Stroika

Chapter 5

^LENINGRAD

The door banged shut behind him. Misha pulled the lock bar tight and slid over the interconnecting bolt of the bauxite-coloured lock-up. Letting the two half-empty duffel bags slide off his shoulder, he shone his pocket torch onto the racking. He found what he was looking for, struck a match and lit the candle. Before long, several candles burned steadily around the metal sarcophagus. Misha carefully unpacked and placed jeans, T-shirts and illegally imported CDs in their proper place behind him. A good day’s trading. For a Tuesday, the flea market at Apraksin Dvor had been busier than normal. From the side pocket of the canvas bag he pulled out a wallet and removed its contents onto a wooden fold-up table: one hundred dollars and a pile of roubles. Looking at the shelves, he made a mental note of what he was running short of. He must ask Viktoriya to get him some heavy overcoats; it would be autumn in a few months.

The sound of a heavy fist banging on the container made him jump.

‘Who is it?’ he shouted. He lifted his old service automatic from its holster on the table.

‘Ivan! And you can put the gun away,’ a barely audible voice responded.

Misha walked over, unlocked the door and swung it open. The damp late-summer afternoon air rolled in from the south across the Bolshaya Neva and Vasilyevsky Island. He took a deep breath, exchanging it for the stale atmosphere of the container.

‘Coffee?’ was all his flatmate said.

‘Good idea.’

Misha turned and looked at the money on the table.

‘Just one minute.’

He pulled the door to and placed the day’s takings in an old combination safe bolted to the container floor under the racking. He closed the door and spun the dial once, tugging on the handle to make sure it was locked.

‘Stefan’s or Oleg’s?’ Ivan asked his friend when he reappeared.

‘Stefan’s today, I think.’

Misha liked Stefan’s: the coffee was passable and probably was actually coffee. It was also a source of the rarest Soviet commodity: information. Street traders swapped stories, traded goods and alerted each other to the latest city crackdown.

Boats carrying coal, timber and building supplies chugged past. In the opposite direction, a barge, piled high with rubbish, stinking in the summer heat, glided by on its way out to sea. The waitress placed two steaming mugs of black coffee in front of them and a plate of piroshki ‘Mushroom and pork today,’ she said. Ivan reached for a pastry, took a bite and idly inspected the inside.

‘Expecting to find something?’ said Misha.

‘You never know in this place.’

Misha studied his old school friend and wondered how much he ate in one day. Five foot ten and thickset, Misha guessed Ivan weighed at least a hundred and ten kilos.

‘You should have one,’ Ivan said, tucking into a second pastry.

‘I will, if there are any left… I’ve been thinking,’ said Misha, taking another sip of black coffee.

‘Then we’re probably going to be in trouble again.’

‘I was at the Hotel Grand Europe last night,’ Misha replied, ignoring him.

Ivan gave him a look. ‘Not in those clothes I hope.’

Misha looked down at his worn leather jacket and faded denim jeans and shook his head.

‘Look, things are opening up… all this talk of glasnost and… what was the word our new general secretary has been using?’

‘Perestroika,’ said Ivan, swallowing the last of his pastry and reaching for a third. Misha beat him to it. ‘You think it will last? How many fancy policies have you seen so far that have come to nothing… zero?’ Ivan added, unimpressed.

‘We’re free to travel…’

Ivan shrugged a so what?

‘Don’t you see? We have a huge opportunity.’ His friend just didn’t think big enough. ‘Start with the basics,’ Misha said enthusiastically. ‘People are crying out for everything… clothing… fashion, for instance.’

‘And what do you know about fashion? Jeans and T-shirts, yes, but…?’ said Ivan disbelievingly.

‘Jeans? What do you mean? You can hardly get your hands on a pair, let alone anything decently made.’ He looked at his own, where the stitching had come apart at the seams.

‘Last night I talked to an Italian fashion manufacturer trying to find a way into the market. From the lookbook it seems right… perfect, in fact, and the price works. I’ve decided to pay him a visit, go direct… cut out the middleman.’

‘And how do you propose to bring it in? You can’t trust a carrier or customs.’

‘Hand luggage… you’re strong.’

Ivan pulled a face.

