Ghostwritten (28 page)

But sometimes, I wonder if much has changed at all, since Scumbag Gorbachev. Sure, for the common people, their floorboards rotted through and down they fell. At the top, I mean. The same people who shredded their Party membership cards now wheel out the democracy bullshit slogans by the steaming cartload—“flair and verve in the strategizing stages,” “originality in capital manipulation,” “streamlining and restructuring.” The letters I type out for Head Curator Rogorshev are full of it. But really, where’s the difference? It is now what it’s always been. Recognizing the real but invisible goalposts, and using whatever means are at your disposal to score. These means might be in a bank vault in Geneva, in a hard disk in Hong Kong, encased in your skull or in the cups of your bra. No, nothing’s changed. You used to pay off your local Party thug, now you pay off your local mafia thug. The old Party used to lie, and lie, and lie some more. Now our democratically elected government lies, and lies, and lies some more. The people used to want things, and were told, work and wait for twenty years, and then maybe it’ll be your turn. The
people still want things, and are told, work, and wait for twenty years, and then maybe it’ll be your turn. Where’s the difference?

I’m going to tell you a secret. Everything is about wanting. Everything. Things happen because of people wanting. Watch closely, and you’ll see what I mean.

But like I said, I’m not a political woman. The things you think of, sitting here.

I recognized Head Curator Rogorshev’s footsteps striding down the corridor outside—with the footsteps of a woman. I heard him telling her the same jokes he had told me months before while I was seducing him, and I heard her laughter flutter, just like mine had. It’s a very special talent that men have, to possess seeing eyes yet be so blind.

“And here,” Head Curator Rogorshev said, wheeling a tall leggy woman into my gallery, “you’ll doubtless recognize
Eve and the Serpent
by Lemuel Delacroix.” He winked clumsily at me, like I couldn’t see what was going on.

She was repulsed by the head curator—a sign of good taste—but she hid it well. Western clothing, French boots, an Italian handbag. Dark, a touch of Arabia in the shape of her eyes. Thirty or thirty-one, but to men like Rogorshev she would look younger. No eyeshadow, rouge, or foundation, but well-chosen mulberry lipstick. Interesting. I had a rival. Good.

“Ms. Latunsky, this is Tatyana Makuch. Tatyana will be with us on release from the Stanislow Art Museum in Warsaw for the next six weeks. We’re very lucky to have her.”

Tatyana walked over to me, her boots creaking slightly. I stood up. We were the same height. We looked into one another’s eyes, and shook hands slowly. Blue.

“Charmed,” I said. “Truly.”

“Delighted,” she replied. “Sincerely.” What a rich voice. Polish-flavored Russian. Coffee with chocolate in it.

“Head Curator Rogorshev,” I said without looking at him, “shall I still come to your office at the usual time this evening? Or will Miss Makuch be taking over your personal dictations from now on?”

Tatyana spoke first, with just the right half-smile. “It’s
Mrs
. Makuch. And I’m afraid my talents don’t extend to secretarial skills.”

She was good. She was very good.

“It’s all right, Ms. Latunsky,” Head Curator Rogorshev was saying to me, as if he had any say in the matter. “Please come at the usual hour. I have some important dispatches I wish to make—” God, he spreads it on thick—“and I know only you can perform to my satisfaction.” He got his lines from lunchtime dramas. “Please come along now, Mrs. Makuch, we must complete our whirlwind tour before the clock strikes six and I turn into a werewolf!”

“We’ll be seeing each other,” Tatyana said.

“We will be.”

A quarter to six. We were shooing out the lingerers. The rain won’t stop and the minutes won’t leave. Head Curator Rogorshev will be prettying himself up in his private washroom now. Not many men get to manicure their own corpse. A cigarette would be nice. Jesus Christ, the sooner Rudi and I get out of this damned place the better. I say to Rudi, “Look! Let’s just bag ten whoppers in one night! Some Picassos, some Cézannes, some El Grecos, and in seventy-two hours we could be shopping for chalets in Switzerland on the money we’ve already got, and sell off pieces of the golden goose year by year.” Lakes, yachts, waterskiing in the summer. I’ve already designed my boudoir. I’m going to have a full-length leopard-skin coat. The locals will call me the White Russian Lady, and all the women will be jealous and warn their cheese-making financier husbands against me. But they won’t need to worry. I’ll have Rudi. Away from all the distractions of the lowlife here, I know he’ll straighten out. When the weather is warm, he’ll teach our children to swim, and when it’s cold we’ll all go skiing. As a family.

“Let’s do it! Gregorski can get the visas ready,” I say. “It’s so simple!”

