The next day Victor comes home early. We pop into the supermarket around the corner to buy food. The prices are steep, in some cases even higher than in the Big Apple.
“Moscow is one of the most expensive cities in the world,” Victor says. He explains to me that Russia is built along centralist lines, with Moscow at the centre of everything. If you want to do business, you have to come to Moscow, whether you’re selling timber from the tropical rainforest or diamonds from the Far East. So a lot of rich businessmen come through the city on a regular basis. Many of them have their own flats and offices here by now. Out in the wide country there’s nothing. If people out there find work at all, they earn no more than 200 euros a month, while here in the city they can get between 1000 and 3000. And here there’s actually a chance to build a career. Young, pretty girls in particular are looking for a rich man who’ll marry them, or keep them on the side as a mistress and pay for them. You can shop cheaply at the markets and out in the outer districts, but the centre is mostly where the rich and the middle class live. And the cost of living matches that.
Muscovites call everything out to the third ring road the centre, even though as a European you’d think of the area inside the first ring, the so-called Garden Ring, as the centre. In the biggest country on earth the dimensions are simply different. Officially Moscow now has around 11 million inhabitants, which already makes it the largest city in Europe. On top of that, Victor tells me, there are a few million illegal immigrants and Russians from other regions who mostly live in the suburbs and try their luck as taxi drivers, labourers or, for that matter, criminals.
Back at the flat, Victor and I make tea. “Russians don’t like coffee,” Victor says, with a slightly dismissive tone. It’s like that pretty much every time he talks about Russians. And yet, up to now, I’d filed Victor in the Russian drawer myself, because I met him in New York through a group of Russians. He also speaks fluent Russian and, with his Slavic face and expensive designer clothes, looks typically Russian. If you point that out to him, Victor gets indignant and clears things up fast: he is first and foremost a Jew, and Jews didn’t have it easy under communism. After perestroika, the younger ones especially couldn’t wait to emigrate, and many took the chance to go to Israel. Victor originally comes from Lithuania, then moved to Israel and studied there first, later in the USA. Today he has a Lithuanian and an Israeli passport. After his studies he was allowed to stay in the States and started his career as a banker. “Just as I started making a bit of money, the crisis hit,” he explains. “That’s why I took a Moscow investment bank up on their offer pretty quickly.”
“And? Are you earning well now?” I ask. Victor doesn’t like these direct questions. He looks awkward, but chance comes to his rescue. The doorbell rings.
“Ah, that’s the girls.”
“What girls?” I ask.
“Completely forgot to tell you. My girlfriend is coming over, and she’s bringing a friend for you.”
“You have a girlfriend?”
I wouldn’t have expected that, given that Victor hasn’t let a single opportunity pass these last few days to collect phone numbers from girls he’s never met.
Victor owes me the answer and opens the door for the women. Out in the hallway the usual procedure plays out: the girls take off their heavy fur coats and put down scarf, hat and gloves. Then they both disappear into the bathroom to make themselves beautiful. In the meantime Victor comes back into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear.
“You got lucky. Her friend looks better than she does,” he says. I just nod. The way Victor talks about women leaves me speechless every time. I’m no shrinking violet and I’ve seen a fair bit in my life. But in Moscow I somehow can’t get going. I don’t know whether it’s the foreignness, or the cheap chat-up lines, or the fact that the girls go along with them.
“Tonight it’s happening. You’re getting her into bed!” Victor orders. “You’ve been here five days now and you still haven’t closed the deal.” Something’s happening outside. The girls come out of the bathroom. Both are wearing fashionable dresses, the kind for a club or a nice restaurant, not for sitting at home. From the kitchen I can see part of the hallway. I’m surprised when I watch the two of them open their big handbags, pull out a pair of high heels each and put them on.
“The women here are always dressed to the nines,” Victor says. Even at home they have to look good, especially when there’s a date with an investment banker and his friend involved. After a style check in the mirror the girls come into the kitchen and are introduced to me. I feel sloppy and underdressed somehow, sitting at the table in baggy jeans and a casual T-shirt. Worst of all are Victor’s guest slippers. My grandfather could have owned a pair like that.
“This is Victoria, my girlfriend,” Victor says. “And that’s her friend, Marina.”
I quickly establish that Victoria doesn’t speak English. Marina has a few words, and at least we can talk a little. Victoria, I learn, is in her mid-twenties and comes from a town 500 kilometres southeast of Moscow. She studied business and now works for an insurance company. She earns about 1000 euros there. That isn’t much if you’re not from Moscow and have to pay the horrendous rents. Which is where an investment banker like Victor comes in handy. He gives generous presents, pays when they go out and takes her shopping. If she’s lucky he’ll even invite her on holiday. None of this is unusual in Moscow. It’s part of Russian culture that men give women expensive gifts. The more expensive the gift, the greater the love and the greater the woman’s affection. Victoria has brown eyes and curly brown hair. She’s actually quite pretty. Her dress is either an expensive original or a good copy of Dolce & Gabbana, with a deep neckline. She has beautiful long legs and wears hold-up stockings, the lace tops flashing briefly as she crosses her legs. At the end of those endless legs are fashionable high heels with the longest stilettos I’ve ever seen. Victoria catches me looking her over and grins cheekily. Her face is friendly, but there’s something wicked about it too. She wears a lot of make-up, but that’s normal in Russia as well.
