around what looked like an antique table with ornate legs.
They were playing cards and smoking. Beside them, and to the right of the fireplace, was another door.
The three heads at the table turned and stared as they sucked on their cigarettes. I nodded without any reaction from them at all, then one of the guys said something and the other two guffawed and went back to their game.
The door closed behind me. I looked at Eight, who was bobbing up and down with excitement. 'Well, man' arms moving around like a rapper 'you hang here, Vorsim won't be long. Things to do.' And with that he placed the grill keys on the table and disappeared through the door near the fireplace.
I looked over at the guy by the TV. The color picture was a bit snowy, perhaps because it was perched on a chair with a coat hanger for an antenna. He sat on a chair opposite, his nose nearly touching the screen, too engrossed to bother looking round at me. His area was giving out more light than the bulb in the ceiling; it was a mystery how the other guys could see their cards.
No one offered me anywhere to sit, so I went over to the window to have a look outside. The floorboards creaked with every step I took. The card school, now behind me, just got back to mumbling to each other as they played.
It was easy to see what went on here. Two sets of electronic display pharmaceutical scales sat under the table at this end of the room. Next to them were stacked maybe ten to twelve large Tupperware boxes, some containing white stuff that definitely wasn't flour, others holding dark-colored pills that similarly weren't M&Ms.
Directly beneath the window was Viru, dirty snow and ice covering overflowing dustbins. At the corner of the building three scabby cats lay perfectly still in the snow, gathered around a drain, waiting for their black furry dinner to serve itself up.
Over the lip of the gorge the river on both banks was iced up, but the center third was carrying big chunks of ice and trash sluggishly from right to left, toward the Baltic about eight miles downstream. Further upstream the bridge was still jammed with cars and people.
I turned back to the room. It might be sweltering in here, but I was desperate for a hot brew. The only drink I could see was a bottle of Johnnie Walker on the table, which was being emptied by the card players. They all had black leather jackets draped over the backs of their chairs. They'd obviously watched too many gangster movies' because they were all dressed in black pants and black crewneck sweaters, with enough gold dripping off their wrists and fingers to clear Estonia's national debt. It looked like a scene from Good Fellas Packs of Camels and Marlboros lay on the table in front of them, gold lighters placed neatly on top. I made sure they couldn't see my Lion King watch. I didn't want them to start by shitting me, as there might be a time when they had to take me seriously. A smiling Disney character on my wrist wouldn't help.
I turned to the TV watcher as he clicked at his lighter and lit up, holding the cigarette between his thumb and index finger, then leaning forward, elbows on knees, to get his nose back into some low-budget American soap. What was really strange was that the dialogue was still in English; only after the actors had delivered their lines did the Russian dubbing take place. There was absolutely no emotion in the translation; a woman with more makeup than Boy George gushed, 'But Fortman, I love you,' then a Russian voice translated it as if she was buying a pound of cabbage. I suddenly knew where Eight got his English and dress code from.
The door opened and in he came. 'Yo, Nikolai!' The bomber jacket was now off to reveal a red sweatshirt with Bart Simpson karate kicking another kid with fistfuls of dollars. Printed underneath was 'Just take it.' Dangling from Eight's neck was a thick gold chain that any rapper would be proud of.
He came and stood by the window with me. 'Nick, I've been told to help you. Because, hey, guess what, crazy guy, I'm the only one here who speaks English.' He shuffled from sneaker to sneaker as he clapped his hands. The Good Fellas looked at him as if he was a basket case, and got back to their game.
'Vorsim, I need a car.'
'Car? Whoa, could be a problem, my man.'
I half expected to hear his response followed by some bad Russian dubbing. He turned to the Good Fellas spoke some very fast stuff and did some mock begging. The oldest one, maybe in his early fifties, didn't look up from his hand but replied really aggressively. He must have been drinking liquid nasty instead of Johnnie Walker. I