Misha pushed back his chair and stood up. He counted out some coins and put them on the table.

‘Are you in?’

‘Of course, you know me… I just hope I don’t live to regret it.’

‘You won’t… I’ll see you later. I’m going Gleb hunting.’

Chapter 6

Gleb hung out in only a few places. It didn’t take long for Misha to find him: he was holding court in the back of one of the faceless cafés that nestled under the graceful and neglected ochre apartment buildings of Pirogova.

Misha counted two minders: one outside as he went in and a second at a nearby table just out of earshot of his boss. Misha ordered a tea while he waited for Gleb to finish with his current visitor, a wiry-looking middle-aged man busy leafing through a slim zip-up briefcase he had opened on the table. He teased out a sheet of paper, studied it briefly and handed it to Gleb, who examined it with a magnifying glass before nodding, satisfied with whatever it was. The minder caught Misha’s eye and gave him a warning look.

Misha raised his cup and toasted his health.

Two minutes later the man with the briefcase left.

Misha lifted his tea and took it over to Gleb’s table. Bearded with thick, heavy glasses, Gleb folded a wad of roubles and dollar bills and slid them into his front pocket.

‘What can I do for you, Mikhail Dimitrivich – another internal travel permit?’

‘Not this time – two exit visas and an import permit. How long will it take?’

‘Three to four weeks,’ said Gleb flatly.

Misha pulled a face. ‘Two. No more.’

Gleb stared down at the table and rubbed his cheek. ‘You could wait months if you used normal channels.’

‘But I’m not.’ Misha looked at him expectantly.

‘Okay, but it will cost – one hundred a visa and the same for the import permit, half up front, US dollars.’

‘Roubles?’

‘Not interested. You know how it is.’ Misha knew no self-respecting black marketeer wanted to be holding the rouble. He counted out one hundred and fifty dollars, handed them to Gleb and left.

Outside, Misha looked at his watch: seven thirty-five. He took the metro south and got off at Narvskaya.

Block upon block of anonymous sixties’ apartment buildings stretched in every direction. Groups of youths loitered at apartment entrances and derelict exercise yards. A prostitute, who called herself Lily, waved as he passed and signalled he had company. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a tall wiry teenager with a shaved head a few paces to his left. The crunching of grit alerted him of another to his right. Misha slipped his fingers through a knuckleduster deep inside his jacket pocket and spun round to face them. Better, he calculated, to confront them out here in the open than be jumped down some side alley or stairwell.

‘Good evening, comrades.’

The two stopped a metre apart and a few paces behind. He hadn’t had sight of the teenager’s friend until then. Misha guessed him early twenties, a little shorter than his partner with the same shaved head. A snake tattoo curled its way round his forearm and silver studs decorated his nose and eyebrows. Stud-man was clearly the more powerful of the two. Broad-shouldered like a boxer, he wore a plain black sleeveless T-shirt to show off his overdeveloped biceps.

Stud-man took two steps forward and shoved his face inches from Misha’s. His breath stank of beer.

‘Enough of this comrade shit,’ said Stud-man through gritted teeth and he went to grab Misha with his right hand.

Misha stepped back and in one swift movement swept his right leg under Stud-man, felling him heavily like a tree. He hit the ground hard. The knuckleduster broke Stud-man’s nose and front teeth as he struggled to get up. Stud-man’s friend froze to the spot.

‘I suggest you pick up your friend and beat it.’

The boy hesitated until Misha took a few steps back. Warily, he helped a dazed and bleeding Stud-man to his feet and haltingly started back in the direction of the metro. When the two of them had disappeared from view, Misha returned to his course.

It took him only a few more minutes to reach the entrance to his building, a faded brown ten-storey prefabricated block etched with rust marks from broken guttering. An overflow pipe gushed water from the third floor, pooling on muddy ground with nowhere to go.

Ignoring the faulty lift, Misha climbed the five flights to his doorway. The key and a hard shove and he almost fell into the room. He switched on the unshaded light that hung above the kitchen table, walked over to the fridge and extracted a plateful of cold sausage and cooked cabbage. Grabbing a fork from the sink, he rinsed it under the tap, sat down and began to eat. He was hungrier than he thought.