“Oh man, these Russian women,” I think. “They really are especially pretty creatures. Or maybe more sexy? Somehow a bit slutty, too. No, not the vulgar kind. More like a first-class call girl.”
Marina excuses herself and goes to the bathroom for a moment.
“To be honest, I don’t think much of her,” Victor says.
“Of who?” I ask.
“Her,” Victor says, nodding towards Victoria with a fake grin. “But she’s good in bed, and I ought to have a girlfriend who helps around the house and gives me a bit of stability. Otherwise I’d just be screwing around non-stop.”
I’m shocked at how openly Victor says this right in front of Victoria.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “She doesn’t understand a thing. She doesn’t speak English.”
I stay quiet and nod. “Maybe that’s what you become when you consume one woman after another,” I think.
“There are women here like sand on a beach,” Victor says. “It’s insane. You barely send one home and the next one is already at the door. New ones keep coming. They’re getting younger and younger. They’re all pretty and they all know what to do. They come from the suburbs or from the regions. The supply never stops.”
“Unbelievable,” I think. This is slowly stopping to feel real.
Marina is back. I still haven’t really warmed to her. She has long blonde hair and wears a dress in the same style as Victoria’s. I catch myself wondering whether she’s wearing hold-up stockings too.
“Right, we’ll leave you two alone now,” Victor says, and disappears into the bedroom with his girlfriend.
“Shall we go through to the living room?” I ask Marina. “It’s more comfortable in there. Do you want a drink? Something other than tea?”
“No, thanks, I don’t drink,” she answers.
I take her by the hand and lead her into the living room. We sit on the couch and talk. Marina is 27 and works as a doctor in a women’s clinic. As a gynaecologist she earns 200 euros a month there. At home a six-year-old son is waiting for her.
“How do you manage in Moscow on so little money? And where’s the father?” I ask.
“We have a flat on the edge of the city. It belongs to my family, so we don’t pay rent. The father has been gone a long time. He was a loser and I left him.”
“Does he pay for the boy?”
“No. I don’t even know where he is. Haven’t heard from him in years. I earn just enough to get the two of us through. I do abortions at the clinic on the side. There’s a lot of demand for that here. Especially out in the suburbs.”
From the bedroom next door we suddenly hear loud moaning. It gets louder and louder. And no, it isn’t Victoria doing the moaning, it’s Victor. I feel a bit put on the spot, place my hand on Marina’s knee and stroke it. Slowly I run my hand up her leg. She looks at me, waiting. The moaning next door gets louder still, and by now you can also hear the bed banging against the wall. We look at each other and suddenly have to laugh. I like Marina somehow, but there’s no erotic tension between us. I realise that my hand on her thigh is out of place and that this woman deserves more respect. She’s a single mother, fighting her way through with the will of a lioness. I could probably even sleep with her, but it just doesn’t feel right. Slowly I take my hand off her thigh. She thanks me with an open, kind smile.
“Do you want another tea?” I ask.
“No, I think I’ll head home. My little one is waiting for me. He’s on his own and it’s already late.”
Marina changes her shoes and wraps herself up thickly for the winter. I take her down to the street, get her a taxi and pay the fare out to the suburbs. Before she gets in, she kisses me tenderly on the cheek.
“You’re one of the good ones. I’m not sure this city is right for you. Farewell. I hope we see each other again some time,” she whispers in my ear.
When I get back to the flat, everything is quiet. I drink a beer, look out of the window and let my thoughts wander. Russia is a hard country. Not just because of the weather, but because of the circumstances people live in. No. Moscow isn’t a city for me. Quite apart from the different culture and the shameless consuming, you have to earn a lot of money here to be able to enjoy life. I’d rather find myself another city. Maybe I’ll even go back to New York …
I look at the clock. Time for bed, but first I make myself a cup of tea. While I’m waiting for the water to boil, Victoria comes into the kitchen. She’s in her knickers with a T-shirt over the top.
“Would you make me one too, please?” she asks in English.
“What? You speak English?” I’m surprised.
“Oh, I’ve let that slip, haven’t I. Yes, I took several business English courses while I was studying. But please don’t say anything to Victor. He’d probably be embarrassed.”
I’m of a different opinion there, but it’s probably better if I stay out of his business.
“Don’t worry. Where is Victor?” I ask.
“He’s completely done in and asleep.”
Victoria grins, satisfied. After that we sit at the table together and talk for a while. Her English is perfect.
