twin dying bodies of Christ writhing on them. Did the crucifixes ever put the clients off ? Jews, Muslims, atheists, vampires— how did they feel?
Her father, Tatiana volunteered suddenly, had been a “great clown.” (So perhaps it did explain her nom de guerre in some way.) In the West, she said, they thought clowns were “slapstick fools,” but in Russia they were “existential artists.” She drooped with a sudden Slavic melancholy and offered Gloria a piece of gum, which Gloria declined.
“So not funny, then?” Gloria said, taking five hundred pounds from an ATM in the hospital corridor. Gloria had been removing five hundred pounds a day from an ATM for the last six months. She kept the money in a black plastic garbage bag in her wardrobe. Seventy-two thousand so far in twenty-pound notes. It took up a surprisingly small amount of room. Gloria wondered how much space a million would occupy. Gloria liked cash, it was tangible, it didn’t pretend to be something else. Graham also liked cash. Graham liked cash a little too much, vast amounts of it swilled around in the Hatter Homes’ accounts and came out as clean as new white linen. Graham had eschewed the old-fashioned way— launderettes and sunbed shops—that his friend Murdo still adhered to. Pam seemed blissfully unaware that the Jean Muir and Ballantyne cashmere that clothed her back were bought with funny money. Ignorance was not innocence.
Gloria divided the money from the ATM between herself and Tatiana. They had, after all, both earned Graham’s money in their own ways. In the seventies, women had marched for “Wages for Housework.” Wages for sex seemed to make more sense. Housework had to be done whether you liked it or not, but sex was optional.
“Oh, no, I don’t have sex with them,” Tatiana said. She laughed as if this were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. “I’m not an idyot , Gloria.”
“But you charge money?”
“Sure. It’s business. Everything is business.” Tatiana rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in the universal language of money.
“So, what do they pay you for . . . exactly?”
“Slapped around. Tied up. Beaten. Given orders, made to do things.”
“What kind of things?”
“You know.”
“No, I can’t even begin to imagine.”
“Lick my boots, crawl on floor, eat like dog.”
“Nothing useful, then, like hoovering?”
Who knew—all these years Gloria could have been spanking Graham and making him eat like a dog? And be paid for it!
“In Russia I worked in bank ,” Tatiana said darkly, as if a bank were the most dangerous place in the world to work. “In Russia I was hungry.” She had very mobile features, Gloria noticed, and she wondered if it had anything to do with her clowning father.
In exchange for the cash, from somewhere inside the confines of her bra, Tatiana produced a little pink card and wrote on the back of it a mobile number and “Ask for Jojo.” She handed the card to Gloria. On the front, it was engraved in black lettering with FA-VORS—WE DO WHAT YOU WANT US TO DO! The exclamation point gave the impression that Favors would provide entertainers and balloons for a child’s party. Again with the clowns , Gloria thought. She had seen that logo somewhere, surely. Wasn’t “Favors” a cleaning agency? Gloria had noticed their pink vans around her neighborhood, and Pam had used them when her own cleaner had a bladder prolapse last year. Gloria had always done her own cleaning, she liked cleaning. It filled in the hours in a useful way.
“Yeah, sure.” Tatiana shrugged. “They’ll do cleaning if that’s what you want.” “Cleaning” seemed to take on a whole new meaning in Tatiana’s lugubrious accent, as if it were, paradoxically, a filthy (if not slightly macabre) activity.
The card was still warm from nestling next to Tatiana’s breasts, and Gloria was reminded of collecting eggs from beneath the chickens her mother kept in the back garden, long
Her father, Tatiana volunteered suddenly, had been a “great clown.” (So perhaps it did explain her nom de guerre in some way.) In the West, she said, they thought clowns were “slapstick fools,” but in Russia they were “existential artists.” She drooped with a sudden Slavic melancholy and offered Gloria a piece of gum, which Gloria declined.
“So not funny, then?” Gloria said, taking five hundred pounds from an ATM in the hospital corridor. Gloria had been removing five hundred pounds a day from an ATM for the last six months. She kept the money in a black plastic garbage bag in her wardrobe. Seventy-two thousand so far in twenty-pound notes. It took up a surprisingly small amount of room. Gloria wondered how much space a million would occupy. Gloria liked cash, it was tangible, it didn’t pretend to be something else. Graham also liked cash. Graham liked cash a little too much, vast amounts of it swilled around in the Hatter Homes’ accounts and came out as clean as new white linen. Graham had eschewed the old-fashioned way— launderettes and sunbed shops—that his friend Murdo still adhered to. Pam seemed blissfully unaware that the Jean Muir and Ballantyne cashmere that clothed her back were bought with funny money. Ignorance was not innocence.
Gloria divided the money from the ATM between herself and Tatiana. They had, after all, both earned Graham’s money in their own ways. In the seventies, women had marched for “Wages for Housework.” Wages for sex seemed to make more sense. Housework had to be done whether you liked it or not, but sex was optional.
“Oh, no, I don’t have sex with them,” Tatiana said. She laughed as if this were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. “I’m not an idyot , Gloria.”
“But you charge money?”
“Sure. It’s business. Everything is business.” Tatiana rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in the universal language of money.
“So, what do they pay you for . . . exactly?”
“Slapped around. Tied up. Beaten. Given orders, made to do things.”
“What kind of things?”
“You know.”
“No, I can’t even begin to imagine.”
“Lick my boots, crawl on floor, eat like dog.”
“Nothing useful, then, like hoovering?”
Who knew—all these years Gloria could have been spanking Graham and making him eat like a dog? And be paid for it!
“In Russia I worked in bank ,” Tatiana said darkly, as if a bank were the most dangerous place in the world to work. “In Russia I was hungry.” She had very mobile features, Gloria noticed, and she wondered if it had anything to do with her clowning father.
In exchange for the cash, from somewhere inside the confines of her bra, Tatiana produced a little pink card and wrote on the back of it a mobile number and “Ask for Jojo.” She handed the card to Gloria. On the front, it was engraved in black lettering with FA-VORS—WE DO WHAT YOU WANT US TO DO! The exclamation point gave the impression that Favors would provide entertainers and balloons for a child’s party. Again with the clowns , Gloria thought. She had seen that logo somewhere, surely. Wasn’t “Favors” a cleaning agency? Gloria had noticed their pink vans around her neighborhood, and Pam had used them when her own cleaner had a bladder prolapse last year. Gloria had always done her own cleaning, she liked cleaning. It filled in the hours in a useful way.
“Yeah, sure.” Tatiana shrugged. “They’ll do cleaning if that’s what you want.” “Cleaning” seemed to take on a whole new meaning in Tatiana’s lugubrious accent, as if it were, paradoxically, a filthy (if not slightly macabre) activity.
The card was still warm from nestling next to Tatiana’s breasts, and Gloria was reminded of collecting eggs from beneath the chickens her mother kept in the back garden, long
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