The sound of a key turning in the lock and the door being forced behind him scarcely gave him pause.

‘It’s security,’ Misha said without turning around. Misha felt a large hand grab his shoulder. He lifted the plate of sausage and offered it to his flatmate. Ivan took one and swallowed it in two bites.

‘Have another; you need to keep your strength up.’

Chapter 7

The tricoloured flag, hanging limply in its wall mount, identified the elegant three-storey house as the Italian consulate. Could Italian bureaucracy, Misha wondered, be any worse than Russian? That morning, their answer machine giving opening times had cut off its announcer midstream.

Ivan touched his shoulder and pointed in the direction of a man in a car parked across the street.

‘See, now they make their lists, later they arrest us… Perestroika is just a ploy to flush out dissidents.’

Misha knew Ivan was only half joking.

Reception was a large tiled area on the ground floor with sofas and the occasional chair scattered around. Misha approached the reception desk and took a number.

They only had to wait a couple of hours, a record by Soviet standards. Misha threw down the copy of Vogue he had been studying and the two of them made their way to the door marked VISAS. He was glad now he had put on his best and only suit, even if it was slightly frayed around the buttonholes.

A dark-haired woman in her mid-forties, smartly dressed, bid them to be seated. The nameplate on her desk displayed the name ‘Valeria Gambetti’. He awkwardly straightened his jacket and caught her staring at him over her glasses as a headmistress might a delinquent pupil. The two of them must look very different to the apparatchiks he had seen in reception.

‘And what kind of visa is it you are after?’ she said in heavily accented Russian.

‘Business,’ Misha shot back confidently. He knew if he stumbled here it would all be over. ‘Clothing… fashion,’ he said, before she jumped to another conclusion, ‘importing from Italy.’

Misha sensed her reappraising him. Her voice softened. ‘You’ll need an invitation.’

From a used and scribbled-on white envelope, Misha pulled out a fax from Venti Settembre signed by Luigi Crisi, their sales director.

‘Perfetto! What else do you have? Passports, photos?’

Misha emptied the contents of the envelope on her desk: birth certificates, passports, proof of residence.

‘Bene.’ She sifted through them, made copies of what she needed and placed them in a file. She filled out an application form and had him and Ivan sign it in black ink.

‘How do you want to pay? Roubles?’

Misha nodded.

‘You’ll be pleased to know you don’t have to queue again. Just call again in a week.’ She gave him a slip with a number.

Misha and Ivan stood up.

She held out her hand. ‘Buona fortuna! Good luck!’

Misha reached for hers. He would need all the luck he could get.

Chapter 8

‘I don’t know why you don’t just take his money. He’d lend it to you if you asked,’ Viktoriya said with some frustration. She could not understand why Misha was so stubborn sometimes. She fanned herself with Misha’s procurement wish list. The summer heat was sweltering, the city airless. Even sitting at an open-air café on the Moyka made no difference.

‘You know where he gets his money from. There would be strings attached.’

She shrugged. ‘Hasn’t the system made criminals of all of us?’

Surreally, a barge drifted by with a peacock on its deck in full iridescent display, its blue-and-green plumage cupped behind it like a shell. The waterman at the tiller waved at her.

‘You don’t seriously believe Konstantin makes his money through some small black market operation?’ he said, more of a statement than a question. ‘He’s thick with the military here in Leningrad, ever since he got back from Afghanistan.’

‘Moneylending, debt collecting…’

‘And the rest… prostitution, drugs. No, I’d rather make it on my own… start small.’

Viktoriya looked at her old friend and narrowed her eyes exaggeratedly.

‘I’ll just have to work harder, faster.’

He would have to, no doubt, she thought. But Misha was not entirely wrong. She had stopped asking Konstantin how he made his money. He would tell her nightclubs, debt collecting, unofficial pawnshops around the city. The reality was that she didn’t want to know. While Misha ran around on public transport and borrowed the odd vehicle, Kostya ran a fleet of Volgas, had his own large apartment close to Nevsky Prospect and a coterie of bodyguards. By comparison, she had only once ever visited Misha and Ivan’s depressing flat share and vowed long ago not to repeat the experience.

