Two days later. We’re meeting the two rich kids from the Shambala for R ‘n’ B night at the Garage Club. Outside the door there are extraordinary cars again. This time they look like they’ve driven straight out of a Playstation game. Japanese and American street racers, pimped to within an inch of their lives. Almost all of them are sprayed in custom colours, some decorated with elaborate airbrush artwork. It’s cold outside and there’s snow on the ground. Hip-hop is blaring out of the cars, the doors are open, and standing around them are the owners of the other cars and hot girls in far too little clothing. Inside the club things are still quiet; apparently the warm-up happens out on the street. Victor’s friend is an estate agent and one of the owners of the club. We sit at a table with him and talk about the wild nineties in Moscow. Until a few years ago Victor’s friend was the Red Bull distributor in Russia. He tells us how he came home one day to find his front door broken open. Inside the flat a few heavies were waiting for him and politely asked him to sign the distribution of the energy drink over to them.
“That was the mafia,” he says. There was no point in resisting – he signed. Now he has a better “krysha”, Victor’s friend says.
“Krysha?” I ask.
“It means ‘roof’, and what’s meant by it is protection,” Victor explains. “You can have two kinds of ‘krysha’: the secret service, which used to be the KGB and is called the FSB today. Or the mafia. Best of all is to have contacts with both. You need a ‘krysha’ if you want to do business.”
“From what size upwards?” I ask.
“I’d say you appear on their radar, usually via the tax authorities or your competitors, once you’re doing more than 250,000 dollars in annual turnover. Below that you’re too small a fish for them and they leave you alone, unless you get in the way of one of their protégés.”
“Interesting. What does that look like in practice?”
“It’s like a tax. You hand over a certain percentage of your profit or turnover. Sometimes it’s the whole business, if it interferes with their activities or if it’s very profitable.”
Victor’s friend adds: “A guy I know invested in a CT scanner in a town 300 kilometres outside Moscow. It was the only machine for miles around and turned into a gold mine. It didn’t take long before word got around and the mafia was standing at his door. They simply took the thing off him. Thank God the machine ran long enough to earn back what it had cost. So he didn’t lose money, but he didn’t make any either.”
Then our two girls finally join us at the table. They move as gracefully as models, and I wonder how many hours they must have practised that in front of the mirror. Victor’s friend says his goodbyes. He has to get home to his wife, he says. Nastia and Sveta look even better than they did a few days ago. We order a few drinks and talk. Unfortunately the conversation is shallow, arrogant and simply too vacuous for me. We only met briefly at the Shambala, but the girls were completely different there. It must have been the alcohol – either my level or theirs. After a while the babbling gets too stupid for me. I decide to slip away to the bar. Firstly to get a drink, but maybe I’ll also find better company there. The club is slowly filling up, but apparently it’s still too early. Well, it’s half past midnight on a Sunday night. What do you expect? Victor said the club is packed from one. We’ll see.
“Barman! Another vodka Red Bull, please.” Two women are sitting at the bar. A dark blonde with a good figure and a bob, and a small brown-haired one with slightly Asian eyes. Should I talk to them? Nah, something better is bound to come along. The barman puts my drink on the bar and then talks to the girls. They seem to be friends. I decide to keep pretending for a while that I’m waiting for my drink. I simply can’t go back to our table.
Suddenly Victor is standing in front of me.
“Man! These women are so stupid. It’s just not on.”
I nod.
“What about these two here?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders, uninterested, but Victor doesn’t even wait for my answer before he starts talking to them. I can already imagine the nonsense he’s spouting. This is Chris, superstar, DJ, helicopter pilot and so on. After five minutes he turns to me: “They’re two ballerinas from the Bolshoi Theatre. Great, right? Which of the two do you want?”
“If it has to be, I’ll take the blonde,” I answer grumpily. The endless chatting-up is slowly getting on my nerves. The brown-haired one, I find out, is called Lili and is the daughter of one of the biggest mafia bosses in Russia. Lili isn’t particularly tall and is a bit more solidly built; at first glance you wouldn’t think she dances with the best ballet company in the world. She has a Russian pop star for a boyfriend and belongs to Moscow’s better society.
Victor grabs my hand and pushes me towards the blonde. “This is Julia, she’s a ballerina at the Bolshoi too.”
He says it as proudly as if he’d known Julia since childhood. We introduce ourselves and shake hands.
“So, ballerina at the Bolshoi. Is that a big deal?” I ask. She sets me straight immediately: “The Bolshoi is the best ballet in the world.”
“They’re stars!” Victor adds.
“Ah, sorry. I’m a philistine.” She takes it in her stride. Then I add casually: “But I did have a ballerina as a girlfriend once. Back in New York. She was with Alvin Ailey, though that’s more modern dance.”
Victor notices that the two rich brats have moved on. “Shall we sit down at the table again?” he asks. The two girls are interested and come along. Then we talk for the rest of the night.
Julia is interesting, and at first I didn’t even notice what a fantastic body she has. She’s 24 and has been dancing at the Bolshoi since she was young. Her mother was a prima ballerina herself and trains her now. Her stepfather was the director of the Bolshoi, but he’s already retired. On top of that, Julia danced in Valencia for six years before coming back.
“What? You came from Spain to Moscow voluntarily?” I ask.
“Like I said: the Bolshoi is the best company in the world, and Moscow happens to be my home town. I wanted to come back, but these days I sometimes regret it. Maybe I’d be happier in Spain.”
As it turns out, Julia speaks very good English and fluent Spanish.
“The manager here is a friend of ours,” she explains. “We’re here almost every Sunday, because we have to dance over the weekend. Monday is our day off.”
