Ghostwritten (30 page)

“How long have you been working at the Hermitage, Margarita?”

“About a year now.”

“You must have some cozy contacts there.” Despite myself I liked her smile. She was being nosy, but only because she wanted to be friendly.

Margarita Latunsky can take girls like Tatyana in her stride. “You mean the head curator? Oh dear, have the Gutbucket herd been gossiping again?”

“I get the impression they’d gossip about grass growing in a ditch.”

“My relationship with the head curator is an open secret. But it started after I came. I got the job through some connections my—I have, in the city hall. There’s no harm. I’m single, and his marriage is not my problem.”

“I quite agree. We have a lot in common in our attitudes.”

“You said you were
Mrs
. Makuch?”

Tatyana made a whirlpool of cream in her coffee. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I can keep secrets very safe indeed.…”

“I tell people like Rogorshev that just to keep them off my back. The situation’s more complicated than that.…” I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. “So then, Margarita. Tell me about your life. I want to know everything.”

Eight hours later we were very drunk, at least I knew that I was, hunched over a back table at the Shamrock Pub on Dekabristov Street. A trio of Cubans were playing jazz snaky and slow, and there were man-high plants with rubbery leaves everywhere. The place was lit by candles, which is one of the scrimpiest ways to save money while pretending to be chic known to the entertainment business, and it occurred to me that whenever I was with Tatyana the light was bad. Tatyana knew a lot about jazz, and a lot about wine, which made me believe there was more money in her background
than she was letting on. She was also insisting on paying for everything. I refused three times, but Tatyana insisted four times, which came as something of a relief, I admit. I hate asking Rudi for money.

She knew a lot about a lot of things. A black man stood up on stage, and played a trumpet with a mute. Tatyana glowed, and I saw how beautiful she was. I imagined a deep tragedy in her past. I know from my own life, severe beauty can be a handicap. “More like Miles Davis than Miles Davis,” she murmured.

“Wasn’t he the first man to fly across the Atlantic?”

She hadn’t heard me. “The brassy sun lost behind the clouds.”

We were attracting a lot of attention from the men. As well we might. Tatyana was undoubtedly a rare creature in these climes, and for my part, well, you already know the caliber of man Margarita Latunsky draws hither. Even the trumpeter was giving me the eye over his shiny horn, I swear it. I wondered what it would be like to do it with a black man. Arabs and Orientals and Americans I’ve had dalliances with, yes, but never a black.

Three young couples came in and sat down near the front. They must have still been in their teens. The boys in borrowed suits, trying to look sophisticated. The girls, trying to look at ease. All of them looking awkward.

Tatyana nodded at the six. “Young love.” Her voice had a serrated edge.

“Wouldn’t you change places with them, if you could?”

“Why on Earth would I want to do that?”

“They look so fine, and young, and wrapped up in each other. Love is so fresh and clean at that age. Don’t you think?”

“Margarita! I’m surprised at you! We both know there’s no such thing as love.”

“What do you call it?”

Tatyana snuffed out her cigarette. That sly smile. “Mutations of wanting.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am quite serious. Look at those kids. The boys want to get the girls to bed so they can have the corks popped off their bottles, and gush forth. When a man blows his nose you don’t call it love.
Why get all misty-eyed when a man blows another part of his anatomy? As for the girls, they’re either going along for the ride because they can get things they want from their boys, or else maybe they enjoy being in bed too. Though I doubt it. I never knew an eighteen-year-old boy who didn’t drop the egg off his spoon at the first fence.”

“But that’s lust! You’re talking about lust, not love.”

“Lust is the hard sell. Love is the soft sell. The profit margin is exactly the same.”

“But love’s the opposite of self-interest. True, tender love is pure and selfless.”

“No. True, tender love is self-interest so sinewy that it only looks selfless.”

“I’ve known love—I know love—and it is giving and not taking. We’re not just animals.”

“We’re only animals. What does the head curator give to you?”

“I’m not talking about him.”

“Whoever. But think. Why do you think any man really loves you? If you’re honest with yourself, Margarita, the answer will be that he stands to gain in some way. Tell me. Why does he love you, and why do you love him back?”

I shook my head. “We’re talking about love. There is no ‘why.’ That’s the point.”