‘And how are you and Kostya getting along?’

‘Good,’ she answered ambiguously.

Viktoriya had never told Misha what had happened that night four years ago. Antyuhin washed up in the spring thaw as Kostya had predicted. The newspapers reported a random mugging. Kostya had never demanded anything in return, not put her under pressure; he had been attentive, considerate. It had been a good six months before she slept with him. He had just been assigned to an army intelligence unit and was about to fly out to Afghanistan. She had no idea when she would see him again or even if she would. They had gone to a party together, and while everyone else brought beer and vodka, Konstantin brought cocaine. She had snorted back a line and had sex with him in the cramped apartment bathroom, while people banged impatiently on the door.

‘When do you think you can get me those items?’ Misha interrupted her thoughts, pointing at the piece of paper flapping in her hand.

She looked down the list: one hundred pairs of jeans, fifty winter coats, three refrigerators, a single and three double mattresses. The list went on.

‘A week… maybe two.’

She had her uses too, of course, she thought. Both Misha and Konstantin had recognised an opportunity when she had been appointed as a logistics manager to the main freight haulage business out of Leningrad. It provided Misha access to a whole new network of suppliers, and Kostya the perfect delivery mechanism for his regular shipments from Afghanistan. She was good at her job too. Bit by bit, her director, Maxim, had relinquished day-to-day control to Viktoriya, content with extracting his cut, assured that his private customers received a better procurement and delivery service than the state could provide its own citizens.

Viktoriya felt a nudge in her back. At first she thought the waiter had bumped into her, until she saw the bear-like figure of Ivan waving an envelope at her and Misha.

‘The papers…’ said Misha, a broad smile on his face.

Viktoriya suddenly remembered the small cylinder in her pocket and padded her jacket to check it was still there. It was a relief to be actually returning it after so many years. For nearly ten years it had lain buried under her mother’s floorboards in a plastic bag, almost forgotten. Misha had never asked where she had concealed it, only if it were safe. She wondered why he wanted it now and what had prompted him to bring it out of hiding.

‘I have to be going,’ said Viktoriya, standing up.

She gave him a hug and slipped the palm-sized object surreptitiously into his hand before turning to Ivan and kissing him farewell on both cheeks.

‘When are you off?’ asked Viktoriya.

‘As soon as I buy the tickets and confirm a time with Venti… I’ll need a small van when we arrive back at Pulkova.’

Viktoriya rolled her eyes. ‘Let me know your flight details. I’ll have someone meet you.’

Misha lent forward and gave her kiss on the cheek. ‘I knew I could count on you, Vika.’

‘So does everyone.’

Chapter 9

^MILAN

From his window seat, Misha traced the Neva east to the Gulf of Finland as pasture gave way to conifer and the city disappeared from view. Looking around the inside of the Ilyushin, he hoped its critical parts were in better shape than its visible internal workings. He tried again to fasten his seat belt and gave up. Ivan sat across the aisle in a seat that failed to recline, reading a copy of Soviet Sport. Still, he thought, its comfort compared favourably with the last time the two of them were in a plane together somewhere over Afghanistan, not long after their column had been decimated by a mujahideen ambush in some godforsaken valley. He wasn’t so sure, though, that it was any less dangerous.

In leather jacket and jeans, Misha considered what an incongruous pair they made in a sea of dark suits. He checked for his shoulder bag tucked under the seat in front. Just about all he had in the world was zipped into the inside pocket.

A tall air hostess with long red hair stretched effortlessly across two empty seats and served him stewed tea from a heavy-looking ornate metal pot. Ivan winked at him. Misha was glad he had brought him. He could not remember a time when Ivan had not been around: fishing expeditions with Ivan’s father on a Sunday morning, school, and Afghanistan where his own talent for trading had come to the fore. It was always Ivan who watched his back and kept an eye out for unwanted elements – Russians as well as Afghani.