“Ah, that works out well. I’m working tomorrow, and Chris flies back on Wednesday. He could use an English-speaking tour guide,” Victor says.
Julia isn’t so enthusiastic about the idea: “We’ll see. Maybe,” is all she answers.
Around three in the morning it’s time to go home. Lili has her own driver, waiting outside in a black BMW 6 Series. Julia accepts Victor’s offer of a lift home. He sits up front with his driver while I talk to Julia in the back. “Will I see you again before I leave?” I ask carefully.
“Here’s my number, call me tomorrow and then we’ll see.”
When we get there I climb out first and open her door. She likes that, and gives me a little kiss on the cheek as we say goodbye. After that we drive on to Victor’s, and I tap out a goodnight text to her. She doesn’t reply.
“So, what do you make of her?” Victor asks.
“At first I wasn’t interested at all. But once I’d talked to her I noticed how beautiful and charming she is. And intelligent on top of that. Great woman!”
“Well, well. Somebody’s smitten, hm?” comes back from Victor.
“Smitten? That would be overstating it. But she definitely impressed me, and she’s the best girl I’ve met in Moscow so far.”
“Well, maybe your Moscow one-night stand will happen after all …”
“Not so sure. She said she has a boyfriend.”
“That doesn’t mean much here,” Victor replies.
The next day I call Julia, but she doesn’t pick up. After three attempts I give up, I don’t want to be pushy. In the evening Victor is more disappointed than I am. He desperately wants me to have sex before I fly back to Spain. Somehow I get the feeling he’s looking for a friend to roam the city with and pick up women. Which is why it would suit him quite well if I had a reason to come back to Moscow. I’m not so sure, though, whether a one-night stand would be reason enough to move to this dreadful city. I used to compare New York to Sodom and Gomorrah, but Moscow seems a thousand times worse and far more decadent.
The next day I text Julia again. I really would like to see her before I fly back. During the day, though, there’s radio silence. I’m disappointed. Maybe Victor is even right that I’m a bit smitten. When Victor finally gets in from work we go to a sushi restaurant. On the way he calls Lili and tries to invite them both. When he hangs up, he grins: “They’re still dancing, but we’ll meet them after their performance and go for a drink.”
I’m happy and start thinking about how to play this. Around eleven we meet the girls in a bar. I flirt with Julia like a world champion, and it works. First she takes my hand, then we get closer. When Lili wants to leave, Victor takes the initiative and invites them both back to his place. Lili and Julia come along. Back home we carry on drinking. Victor keeps Lili entertained so she doesn’t leave too early. When Julia and I finally kiss, Lili goes home and Victor goes to bed. At last we have time for ourselves. We stay up all night! We have sex, and it’s the best in a long time. Afterwards we lie in bed together and talk. When I hold Julia in my arms, I can feel energy flowing between us. It goes so far that we both start to shake and then press ourselves even tighter together.
At eight she has to go: “I have to be at training at ten and go home first to get ready.”
“Will you manage?” I ask with a guilty conscience.
“I’ll have to, but it was worth it,” Julia purrs contentedly, and we say goodbye with a long kiss. Then I pack my things. While I’m doing that, Victor comes out of the bedroom.
“Finally! Chris scored. Right at the last possible moment, though.”
“And not only that …” I add. “Now I actually am a bit smitten. That woman is just great, and a bombshell in bed.”
“Good, then I can send you home with a clear conscience, can’t I?”
An hour later we’re already on our way to the airport. It’s snowing horribly. Once again we’re on the six-lane outer ring road, the MKAD, past the prefab blocks of the suburbs. Our SUV swerves around lorries and slow Ladas. Now and then we use the hard shoulder as well, when there’s no other way through. There are plenty of broken-down vehicles standing there, but we manage to dodge them each time, just barely. Our heavy car goes into a skid several times in the process, but the driver gets it back under control every time.
Victor says nothing. I look at the speedometer from the back seat and start to worry. No, not about missing my flight. I have all the time in the world, no job is waiting for me anymore, and another evening with Julia would suit me fine. No, I’m worried about my life, because our SUV is racing across the snow-covered track at up to 150. There are unannounced lane changes across six lanes. Our driver has never heard of the words “safe distance”. It looks like he’s trying to push the Lada in front of us off the road.
“Victor,” I say quietly. “It’s really not that bad if I miss my flight. I’m about to wet myself here. My life matters more to me.”
“Haha, the extreme snowboarder is scared? That’s saying something. It’s not actually about you. I have to get back to the office, I’ve got a meeting at eleven. Afraid you’ll have to sit this one out, kid.”
After a horror drive we finally reach the airport. Victor says something in Russian to his driver and gives him an appreciative pat on the shoulder. My knees are weak.
“You’re on your own from here, I’m out of time. Take care, and let’s talk on the weekend.”
I thank Victor for his hospitality and for looking after me. Then I run to the terminal. I’m just in time.
“Why are you so pale?” asks the nice lady at check-in.
“Nothing,” I answer. “Long night.”
“Well, I hope she was pretty and it was worth it.”
“Yes, she was,” I say, grinning.
“Then come back to Moscow soon, and fly with our airline. Departure zone A, gate 10. Hurry up, passport control and security always take a while.”
As we take off I look out of the window at the grey, bleak Moscow suburbs. I run the last few days through my head one more time. No, Moscow isn’t for me. I’m looking forward to my warm Tenerife. But Julia was great. I sit there grinning to myself and feel a pleasant warmth in my stomach. “Those must be the famous butterflies,” I think, as we climb out of the clouds and I finally see the sun again after ten days.
