Londongrad

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

At the front door of Pravda222, I asked if Konstantin was on. He wasn’t. I asked if Sverdloff was in, and made sure the girl at the front desk knew he was my pal. Over the sound system, Frank Sinatra was singing “Come Fly With Me”, in that voice that crackled with so much sexual vanity.

I knew that nearby, in the shadows of the fancy apartment buildings, there would be plenty of security. Moscow was full of big men with weapons under their jackets, who knew how to make themselves invisible, at least to tourists.

The girl at the desk, long legs, polished skin, pearly teeth, picked up the phone, smiled at me, considered the condition of her long fingernails and rings, and then smiled again, more fulsomely this time, and led me inside.

Late at night, Pravda222 was a different scene. The girls and boys who served drinks were dressed up in skinny suits by some local designer, tight jackets, narrow pants. The new Russians understood style, they had been told this endlessly by Western fashion writers. It made them preen.

“What’s your name?” said a girl at the bar in perfect New York English. “Where are you from?”

“Can I buy you a drink?” I said.

“Sure.”

We exchanged bullshit conversation about stuff, movies, food. The girl next to me showed me her red crocodile Hermes bag, a Birkin, she said, stroking it lightly.

“These are the little gods of Moscow,” she said, and told me she had waited five years for it. She made me look at it as if it were a rare work of art. Together we inspected the skin.

She was a talkative girl. I thought she might have more to say, something I could use. I bought her a drink, I asked if I could buy her another drink and let her know I knew Tolya Sverdloff.

“Do you know this place well?” I said.

“Of course,” she said.

“Do you know the owner?”

“Tolya Sverdloff? I wish,” she said.

She stroked her bag like a pet. The club filled up. The girl with the bag spotted a good-looking man in a good-looking suit and lost interest in me and tripped away in his direction.

Rich Russians read all the magazines-I’d seen them in the bookstores-and they knew what to do. They looked good, even if they seemed to be in costume. The men wore linen shirts, sleeves rolled up casually, jeans, pale leather Prada loafers, no socks.

I moved to a table in the corner, back to the wall, ordered ginger ale and a salad. The couple next to me on the dark soft leather banquette were Brits and they wanted attention, they wanted to get in on things, they had heard me speak Russian to the waiter, they had seen the girl with the pearly fingernails treat me like a big shot, they wanted a piece.

“That looks rather good, actually,” said the woman, peering at my salad.

“Smoked eel,” I said politely.

“Yum,” she said, and went on chattering, telling me an oligarch, a friend, a Russian friend, very dear, such a lovely man, not at all just about money, always helping people, had rung ahead to say they would be made welcome at the club, at Pravda222, which was the only place worth going in Moscow he had said, their own private oligarch. Just really philanthropic, they had seen him at the White Nights Ball the other week. They had seen him in St Tropez.

Nice, I said, and continued eating.

“You are?” said the woman, who was wearing tight white jeans and a strapless top.

I told them my name was Art.

“From the States?” she said.

“New York.”

“Oh, great, brilliant,” she said. “We absolutely adore New York, don’t we, darling? I’m Dee, everyone calls me Dee, of course, and this grumpy old man is Martin, my husband.” She put out her hand and touched his shirt.

The husband, Martin, who was not interested, nodded. He was drinking cognac steadily, glancing at me, looking pissed off while I talked to Dee.

The noise rose. The music played. The crowds swirled around as if it were a party at somebody’s house, nobody staying in one seat at one table, but moving around, greeting, kissing, joking.

“Let’s order some fizz, darling, shall we?” said Dee and the husband snapped his fingers for a waiter, and one of the girls in a tight pants suit, striped, like a clown’s, appeared. He ordered a bottle of Cristal.