Malpensa was packed, the lack of Cyrillic confusing. In the baggage collection hall, men in close-fitting impeccably tailored suits, deconstructed tweed check jackets and beautifully cut jeans, milled around conveyors. Women modelled stylish haircuts, trouser suits, short, close-fitting leather jackets, high heels and denim. The contrast with the Leningrad flight could not have been more startling. Russians in poorly fitting, uniform, black wool suits and heavy shoes dragged worn-out suitcases, reinforced with leather and canvas belts, onto airport trolleys. Misha cast a look at Ivan, who he could see was contemplating the same scene.

Luigi had told them to take the shuttle. Three came and went before they were able to get on.

‘Well at least they have air conditioning,’ commented Ivan once they had found their seats. The June heat was searing. As the shuttle made its way in heavy traffic along the Milano–Varese highway, Misha counted Mercedes, BMWs, top-down Porsches, Fiats and a dozen other makes tailgating bumper to bumper, cars he had never seen before. It was a far cry from back home: antiquated Ladas, punctuated with the occasional ZiL limousine or Chaika parade car.

After forty minutes, the shuttle began to weave its way through Milan’s suburbs. Hoardings and billboards boasted breakfast cereals, coffee, electrical goods, and beautiful women with big smiles, hair products and perfume. Ivan pointed at a grocery store with fresh produce on display under a brightly coloured awning. They passed a supermarket and shoppers pushing trolleys laden with food and household shopping.

‘Maybe we should stay here,’ Ivan said across the aisle.

They had entered a fantastic world, a cornucopia, one which his countrymen were simply unaware existed. And yet, staggeringly, it was only a three and a half hour flight from Leningrad and Moscow. It was as if they had landed on an alien planet.

Ten minutes later, the shuttle pulled up at Stazione Centrale. The driver directed them to a bus stop. They caught the number forty-six, missed the stop, and walked the last two hundred metres to the two-star hotel recommended by Luigi.

Misha’s room was small but the bed seemed comfortable enough. He threw his bag on the floor and walked into the bathroom… shower, basin, bidet… he slid open the shower’s door and turned the thermostat to hot. Steaming hot water gushed from an adjustable-height showerhead. Impressed, Misha tried to imagine how a four star might compare, and thought of the understated opulence of the Hotel Grand in Leningrad.

They had the afternoon to explore; their meeting was not until the next morning. The receptionist recommended they start with the cathedral. They took the metro to Piazza del Duomo and walked to the vast gothic cathedral. Stained-glass windows cast brilliant blues and reds into its gloomy interior as people prayed openly at altars. They took the stairs to the roof and walked around the terrazzo, taking in the city below and the Alps to the north. Misha unfolded his map and took his bearings from various landmarks.

‘This is where we want to head next.’ He pointed at an area about a quarter of a mile from where they stood. ‘The Quadrilatero, Via Monte Napoleone. It’s the fashion district,’ he added in response to Ivan’s questioning frown.

The fabulous boutiques of the Via Monte Napoleone were a kaleidoscope of plenty and excess, dresses of every style: micro, mini, empire, shirt… in silk, chiffon, linen, tweed, suede and leather; shoes: pumps, flats, sandals and high heels; boots: ankle, over the knee, patent leather and alligator; the catalogue went on. Misha remembered a few names from the magazines he had thumbed at the Italian consulate, but most he didn’t recognise: Alberta Ferretti, Pucci, Fratelli Rosetti, Salvatore Ferragamo, Cartier and Bulgari.

Shoppers explored narrow alleyways holding distinctive carrier bags, stopping occasionally to look into beautifully dressed windows.

They stopped at a small elegant café just off the main street and took a table on the pavement out of the sun. A waiter brought them a menu. Misha counted ten types of coffee: espresso, macchiato, cappuccino, caffe mocha… and a dozen combinations of ciabatta, focaccia, and panini. His eyes lighted on the desserts: panna cotta, lemon polenta cake, tiramisu, and cheesecake. He ordered an espresso doppio and Ivan a cappuccino. They both decided on the strawberry cheesecake.

‘Makes a change from Stefan’s,’ said Ivan, scraping the last of the froth from his cup with a spoon.

‘No queues either, except outside that store.’ Misha pointed to a line of Japanese girls waiting patiently outside Salvatore Ferragamo.

That night, Misha slept fitfully with his canvas bag tucked under his feet. In the corridor, people came and went. A couple made love noisily in the adjacent room.

