Victor is making a real effort. He takes as much time as he possibly can. While he works, his driver chauffeurs me around the city and I do the sightseeing. Or I go and see people I don’t know, people Victor has arranged meetings with for me. I’m supposed to get to know the city and make as many contacts as possible. Some of the meetings are already proper job interviews. But in the end it’s always the same:
“Do you speak Russian?”
“No, a week ago I didn’t even know I was going to Russia.”
“Pity. Your CV is very good, but without Russian we can’t use you.”
By now I’m not so sure anymore whether I even want to move here. People on the street look grim. They never smile. In the offices it’s the same. Except that with the managers there’s a hefty portion of arrogance on top.
“And how was your day?” Victor asks in the evening, all caring.
“Not so good. I don’t think this city is for me. The people neither. Somehow I just don’t get along with Russians.”
“Nonsense!” Victor answers. “You just have to look behind the hard shell. There’s a soft core in there. And the women! Yes, they’re something special. Come on, let’s go for dinner first and then for a drink in a bar.”
That’s how it goes every evening since I arrived in Moscow. Victor takes me to one of the best restaurants in town. We eat and talk. At some point he starts flirting with the ladies at the next table, and after that it’s off to a bar with the girls. Strangely enough there are always loads of girls sitting in the restaurants, usually in twos over a pot of tea. Victor has practice. He closes the deal within a few minutes and brings them over to our table. I’m speechless. I feel naive. I have no idea what to do with the girl I’m supposed to be talking to, because most of them don’t speak English, and Victor soon loses his appetite for translating. In between he says things like: “Man, they’re both really hot for you. I told them you’re a DJ who lives in Spain. On an island.” Which is even true. Except that I’m not a professional DJ but the former manager of an internet outfit, and that the island isn’t exciting Ibiza but the pensioners’ paradise Tenerife. But how would Victor know?
“Which of the two do you want?”
That’s Victor’s standard question, and my answer is pretty much always the same: “Neither.” I don’t want to be difficult, but somehow the girls don’t do anything for me. I have a communication problem and I’ve slowly had enough of this city anyway.
“O.K., O.K. Then let’s go to a club tonight.” Finally, something different. Our driver takes us there. When we arrive, Bentleys, big dark SUVs and fat Mercedes limousines are already parked along the pavement.
“What’s going on here?” I ask, excited like a little kid outside a toy shop.
“That’s the Shambala, the best place in Moscow, and on top of that there’s a private party going on right now.”
“Do we have an invitation?”
“We don’t need one,” Victor answers, a little smug. We push our way past the crowd towards the door. Victor says hello, friendly. The guy at the door shakes his head and says something in Russian like “Sorry, we’ve got a private party tonight”. Victor reaches briefly into his coat pocket and shakes the bouncer’s hand. Now the guy nods in a friendly way and pushes the barrier aside. Victor pulls me by the jacket into a dark, run-down courtyard. On the left there’s a door, and you can already hear the bass thumping behind it. Yes, that sounds like a good party. Inside we head for the coat check. I’m surprised that neither the club nor the cloakroom costs anything.
“So how did you actually get us in?” I ask Victor. He grins and pulls a 1000-rouble note out of his jacket pocket before handing the jacket over.
“It was even cheaper than I thought. I’d reckoned on 2000 roubles.” That’s about fifty euros. “But in the end he let us both in for a thousand.”
That’s the Victor I know, the little rascal.
We go down the stairs. The club isn’t big, but there are two dance floors. One sits directly above the other and has a glass floor. It seems to be closed tonight. Downstairs the place is crawling with teenagers. In the whole club, it seems, nobody is older than 19, apart from the staff and a couple of bodyguards. Otherwise Victor and I, both over thirty, are the oldest people here.
“Rich kids,” Victor says. “No idea what the occasion is. Maybe a birthday, maybe a student party.”
“And the luxury cars outside? Who do they belong to?”
“The kids, of course. Man, you’re in Moscow. Come on, let’s get a drink. They’re free tonight. The rich kids are paying for those too. Enjoy it.”
Victor gets on with his favourite pastime and starts hitting on women. Or should I rather say “little girls”? I’m a bit bored, but only briefly, because then I notice two girls dancing on the glass floor above us. Both are stark naked. After a while you can’t really call it “dancing” anymore, because they’re playing with each other, stroking and kissing. And again and again they do the splits and press their vaginas against the glass. I must have been staring pretty hard, because after a while Victor comes over and asks: “What are you gawping at? That’s completely normal here. Come on, let’s go over to the stairs, we can see the show better from the side.”
“Are all the girls here shaved smooth?” I ask, while I watch them pushing Chupa Chups into each other.
“Yes, that’s the norm,” Victor answers, unfazed. One of the dancers flirts with me, but I’m not sure whether she means it or whether it’s part of her show.
When I turn around, Victor has already chatted up two more women.
“Hey, this is Chris from the Canaries,” he introduces me. “He’s a professional surfer and a DJ.”
Well, this time he almost got it right. I was a professional snowboarder once, and the equipment does look a bit like a surfboard.
“This is Nastia and Sveta,” he says. Neither of them is much older than 18, but they look very elegant. They’re not the typical suburban girls Victor usually drags over. And lo and behold, both speak English. After a while I find out that Nastia’s father is in the oil business and Sveta’s dad is a construction tycoon. I like the girls, and I’m already waiting for Victor’s “Which one do you want?” question. But then somebody pokes me from behind. I turn around: a girl is standing there. She’s beautiful, blonde shoulder-length hair, blue eyes. She must be in her early twenties. Somehow she doesn’t fit into this crowd, there’s something rural and naive about her. She’s got a cigarette in her hand and is clearly asking for a light, even though once again I don’t understand a word.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” I answer. She turns away. Somehow the girl looks familiar. As I try to get a better look at her, she grins at me and sticks a Chupa Chups in her mouth. I have to laugh and walk over to her. We try to exchange a few words, but she doesn’t speak a word of English. Hands and feet don’t get us any further either. I turn around to look for Victor, but he’s gone.
“Sorry, I have to find my friend for a second. Don’t run away,” I say. She smiles, embarrassed.
Victor is at the bar talking to another woman. “What happened to Nastia and Sveta?” I ask.
“They both cleared off pretty quickly when you went over to the blonde. They were only interested in you. But don’t worry, I’ve set up a date for Sunday. It’s R ‘n’ B Night at the Garage Club. That’s a good club too. Who was that blonde angel?”
“That was one of the strippers. Come on! Come with me. You have to translate. We’re taking those two home! And she’s still got her partner.”
“Hm, that’ll cost money,” Victor says.
“Really? You think? I’ve got a feeling it’ll work without.”
“Well, let’s see,” Victor says. But when we get to the corner where I left her, she’s gone.
“Oh well,” Victor says. “Somebody else was faster. Come on, let’s go home. I have to work tomorrow.” I’m disappointed, but on the way home I keep raving about the “Chupa Chups girl”. Today, for the first time, I liked Moscow.
