Ring! Just imagine – our Mercedes S600 driving up outside her grubby high-rise for all the world to see! Should have got her a flat in Tverskaya Street nearer his bank, and nipped out in the odd break. He shamed me.”
“He did give her a flat on the Arbat, but she wouldn’t accept it. Maybe it was true love.”
“True relaxation, more like. Naïve, warm-hearted country bumpkin – the clapped-out old banker’s dream! No pretensions. No demands. Just boundless gratitude for being noticed. Still, enough about him!”
She handed him her husband’s credit card, still warm from her housecoat pocket.
“You have this. I’ve money of my own, I don’t need his.”
Viktor took the card, but being naked, had nowhere to put it.
“Olya and I undressed you, and by now she’ll have your things laundered for you. And so, when you’ve recovered, it’s back to Kiev.”
“I’ve got to find my penguin first. And with this card I should have enough to buy him back.”
“If you haven’t, ring me.”
33
Woken next morning by the warmth of exploring hands, he responded accordingly.
“Do you know, with a bit of fitness training and massage, one could make a decent job of you,” Marina said. “You’re not, like my husband, past it, though not exactly a box of fireworks.”
Their parting verged on the emotional.
“Whenever you’re in Moscow, be sure to ring,” she said drawing her housecoat about her and closing the door.
Going down in the lift, he felt like an astronaut returning to earth, guinea pig term completed. He regretted the less positive side of his exploitation, of which the discomfort of his left shoe was a painful reminder.
The lift doors parted, and with a nod to the concièrge/security guard, Viktor left the building.
Kutuzov Avenue was a continuous two-way stream of cars. His watch showed 11.30. It would soon be time for lunch, and the place for that was the Peking Restaurant, where he could enlist the help of Andrey Pavlovich’s friend Bim. He was never going to find the banker unaided, and even if he did, would only be kept at arm’s length by his bodyguards. Someone to speak for him was what he needed, someone after the style of Andrey Pavlovich.
34
The Peking Restaurant was packed, mainly with Caucasians. Viktor hung his jacket on the back of a chair, sat down, and anticipating along wait looked around for service. The next minute a young man of eastern appearance presented him with a menu, volunteering that it would be easier and quicker to take the business lunch than order
à la carte
, which, trusting Moscow to know best, Viktor did.
He made short work of the sweet-and-sour soup, spitting unchewable bamboo shoots into the bowl.
Porc à la Sé-Tchouen
with rice followed, then green tea. Inner man satisfied, he turned his thoughts to the matter in hand.
“Where would I find Bim?” he inquired into the tactfully inclined ear of the waiter.
“He will join you,” was the calm reply. “Will that be all?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He drank his green tea and observed the four men at the next table also enjoying a business lunch, and helping it down with vodka. The unhealthy pudginess of their amply-ringed fingers suggested the possibility of early deaths.
“You asked to see me?” said a pleasant-looking man in a nondescript grey suit, seating himself at Viktor’s table.
“Andrey Pavlovich of Kiev said come to you if I needed help.”
Bim smiled. “How is he?”
“Standing as People’s Deputy he was fine. Now, having been demoted to Deputy’s aide, he’s less so.”
“Not to worry. All part of life’s rich tapestry. What’s your problem, then?”
“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a preamble.”
Bim nodded, and Viktor told the story of Misha, the funerals-with-penguin and his own forced flight to Antarctica, omitting his obituary-writing as past history. Mention of Sphinx gave Bim pause for thought.
“The Gas Commerce Bank is no longer with us. But your penguin
“He did give her a flat on the Arbat, but she wouldn’t accept it. Maybe it was true love.”
“True relaxation, more like. Naïve, warm-hearted country bumpkin – the clapped-out old banker’s dream! No pretensions. No demands. Just boundless gratitude for being noticed. Still, enough about him!”
She handed him her husband’s credit card, still warm from her housecoat pocket.
“You have this. I’ve money of my own, I don’t need his.”
Viktor took the card, but being naked, had nowhere to put it.
“Olya and I undressed you, and by now she’ll have your things laundered for you. And so, when you’ve recovered, it’s back to Kiev.”
“I’ve got to find my penguin first. And with this card I should have enough to buy him back.”
“If you haven’t, ring me.”
33
Woken next morning by the warmth of exploring hands, he responded accordingly.
“Do you know, with a bit of fitness training and massage, one could make a decent job of you,” Marina said. “You’re not, like my husband, past it, though not exactly a box of fireworks.”
Their parting verged on the emotional.
“Whenever you’re in Moscow, be sure to ring,” she said drawing her housecoat about her and closing the door.
Going down in the lift, he felt like an astronaut returning to earth, guinea pig term completed. He regretted the less positive side of his exploitation, of which the discomfort of his left shoe was a painful reminder.
The lift doors parted, and with a nod to the concièrge/security guard, Viktor left the building.
Kutuzov Avenue was a continuous two-way stream of cars. His watch showed 11.30. It would soon be time for lunch, and the place for that was the Peking Restaurant, where he could enlist the help of Andrey Pavlovich’s friend Bim. He was never going to find the banker unaided, and even if he did, would only be kept at arm’s length by his bodyguards. Someone to speak for him was what he needed, someone after the style of Andrey Pavlovich.
34
The Peking Restaurant was packed, mainly with Caucasians. Viktor hung his jacket on the back of a chair, sat down, and anticipating along wait looked around for service. The next minute a young man of eastern appearance presented him with a menu, volunteering that it would be easier and quicker to take the business lunch than order
à la carte
, which, trusting Moscow to know best, Viktor did.
He made short work of the sweet-and-sour soup, spitting unchewable bamboo shoots into the bowl.
Porc à la Sé-Tchouen
with rice followed, then green tea. Inner man satisfied, he turned his thoughts to the matter in hand.
“Where would I find Bim?” he inquired into the tactfully inclined ear of the waiter.
“He will join you,” was the calm reply. “Will that be all?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He drank his green tea and observed the four men at the next table also enjoying a business lunch, and helping it down with vodka. The unhealthy pudginess of their amply-ringed fingers suggested the possibility of early deaths.
“You asked to see me?” said a pleasant-looking man in a nondescript grey suit, seating himself at Viktor’s table.
“Andrey Pavlovich of Kiev said come to you if I needed help.”
Bim smiled. “How is he?”
“Standing as People’s Deputy he was fine. Now, having been demoted to Deputy’s aide, he’s less so.”
“Not to worry. All part of life’s rich tapestry. What’s your problem, then?”
“I’m afraid there’s a bit of a preamble.”
Bim nodded, and Viktor told the story of Misha, the funerals-with-penguin and his own forced flight to Antarctica, omitting his obituary-writing as past history. Mention of Sphinx gave Bim pause for thought.
“The Gas Commerce Bank is no longer with us. But your penguin
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