“There is always a ‘why,’ because there is always something that the beloved wants. It might be that he protects you. It might be that he makes you feel special. It might be that he is a way out, a route to some shining future away from the dreary now. It might be that he is the father of your unborn babies. Or it might be that he gives you prestige. Love is a big knot of ‘why’s.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m not saying anything’s wrong with it. History is made of people’s desires. But that’s why I smile when people get sentimental about this mysterious force of pure ‘love’ which they think they are steering. ‘Loving somebody’ means ‘wanting something.’ Love makes people do selfish, moronic, cruel, and inhumane things. You asked, would I like to change place with those kids? It
would be nice to steal their twenties off them, sure, if I could transmigrate into them with my present mind intact, but otherwise I’d rather change places with a terrier in the zoo. To be in love is to be at the mercy of your lover’s desires. If someone put a bullet through your lover, they’d be releasing you.”

I watched a horrible image of a bath plug being yanked from Rudi’s chest, and blood gushing out. “If someone put a bullet through my lover I would kill them.”

The pub is jumping around too much, and the music throbs in my eyes so they run. Tatyana says, “Let’s go outside,” and suddenly we are, and I’ve been swept over a waterfall and down I plummet into the late light. The streets are filled with shadows and brightness and footsteps and candy-colors and tramlines and swallows. I’ve never noticed the windows above the Glinka Capella, how graceful they are. What are those things called? Jerome would know. Flying buttresses? The stars are not quite there tonight. A light is moving among them. A comet, or an angel, or the last decrepit Soviet space station falling down to Earth? Some passersby look at me askance, so I straighten myself up to show them I can walk straight, and the neck of a lamppost swings down like a giraffe’s. One of the office lights is on. Somebody is being wanted by the head curator, but it’s not me, and it’s not Tatyana, not tonight. We walk past a dark car. “Oy, love, how much for the pair of you?” I spit at the window and summon up my foulest curses, but Tatyana whisks me onwards.

“Come on,” says Tatyana, “let’s go back to my place for some coffee. I can make us some hot dogs. I’ll squeeze some sweet mustard onto yours, if you’re a good Margarita.” Everywhere I look, you could frame it and just by doing that you’d have a picture. Not a Jerome picture. A real picture, more real than the ones we steal. Even they are just copies. Jerome’s are copies of copies. That boy’s head. The wishing well. All those girls in green eyeshadow and apricot blusher, being herded into the back of the police van, whisked off to the cop shop, to be fined fifteen dollars before being released. They’ll have to work extra hard for the rest of the night to make up for lost time. This is where the tsar was
blown up, my mother told me a long time ago, and I say it now to Tatyana, but Tatyana didn’t hear me, because my words forgot their names. The firecrackers going off in a distant quarter, or might they be gunshots? That would be a good picture. The car with bricks for wheels. The shape of the factory roof, and the chimney, sooty bricks, a picture made of sooty bricks. The horse running down an alley, how did the horse get off its pedestal? A boy with dinosaur fin-hair sways past on roller blades. A tramp with his bag of newspapers for a pillow on the bench. Tourists in their bright “mug me” shirts, the canals and the domes and the crosses and the sickles and, ah … even the mud by the river …

I breathe because I can’t not. I love Rudi because I can’t not.

“Tatyana,” I say, leaning over the railings and looking into the water. “You’re wrong.”

“Not far,” her voice says. “Can you get there?”

A police boat moves down the river. Its red and blue lights are beautiful.

All I remember about Tatyana’s flat is a sober clock, which dropped tocks like pebbles down a deep shaft. Things gleamed, and swung, and Tatyana was close, saying she wanted something, she was warm, and I didn’t want to leave for a while. At one point I remember that today is my birthday, and I try to tell Tatyana, but I’ve already forgotten what it was I wanted to say. I remember Tatyana loading me into a taxi and her telling the taxi driver my address as she pays him.

Rudi was home when I got back. It was about three in the morning. I hesitated for a moment before going in. He’ll want to know where I’ve been. I can safely tell him about Tatyana. He shouldn’t mind. He can even check up on her if he wants to, though of course he trusts me completely.

