than a stranger’s.
With Moscow restaurants, one never quite knows what to expect. Sushi Fusion was painted a lacquer black, the ceilings red, like an enormous bento box. A bar dimly lit ran the length of one wall. As the three of them disrobed in the entrance and handed in their coats, a family with two young children was being seated.
Sweet, thought Stevie, a little family evening in such a mad city.
She sometimes forgot children existed in Moscow. She so rarely saw any.
Four go-go dancers were gyrating on the bar in feather bikinis, sequined hotpants and over-the-knee boots. Three had long blonde hair that they flicked about like whips with a crack of their necks. A fourth had short dark hair and a severe mouth.
It was an odd combination: family restaurant (Stevie added a couple of grandmothers at a far table to the children) and erotic dance bar. But, she supposed, these were Moscow rules: anything goes.
Sitting at their table, Stevie watched the dancers. It was the hips and breasts that moved, not the feet. That’s how they could dance without falling off. The girls had incredible bodies but no one else in the room appeared to be watching with any interest—not the two children, not Vadim.
He smoked and stared at his glass of rum and coke. The cold air outside had angered the scar over his eye; it stood out livid in his pale face. Stevie wanted to ask what had happened but now was not the time.
Iacopo and Diego arrived with a burst of energy. Iacopo launched into a ridiculous tale of a recent trip to Kazakhstan, involving deep fog, a frozen Kazakh forest and a skidoo running out of petrol. He and Diego worked for a large Italian company that distributed ceramic products all over the former Soviet Union. Basically, their job was to go to the ends of the earth and sell toilet bowls. A sense of humour was vital to the work.
The two spoke absolutely no Russian. They would just speak Italian, gesture as they would among friends, and they made themselves perfectly understood—most of the time.
As she suspected, Diego and Iacopo knew everything there was to know about the model competition run by Zima.
‘Every month they do big promotion night.’ Diego spoke in his waterfall English for Vadim’s benefit. ‘It bring all the girls from everywhere who want to be a model—Almaty, San Pietroburgo, Nizny Novgorod—’
‘And all the men to see them. It is always so so full model night,’ Iacopo added.
‘They take a spotlight. They have these guys who look at the faces—’
‘—All the girl dancing, laughing—’
‘—and they pick them. They put the spotlight like this,’ Diego made a startled face, the girl caught by the light, ‘and they take pictures and the girls go up on palco scenico —’
‘—the stage. They do the walking, then they pick the ten best girls. Everyone is taking pictures for promotion.’
‘Then they pick the winning girl, the most beautiful.’
‘What does the girl win?’ Stevie took a sip of her warm sake.
‘She goes with Top Faces agency to New York.’ Iacopo took charge of the sake bottle and refilled everyone’s cups. ‘They have an agent here.
He goes to the club to choose the girls.’
‘The girls are desperate to win. They are very beautiful— il viso della Madonna— the face of a Madonna—but no expression. So cold.’ Diego shivered theatrically. ‘They are good for looking.’
‘Do they keep pictures of the girls anywhere?’
‘Ah si . They have a big wall in the VIP room, all the photos of the girls.’
‘So,’ Stevie downed her sake and smiled. ‘When are we going?’
The crowd outside Zima was huge, a bustling black mass. To get from the car to the entrance, they had to trudge along a wide alleyway of trees, through knee-deep snow. It would not do for the face control—as bouncers are called in Moscow—to see them arrive in their shoddy car. Fortunately Diego and Iacopo had made quite an impression on the head face control (their
With Moscow restaurants, one never quite knows what to expect. Sushi Fusion was painted a lacquer black, the ceilings red, like an enormous bento box. A bar dimly lit ran the length of one wall. As the three of them disrobed in the entrance and handed in their coats, a family with two young children was being seated.
Sweet, thought Stevie, a little family evening in such a mad city.
She sometimes forgot children existed in Moscow. She so rarely saw any.
Four go-go dancers were gyrating on the bar in feather bikinis, sequined hotpants and over-the-knee boots. Three had long blonde hair that they flicked about like whips with a crack of their necks. A fourth had short dark hair and a severe mouth.
It was an odd combination: family restaurant (Stevie added a couple of grandmothers at a far table to the children) and erotic dance bar. But, she supposed, these were Moscow rules: anything goes.
Sitting at their table, Stevie watched the dancers. It was the hips and breasts that moved, not the feet. That’s how they could dance without falling off. The girls had incredible bodies but no one else in the room appeared to be watching with any interest—not the two children, not Vadim.
He smoked and stared at his glass of rum and coke. The cold air outside had angered the scar over his eye; it stood out livid in his pale face. Stevie wanted to ask what had happened but now was not the time.
Iacopo and Diego arrived with a burst of energy. Iacopo launched into a ridiculous tale of a recent trip to Kazakhstan, involving deep fog, a frozen Kazakh forest and a skidoo running out of petrol. He and Diego worked for a large Italian company that distributed ceramic products all over the former Soviet Union. Basically, their job was to go to the ends of the earth and sell toilet bowls. A sense of humour was vital to the work.
The two spoke absolutely no Russian. They would just speak Italian, gesture as they would among friends, and they made themselves perfectly understood—most of the time.
As she suspected, Diego and Iacopo knew everything there was to know about the model competition run by Zima.
‘Every month they do big promotion night.’ Diego spoke in his waterfall English for Vadim’s benefit. ‘It bring all the girls from everywhere who want to be a model—Almaty, San Pietroburgo, Nizny Novgorod—’
‘And all the men to see them. It is always so so full model night,’ Iacopo added.
‘They take a spotlight. They have these guys who look at the faces—’
‘—All the girl dancing, laughing—’
‘—and they pick them. They put the spotlight like this,’ Diego made a startled face, the girl caught by the light, ‘and they take pictures and the girls go up on palco scenico —’
‘—the stage. They do the walking, then they pick the ten best girls. Everyone is taking pictures for promotion.’
‘Then they pick the winning girl, the most beautiful.’
‘What does the girl win?’ Stevie took a sip of her warm sake.
‘She goes with Top Faces agency to New York.’ Iacopo took charge of the sake bottle and refilled everyone’s cups. ‘They have an agent here.
He goes to the club to choose the girls.’
‘The girls are desperate to win. They are very beautiful— il viso della Madonna— the face of a Madonna—but no expression. So cold.’ Diego shivered theatrically. ‘They are good for looking.’
‘Do they keep pictures of the girls anywhere?’
‘Ah si . They have a big wall in the VIP room, all the photos of the girls.’
‘So,’ Stevie downed her sake and smiled. ‘When are we going?’
The crowd outside Zima was huge, a bustling black mass. To get from the car to the entrance, they had to trudge along a wide alleyway of trees, through knee-deep snow. It would not do for the face control—as bouncers are called in Moscow—to see them arrive in their shoddy car. Fortunately Diego and Iacopo had made quite an impression on the head face control (their
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