understand?’
‘Yes.’
Stevie replaced the violin with great care and closed the case. ‘I can recommend a man. His name is Constantine Dinov. He has done this many times before. In the meantime, I’m going to try to find out as much as I can about Anya and what happened so we can help Constantine get her back safely. That’s all the help I can offer, I’m sorry.’
Vadim glanced at his mother, then Stevie. ‘Just by agreeing to try, you are helping,’ he said. ‘You give us hope. Without hope you can’t live.’
Stevie bit her lip. ‘We need to go to that nightclub, Vadim. Tonight.’
In the night world of Moscow the real New Russia is revealed. The winter’s day is short and unconfident. It exists to provide gaps between nights. Daylight is the only sense of order that survives here. The night world is created and inhabited by the night people. These are the thrillseekers, the young, the very newly very rich, and those who serve them. They have been partying apocalyptically since 1993, when the Soviet Union deflated and all things changed beyond recognition.
The early years of freedom brought violence to the streets, assassinations, chaos; it injected energy into the existing desperation, celebratory hysteria, the uncertainty of utter hedonism. It created oligarchs and über criminals and vampire beauties to feed off them. Mostly the age was characterised by a complete lack of restraint. These qualities have remained intact.
Every traveller into the underworld needs a guide. As Dante had Virgil, so Stevie called on her two Italian friends, Diego and Iacopo.
She had met them on her first trip to Moscow and they could always be relied upon to find the best restaurant and the hippest club. Being Italian, they refused to adapt one iota to Russian ways and remained resolutely as they were. Even their tans stayed mysteriously summerish, as though Capri was just around the corner. Their cultural confidence was the root of their charm.
The restaurant Diego and Iacopo chose was called Sushi Fusion.
Henning was under strict instructions to remember anything of interest in the event Stevie got a little too drunk—which she wouldn’t—and not to leave her side. Bathroom breaks were excepted.
Back at the Metropole she had a raging hot bath and emerged bright pink and steaming. Moisturiser—Louis Widmer, because she liked the pink bottle and it smelt of her childhood—massaged into the body, was vital in very cold weather, in heated rooms, or you risked drying out like a twig. Scent, always applied when naked, a very little on the neck and the wrists. Her grandmother, who knew everything, said it should only be detectable when you were being kissed—‘hello’ that is, of course.
Hurry. Dress. You don’t want Henning ringing up from the lobby while you are still naked.
Obeying her inner nanny, she layered carefully in her Hanro thermals. The Swiss made the best undergarments. These were a wool-silk mix, very fine, and her heavenly Didi swore by them. Then a midnight blue rollneck jumper in medium-weight cashmere, pearls on the outside; a cream woollen skirt, pressed invincibly into tiny pleats that opened like a Japanese fan. It was uncrushable and fabulous for dancing; tight black knee-high boots with a flat heel (you never knew what you might have to run from in a strange city at night; plus there was black ice); her trusty crocodile bag.
Henning stood like a Christmas tree in the middle of the lobby in his herringbone coat, a flat woollen cap, a white silk scarf knotted tightly at his throat and a smile for Stevie.
‘What are you so happy about? This is a work mission.’
‘You look tremendous.’
Stevie frowned. ‘Thank you but that isn’t the idea. I’m blending in. Where’s Vadim?’
‘Buying cigarettes. There.’ Vadim strolled into the lobby. He would be essential for pointing out Petra, and anyone else Anya might have got close to. A brother’s questions were also less suspicious
‘Yes.’
Stevie replaced the violin with great care and closed the case. ‘I can recommend a man. His name is Constantine Dinov. He has done this many times before. In the meantime, I’m going to try to find out as much as I can about Anya and what happened so we can help Constantine get her back safely. That’s all the help I can offer, I’m sorry.’
Vadim glanced at his mother, then Stevie. ‘Just by agreeing to try, you are helping,’ he said. ‘You give us hope. Without hope you can’t live.’
Stevie bit her lip. ‘We need to go to that nightclub, Vadim. Tonight.’
In the night world of Moscow the real New Russia is revealed. The winter’s day is short and unconfident. It exists to provide gaps between nights. Daylight is the only sense of order that survives here. The night world is created and inhabited by the night people. These are the thrillseekers, the young, the very newly very rich, and those who serve them. They have been partying apocalyptically since 1993, when the Soviet Union deflated and all things changed beyond recognition.
The early years of freedom brought violence to the streets, assassinations, chaos; it injected energy into the existing desperation, celebratory hysteria, the uncertainty of utter hedonism. It created oligarchs and über criminals and vampire beauties to feed off them. Mostly the age was characterised by a complete lack of restraint. These qualities have remained intact.
Every traveller into the underworld needs a guide. As Dante had Virgil, so Stevie called on her two Italian friends, Diego and Iacopo.
She had met them on her first trip to Moscow and they could always be relied upon to find the best restaurant and the hippest club. Being Italian, they refused to adapt one iota to Russian ways and remained resolutely as they were. Even their tans stayed mysteriously summerish, as though Capri was just around the corner. Their cultural confidence was the root of their charm.
The restaurant Diego and Iacopo chose was called Sushi Fusion.
Henning was under strict instructions to remember anything of interest in the event Stevie got a little too drunk—which she wouldn’t—and not to leave her side. Bathroom breaks were excepted.
Back at the Metropole she had a raging hot bath and emerged bright pink and steaming. Moisturiser—Louis Widmer, because she liked the pink bottle and it smelt of her childhood—massaged into the body, was vital in very cold weather, in heated rooms, or you risked drying out like a twig. Scent, always applied when naked, a very little on the neck and the wrists. Her grandmother, who knew everything, said it should only be detectable when you were being kissed—‘hello’ that is, of course.
Hurry. Dress. You don’t want Henning ringing up from the lobby while you are still naked.
Obeying her inner nanny, she layered carefully in her Hanro thermals. The Swiss made the best undergarments. These were a wool-silk mix, very fine, and her heavenly Didi swore by them. Then a midnight blue rollneck jumper in medium-weight cashmere, pearls on the outside; a cream woollen skirt, pressed invincibly into tiny pleats that opened like a Japanese fan. It was uncrushable and fabulous for dancing; tight black knee-high boots with a flat heel (you never knew what you might have to run from in a strange city at night; plus there was black ice); her trusty crocodile bag.
Henning stood like a Christmas tree in the middle of the lobby in his herringbone coat, a flat woollen cap, a white silk scarf knotted tightly at his throat and a smile for Stevie.
‘What are you so happy about? This is a work mission.’
‘You look tremendous.’
Stevie frowned. ‘Thank you but that isn’t the idea. I’m blending in. Where’s Vadim?’
‘Buying cigarettes. There.’ Vadim strolled into the lobby. He would be essential for pointing out Petra, and anyone else Anya might have got close to. A brother’s questions were also less suspicious
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