“Oh, darling, nobody drinks Cristal anymore. Let’s have a nice Pol Roger Rose, make it a magnum, shall we? A nice year. What’s a nice year, darling? So there’s enough for Art, here. We love New York,” she said. “We always stay at the Mercer. We just adore it. Last month we ordered two chairs by the Campana Brothers from Moss, for the children’s room, of course, it’s the most divine shop, you must must know it, and Murray-he owns it, of course, you know that-is the most extraordinary man with such brilliant taste. We see him every year at Art Basel in Miami,” she said, then turned to the husband. “Can we have some caviar, darling, the lovely stuff I like so much, darling?”

The husband grunted. The woman said to me, “Our friend Tolya who owns this club is the only one who can still get the great Beluga, you know.”

She rattled on. Her braying English voice penetrated even the noise of the bar. She was very tall and very blonde and looked like a horse. I was startled when she said “Our friend Tolya”.

“Tolya?” I said.

“Oh, yes, you know, that marvelous Russian chap who owns this place, and the others, New York, London, such a genius, the food and wine, the people.”

“You know him well?” I said.

“Enough,” she said. “Yes, of course, we’ve been to his wonderful house in Notting Hill, a book launch, wasn’t it? Yes, for someone we know a bit. ”

“You’ve been to his club in London?”

“She couldn’t get in,” said the husband. “That’s how connected she is, that’s how much she knows. She was like a little puppy at the entrance, oh, we know everybody, please can I come in,” he added in a mocking voice.

“Fuck you,” she said. “I got us in here, didn’t I? It was only because darling Tolya wasn’t there. He’d be so incredibly upset to know we hadn’t got in. I mean, here we are. I wonder if Tolya will be here tonight? I think he’s actually rather a late-night person.”

My head hurt. Too many bars, too much to drink, here, New York, London.

The champagne arrived, and the husband refused it and continued drinking cognac, so I shared it with the wife. We drank. Dee moved closer to me. Wiggled around in her jeans and the little strapless top.

I tried not to laugh, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t notice. The husband looked furious and gloomy and he was drinking more seriously. Sinatra sang. Dee sang along. I watched the crowd, looking for Grisha Curtis, looking for Tolya.

Suddenly, a stream of invective came out of Martin’s mouth and I looked over and saw he’d spilled his drink down the front of his white linen shirt. He got up, leaned down and grabbed his wife’s arm.

“We’re going,” he said. “We’re fucking getting out of here, that is if you’re finished with your American.” He said the word American as if it were a curse.

She pulled away.

He held tight on to her wrist. Her long horsey face pinched up in pain.

“Let go,” I said.

“Fuck off,” he said.

All around I could hear people talking about us in Russian. Americans, Brits, they said, terrible manners, didn’t know how to behave. Through a fog, I could hear them speaking Russian, I could hear somebody talk about calling the cops. I was pretty drunk myself, but then I saw Dee’s face.

She was in pain. Her bastard of a husband was holding her wrist so tight, I thought he might break it. So I socked him. Hard.

I had held in too much, I didn’t know if I wanted to draw attention to myself, maybe flush out Grisha, or if it was pent-up rage, but I punched him again. He teetered backwards, grabbed hold of a small table, pulled it down and crashed to the floor. He didn’t move.

“Thanks,” said Dee. “I was sick to bloody death of his carryon. He thinks he owns the planet because he’s in business with a few bloody Russians, and he can behave like the pig he is.” She went over and crouched beside him, and shook him.

I didn’t wait to find out how he was, I made for the door, but I was shaking, and before I got outside, somebody had grabbed me.

“We’ve called the police,” said the doorman. He held on to my arm. “Sit,” he said. Already I could hear the sirens in the distance. I tried to get away and the doorman punched me, and that was it. It was over. The cops were coming for me, and I’d given my real name, I had wanted to attract attention, to get Grisha Curtis to come after me. I got it.

Now I was a sitting duck. Sitting bird, Tolya always said, one of his rare goofs in English, and I had never known if it was on purpose or not. Somewhere I heard Tony Bennett singing “The Best Is Yet To Come”, and I was hurting enough I couldn’t even get it up for some irony.

The doorman yanked my arm so hard, I winced and wanted to cry, but I kept it back. I hit back. I was in Moscow, I had punched out a tourist and a local, I was fucked.