“It’s not simple at all!” he says. “Forget the fact you’re a woman and use your brain! The reason it’s worked so far is that
we haven’t been greedy. If we lift pictures at a faster rate than Jerome can replace them, people notice they are missing! And for every single picture that is missing, multiply by ten the number of pigs Interpol puts on the case! Multiply by twenty the payoffs I have to dish out! Multiply by thirty the difficulty I have in finding buyers! And multiply by fifty the years we’ll get in the slammer!”

“It’s all very well for you to lecture me in arithmetic; it’s not you who has to get skewered by that bald porker every week!”

Then Rudi really bawls me out and, if he’s been drinking, slaps me about a bit, just a bit, because of the drink, and he storms out and goes for a drive and I might not see him for a couple of days. He’s under a lot of pressure.

“I love you!” yells Head Curator Rogorshev, jockeying up and down with my bra strap wrapped around his windpipe. “Rabbit’s coming! Oh, gobble me and be spliced, my fairy cake. I gobble you and devour you! Bunny’s coming! Destroy me, my whore, my master, I love you!”

I know he’s imagining I’m Tatyana. That’s fine. I make it tolerable by imagining he is Rudi. I hope he’ll finish soon so I can have a cigarette. I’ll steal some of his Cuban cigars for Rudi, to impress his business contacts. I wrap my legs around his hippo girth to hasten the end. He groans like a kid on an out-of-control go-cart hurtling down a hill, and mercifully soon comes the hanged-man gasp and the legs on his eighteenth-century chaise longue stop squeaking.

“God, my God, I love you.” He kisses the flat bone between my breasts. For a moment I wonder if he means it, whether there is an alchemy that turns lust to love. “You’re not jealous of Tatyana, are you? She could never replace you, you know, Margarita, my love.…”

I blow a smoke ring and watch it spinning into the corners of his office, where the evening is thickening. I imagine a circle of wild swans and pat his toupee-less pate. He doesn’t even bother to take his socks off these days. His portrait—farcically flattering—stares down from behind the desk. Quite the man of destiny.

All alchemists were frauds and liars, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll
work on Rudi. He doesn’t know it yet but we’ll be spending Christmas in Zurich.

Head Curator Rogorshev always leaves first. He showers in his private office bathroom so his wife can pretend nothing is happening, and I might do a little paperwork for the sake of appearances. I hear him, singing and shampooing me down the plug hole. He puts on a new shirt, kisses me to show me he cares, and goes off. I might do some invoicing for Rudi’s cleaning company, or make Jerome out a new pass, or some free passes for Rudi’s clients. Or I might just stare out of the window at the cupolas of St. Andrew’s Cathedral. I usually leave around 7:30. Jerome wants the guards to stay used to seeing me around after hours.

“Nothing to declare tonight?” The head of security at the staff exit grins his buttery grin. I wish I could be around to see it dribble off his chin when the shit explodes. He knows about my affair with Rogorshev, and has the hots for me himself. Of course, it’s a part of the plan for everyone to know. He body-searches me! Me, Margarita Latunsky! Him, an ex-army malingerer who thinks shiny badges and a walkie-talkie make him Rambo. I feel his hands lingering longer than they should. I think of ways I could incriminate him from Zurich.

“No, Chief,” I demur, a wary little stray, “no stolen masterpieces tonight.”

“Good girl. The floor polishers are due.…”

“Not for three weeks. Three weeks today. 9:30
P.M.”

“Three weeks today.” He ticks a clipboard and waves me through. I feel his eyes pucker my body as I walk away. He is repulsive, but I can’t blame him. I’ve always had this mystical allure to men.

In the winter, I take the metro. Otherwise, I prefer to walk. If the weather’s fine I walk up to the Troisky Bridge, and then cross the Mars Fields, where the women wait. But if it’s raining I walk down Nevsky Prospect, a street of ghosts if there ever was one. Jerome says that every city has its street of ghosts. Past the
Stroganov Palace and the Kazan Cathedral. Past the Aeroflot offices, and the scrubby Armenian Café. Past the flat where I made love to my Politburo member. It’s been turned into an American Express office now. All these new shops, Benetton, the Häagen-Dazs shop, Nike, Burger King, a shop that sells nothing but camera film and key-rings, another that sells Swatches and Rolexes. High streets are becoming the same all over the world, I suppose. In the subway is an orderly row of beggars and buskers. I buy a pack of cigarettes from a kiosk, and a little bottle of vodka. Surely buskers in no other city on Earth can hold a candle to ours. A saxophonist, a string quartet, a wisp of a woman playing a didgeridoo, and a Ukrainian choir all competing for spare roubles. Sometimes I give money to the priests. I don’t know why, they’ve never given anything to me. The beggars often hold cards on which is written their own particular sob story, often with translations in different languages. Only visitors to the city bother to read them. Petersburg is built of sob stories, pile-driven down into the mud.