I turned the key, opened the door, and had the shock of my life to find Rudi standing in the hallway in his boxer shorts and socks, pointing his gun at me. A pump of adrenalin flushed my wooziness away. The bathroom light was on behind him and a tap was running. He tutted, and lowered it.

“You’re a naughty kitten, Margarita. You didn’t use the code. I’m disappointed.”

Nemya bounded across the hallway and arched herself around my calf, shoving my leg in the direction of the kitchen. “Darling, I didn’t use the code because I live here.”

“How was I supposed to know that you weren’t the police?”

I didn’t have an answer. I never do with Rudi. But he was in a calm frame of mind: he hadn’t shouted at me yet. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. Most of us make mistakes from time to time. But kitten, don’t make this one again, or you might cause an accident. Come in, come in. You’re late back, aren’t you? I was getting worried. There’s a lot of nasty doggies out there that could eat up a little kitten.”

“I’ve been out with a colleague from work—she’s called Tatyana, and—” I began to explain but Rudi didn’t seem to be interested. In the living room was a big bunch of roses, red and yellow and pink ones.

“Rudi! Are they for me?”

Rudi smiled, and I melted. He remembered my birthday! For the first time in our three years! “Of course they are, kitten. Who else would I be buying flowers for now, hey?” He came over and kissed me on my forehead. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth to kiss him full on the lips, but he’d already turned away. Rudi had forgotten to put any water in the vase, so I carried them through to the kitchen. They had a beautiful scent. A garden from long ago.

“I have a small favor to ask,” Rudi called through. “I know you won’t mind.”

“Oh?”

“I have a business partner coming to town for a short time. Actually he’s a friend of Gregorski’s. Very high up in all the right international circles. He’s from Mongolia. Runs the place, virtually. He needs somewhere to stay.”

“And?”

“I thought the spare room would suit him.”

I watched the water brimming over the top of the vase. “If he runs Mongolia, why can’t Gregorski put him in a penthouse?” I ignored Nemya, who was reminding me that she had claws.

“Because then the police could keep tabs on him. He runs Mongolia unofficially. Even Mongolians have to pretend to have elections to get loans.”

“So you want me to put up a criminal? I thought we’d left those days behind.”

“We have, kitten, we have! I’m just doing a friend a favor!”

“Why not go the whole hog and open up a flophouse for junkie pyromaniacs?”

“For Christ’s sake don’t overreact! I keep boxes of merchandise in the spare room: where’s the difference? And he’s not a criminal. He’s an official with enough high-level contacts to not be searched at the border beyond Irkutsk. Helsinki’s off, by the way. Gregorski’s found a buyer in Beijing. Our friend will be taking the Delacroix back. The less evidence of his tracks the better.”

“Why doesn’t Gregorski just buy the police off like he always does?”

“Because Gregorski only holds sway at the Finnish and Latvian borders. He can’t trust his usual channels as far east as Siberia. He can only trust me, and us. Kitten …”—I felt Rudi’s arms slide around my stomach—“let’s not argue.… It’s for our future.…” His thumb wormed into my navel. “This is where our baby’s going to be one day.…” He nuzzled his face into my neck, and I tried to stay cross. “Babe, kitten, baby kitten … I know it’s a lot to ask, but we’re so close now. I’ve been thinking, about what you were saying earlier, at Jerome’s. About Austria. You’re quite right, you know. We should get out while the going’s good. I apologize for flying off the handle. I hate myself afterwards. You know that. It’s the stress. I know you understand. I sometimes lash out at the things that are most precious to me. I hate myself sometimes,” Rudi was murmuring. “Look at me. Look at me. Look at how much this stupid man adores you.…”

I turned and looked into his beautiful young eyes. I see how much.

“Guess where I went today, kitten. To the travel agents, to check ticket prices to Zurich.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. They were closed, because of the holiday. But I went.
And I’m not going to have that greasy curator bastard insult my kitten no more. Once we’ve gone, Margarita, his life is in your hands. Just one word from you, and I’ll have someone press the button on him. I swear on the Virgin Mary Mother.”

See? Tatyana was wrong. Rudi wants to make me happy. He’s going to give everything up, for us. How could I have doubted him, even for a moment? We kissed, long and hard. I whispered, “Rudi, you are the best present I’ve ever had on my birthday.…”