In the morning, a shower and breakfast quickly restored him. From the buffet, Misha selected cereal, fruit, ham, cheese and crusty panini rolls. Not bad, Misha thought, for somewhere Luigi described as basic.

Not risking the underground system this time, they took a taxi to San Babila. Venti was easy to find. A young receptionist in a sleeveless, patterned silk top and pencil skirt brought them coffees.

A shout of ‘Benvenuti’ echoing down the marble corridor announced the arrival of their host.

Luigi shook them warmly by the hand and asked them in broken English how they were finding Milan so far. Misha could have spent the next hour telling him but simply said ‘Good’. Luigi flashed him a sympathetic smile.

‘Bene, Bene,’ was all he said and guided them down the corridor to the lift and first-floor showroom.

A tall olive-skinned model wearing a T-shirt, jeans and pumps greeted Misha in perfect Russian and introduced herself as Ilaria Agneli. This would make life a lot easier, he thought

Misha took out his camera – an old Zenith – and a notebook.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked Luigi.

‘No, no, please,’ said Luigi. ‘Ilaria…?’ He looked in her direction and she nodded.

She was a perfect fit for the collection. Disappearing and reappearing from the changing room, Misha simply voiced a no or yes. A no and she would quickly try on something else. A yes and she would stand there while he took pictures and chose fabrics. The more he saw, the more he thought the collection perfect for the Russian market. Venti expressed the latest catwalk styles at a price even the average Russian woman could afford. He tried his best to contain his excitement. And this was only one label. With more research he was sure he could find others. Ivan sat next to him sipping coffee, taking it all in silently.

At one point he caught Ilaria studying him as he made a note. Self-consciously Misha remembered how his fellow passengers had struck him at Malpensa, how poorly dressed they seemed in every sense of the word. He looked down at his ill-fitting jeans and clumpy matt leather shoes and felt embarrassed, humiliated. The Soviet system had at best failed its citizens and at worst deceived them, him included. He had had some inkling; after all, he was a street trader dealing in shortages. It was the scale of the lie that hit him now. The past two days had been a revelation. He no longer wanted to be a member of the great deceived. He wanted to experience the everyday, like these Italians. More than that even, wasn’t he only scratching the surface? There was so much more to learn.

He was suddenly aware that the room had fallen silent and they were waiting for him.

‘May I comment?’ said Ilaria in Russian.

‘Please,’ he said. Luigi looked from one to the other, no doubt wondering what his visitors were saying.

‘The colours you are choosing are very bright. I know we have Roberto Cavali, but Italian style is mostly about neutrals.’

‘Yes, I can see that, but my guess is Russia has had enough of neutrals for a lifetime. Grey is the Soviet’s favourite colour – almost everything is painted one shade or another: apartments, offices, factories… tanks. Russians love vibrant colours, ornate churches, and gold cupolas, pink and blue houses. They just haven’t experienced them for a while. No, I think it’s time for a change. Russian women are going to express themselves, like they haven’t for generations, show off… we Russians are not a subtle people.’

And saying it out loud, he knew it was true. The new general secretary had opened the door… just a fraction… and if one had the courage to venture out, you would see the world as it is, not as you had been told.

Sitting there in his shabby clothes, he suddenly felt a lot better about himself. Ivan placed a hand on his shoulder. He was the modern-day explorer on the threshold of great discovery.

‘D’accordo,’ she said.

He could see that his conviction had hit home. She blushed faintly.

‘Please, feel free to input. What you said was helpful.’

Ilaria quickly began to get the drift of what he was looking for. Subtle it wasn’t – figure hugging, often short and overtly sexy it was.

Mid-morning, they took a break. Leaving Ivan struggling to converse with a young female showroom assistant, Misha grabbed a coffee and made his way over to Ilaria, who had just appeared from the changing room wearing the jeans and top she had arrived in.

‘What part of Russia are you from?’ he asked.

‘I’m not. I’ve never been to Russia. My mother’s Russian and has always spoken to me in her home language, but she left before I was born. To be honest there hasn’t been much use for it until now.’

‘You know a lot about fashion?’