Go over the Anchikov Bridge and turn left. Mine is four down. Through the heavy iron door, past the cabin where the porter is sleeping—a quick look in my mailbox where, to my surprise, there’s a letter from my dear, ailing sister—across the weedy courtyard and up three flights of stairs. If Rudi’s at home the TV is turned up loud. Rudi can’t abide silence. Tonight it’s all quiet. We had the little disagreement about our leaving date yesterday evening, so he’s decided to concentrate on business for a little, I suppose. That’s fine. I cook the fish that I bought for our dinner, and leave him half in the pot in case he comes home later. He’s never away for more than one or two nights. Not usually.

The White Nights are here. Bluish midnight dims to indigo at about two. The sun will rise again a little later without pomp. I stay in my living room and think about the past and about Switzerland. This is where my admiral and I made love. Under this very window. He used to tell me stories of the ocean, Sakhalin, the White Sea, submarines under the ice. We watched the stars come out. I pile the washing-up in the sink and light a mosquito coil. I put the Cuban cigars in Rudi’s coat pocket so he’ll
find them and think about me. I can hear jazz playing somewhere. There was a time when I would have gone and found it and danced and been admired, desired. Men’s faces shone. They vied for the next dance.

I light another cigarette and pour myself a brandy. Just a small one, and not the best bottle. Rudi needs that for when his business partners come over for meetings. I set fire to my sister’s letter, unopened, and lay it in the ashtray. That’ll teach her. Sipping my brandy I watch the front of flame turn the bitch’s words into a ribbon of smoke. Rise, spiral, and disappear, up, and up, and up.

The jazz has stopped. Rudi still isn’t home. Little Nemya, fed and happy, comes and curls up on my lap, falling asleep as I tell her my troubles.

————

Jerome is making tea. His movements are clockwork, like a butler’s. Rudi is late again. Rudi is usually late by three quarters of an hour. It’s a beautiful summer’s day around lunchtime, and the streets and parks of Vasilevsky Island are shimmering in the heat as though underwater.

“What gives the tea that smell?”

Jerome thinks for a moment. “I don’t know the Russian for it. In English it’s called ‘bergamot.’ It’s the rind of a species of citrus.”

I just say, “I see. Nice teacup.”

Jerome hands me a cup, on a saucer, and sits down. His Russian is fluent, but I never know what to say to him. “This bone china is a last surviving luxury,” he says, “real Wedgwood. It should be worth a lot, but since your civilization fell into its own basement bin I probably couldn’t even get a tin of tuna for it. Don’t drop it.”

“I’ve never broken a beautiful thing in my life,” I tell him.

“I’m sure that might be true. Anyway,” Jerome stands up again, “since our
nouveau riche
Robert De Niro has better things to do, allow me to give you a private view of my handiwork.” He goes into the next room, his studio, and I hear things being
shunted across the floorboards. A camphor tree swims in the sun in the little park next to St. Andrew’s Cathedral. Over the Leytenanta Bridge on Angliyaskaya Embankment a new Holiday Inn is being constructed. Today is Heroes’ Day, so nobody is on the scaffolding. I hear a sports car being revved to a roar and a sudden screech of brakes.

“Ah,” Jerome calls through. “Sounds like Rudi.”

Jerome’s apartment is sparse, in a not unpleasant part of the city. Not as well situated as mine, of course. On stuffy days when the wind is from the north you can smell the chemical factory, but other than that it’s not so bad. It’s bigger than my apartment, if you include his studio—though he never lets anyone into his studio. The living room is dominated by the largest liquor cabinet I’ve ever heard of. It dominates the room like a cathedral altar in a country chapel. Apparently it was a present from Leonid Brezhnev. Jerome keeps the place tidier than a woman would. But Jerome has never had a woman here, or anywhere else, I imagine. I wonder if all English men are so orderly, or whether it’s only English queers. Jerome was a spy in the Cold War. He used to lecture in art history at Cambridge University. Moscow hasn’t paid his war pension for six or seven years now, and he’s wanted for treason in Britain, so he’s scuppered. He always talks about selling his memoirs, but ex-spies trying to flog their stories are two-a-rouble these days. His only marketable talent is his ability to paint copies of masterpieces. That’s why he’s a member of our circle. I notice a shiny, maroon flying jacket that could not possibly belong to tall, spindly Jerome. I need a cigarette, so I light one. There’s nothing to use as an ashtray, so I have to use the saucer. From a nearby room I can hear a piano.