‘This isn’t my full-time job. I’m a student, or I should say was a student at the Milan College of Fashion. I’ve just graduated. My mother and father are both buyers at Rinascente, one of the big retail groups.’

Misha took another gulp of coffee, trying to weigh up whether he should put the question to her he had in mind.

‘Are you free for dinner tonight? I go back to Leningrad tomorrow.’ He could see her hesitating; being asked out by showroom clients must be an occupational hazard, he thought. ‘A business proposal,’ he added, trying to reassure her. He saw her relax a little.

‘And you can practise your Russian. You name the time and place’

‘All right,’ she said, giving in. ‘Eight this evening.’ She suggested a local restaurant not far from where he was staying.

For the next two hours she changed in and out of another dozen or so styles. Finally, they finished. He reckoned up the order.

‘Are you going to pay in cash?’ Ilaria asked him in Russian. ‘You could probably get another 15 per cent off these list prices.’

From his satchel Misha extracted a wad of neatly bound US dollar bills, in varying denominations and condition, each totalling one hundred dollars. He stacked them carefully on the table and pushed them forward. He was making a bet with his entire life savings.

‘Ask for twenty-five.’ Misha gave her her due, she didn’t hesitate in relaying his offer in Italian. Luigi punched at the calculator in his hand; more, Misha thought, to give himself time to weigh up his offer. It was a simple choice: cash up front, no risk, no agent’s percentage, a direct sale into a promising new market – his first Russian customer.

‘And tell Luigi that if this goes well I’ll be back and I’ll want exclusive distribution rights for his line in Russia.’ Misha was looking directly at Luigi as he spoke.

Luigi put down the calculator. ‘Did I tell you where I met Michael, Ilaria?’ said Luigi. She shook her head. ‘At the bar, in the finest hotel in Leningrad, doing his homework, talking with businessmen, picking their brains… I think he’ll go far. D’accordo! Twenty-five per cent.’ He grinned and held out his hand. They shook on it.

Misha counted out the agreed amount and pointed to several empty canvas bags next to Ivan. ‘Please pack the order in these. We’ll be back at eleven tomorrow morning to collect.’

Leaving Ivan to do his own thing, Misha spent the latter part of the hot afternoon absorbing Milan. He wished he had allowed himself more time now, time to map it all out: high street to high-end boutique.

He stopped outside a men’s store. A beautifully cut suit had caught his eye in the window. He stood staring at it, hesitating. It struck him as strange that he didn’t have to be a high party member to go in. In Milan he was as entitled as anyone. A smartly dressed doorman standing inside opened the door for him.

‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a sales assistant the moment he stepped onto the marble floor. He was mid-twenties, Misha guessed, and wore a close-fitting black suit, white shirt, black tie and patent black leather shoes.

‘I am from Russia,’ said Misha in heavily accented English, hoping it would explain everything.

Misha pointed at the black suit in the window. The sales assistant led him over to the suit rail and, guessing his size, unhooked one.

‘This is the same as the one in the window: Zegna, an excellent make. Would you like to try it on?’ Misha tried not to wince at the price on the ticket.

Twenty minutes later, Misha left with a new suit, two white shirts and a new pair of soft leather shoes. It was an altogether new experience. The sales assistant could not have been more charming or the quality of clothing more extraordinary. He felt embarrassed thinking about the suit hanging on his door at home and determined to give it away at the first opportunity.

Back at the hotel, Misha wrote down everything he remembered while it was still fresh in his memory. By the time he had finished it had already turned seven fifteen. He quickly showered and changed into his new clothes. Standing in front of the wall mirror, he was shocked at how different he looked. Gone was the rough-looking young Russian; before him stood an entirely different character, well dressed, Italian style. He squared up to the mirror, ran his hands through his still damp, vaguely long fair hair, and over his unplanned designer stubble. The jacket fitted his broad shoulders perfectly, tapering at the waist. He tugged down his white shirt cuffs, leaving an inch or so showing, copying the way the mannequin had been dressed in the window. Any lingering uncertainty about spending so much money evaporated.

At a little before eight Misha seated himself at the bar of the restaurant where they had agreed to meet. He ordered a Peroni recommended by the bartender and wondered what Ivan was up to. Italian women, he knew, would have been his first priority. Sat there, facing the bar, enjoying his drink and air conditioning, Misha reflected on the last two days, the experiences it had brought and how a three-hour flight had delivered him to a new world, unimagined. The sound of a Russian female voice behind him jolted him out of his reverie.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ she said.

He turned round. Ilaria was wearing high heels, black leggings and a diaphanous black silk top. Her hair was no longer fastened back but fell straight on her shoulders, her eye make-up subtle but smouldering.

He could see her taking in his new attire, reappraising him.

‘Zegna,’ she said, looking at his suit; a statement not a question. He was impressed.

He ordered a glass of Soave from the bartender as she swivelled onto the stool next to him, crossing her long legs only inches from his.

They touched bottle and glass.

‘Ilaria,’ he said trying out the name.

‘Mikhail Dimitrivich.’ She had heard Ivan use his first name and patronymic in affectionate frustration during the afternoon session.

‘Misha… that’s what my friends call me.’

‘Misha then,’ Ilaria repeated, introductions settled. ‘And what do you think of Milan?’

‘How long have you got? It is difficult to take in how much you have of everything… back home even basics are hard to come by… even things like shoes,’ he added, thinking of the shoes he had brought with him, another item he vowed never to wear again.

‘Back home,’ he said again, his expression hardening slightly, ‘there are shoe shops but often there are no shoes. If you find a pair that fit you, if you are that lucky, you buy them; if they don’t fit, you buy them anyway and advertise a swap for your size in the newspaper.’ He could see her struggling with the reality of what he said. ‘Ask your mother, but maybe it was better back then.’ Her expression softened a little.

‘And what about pere—?’

‘Perestroika… before we had a bad plan, now we have no plan. Shortages are worse than before… much worse.’

‘But you have been allowed to travel. My mother told me how difficult it was in her time to leave. Isn’t that a change?’

‘Yes. It’s just that hardly anyone has woken up to the fact, or they don’t believe it will last… and maybe it won’t. People fear that the hardliners will seize power again, especially now, when there is little sign of progress… they should see Milan! Maybe that would change their minds. The opportunity though is huge, for those willing to step into the vacuum.’

‘Are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m here. That’s a start.’

The restaurant owner arrived and led them to their table. Misha followed Ilaria, this time without the added complication of having to decide whether to buy what she was wearing.

Ilaria translated the menu for him. She described food he had never encountered before. In the end they plumped on bruschetta to share as a starter and seafood risotto and pumpkin ravioli as a main. Ilaria choose the wine – a dry white Verdicchio.

‘And your mother, how did she get to be here?’

‘She was a member of a choral group that travelled to Italy in the sixties. She met my father after one of the performances at a party and the rest is history.’

‘And she’s never been back?’

‘No. She still has relatives in Perm. Her parents died some years ago.’

‘That must have been hard.’

‘She doesn’t talk about it much. Somehow she put it all behind her, put down roots and a family here. Do you have a family back in Leningrad?’

Misha shook his head.

‘My father was a refusenik.’

Ilaria frowned.

‘He was Jewish… trained as a doctor. The authorities refused him permission to emigrate and then stripped him of his job. I only have vague memories of him. He found a job as a street cleaner and a month or two later was arrested for supposedly making a joke about some communist official… six years hard labour in a gulag. He died pretty much broken a couple of years after his release and my mother two years ago.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ilaria.

‘Your mother was lucky.’

‘Yes… and your friend?’

‘Ivan is as close as there is to a brother to me. Our mothers met in the play park when we were barely out of prams… school… conscription… Afghanistan… you name it.’

Misha took a bite of the bruschetta that the waiter had placed between them.

‘This is really good,’ he said, and took another bite. It tasted so fresh. ‘And the modelling, did you find them or they find you?’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Spotted at a college fashion show. Only showroom stuff, though, and the odd bit of catalogue work. This isn’t my career of choice. But it neatly fills the financial gaps. It’s good for contacts, though.’

That was something Misha did understand; if you didn’t have svyazi, you were nowhere.

‘Which brings me to the reason, the official reason,’ he corrected himself, ‘I invited you this evening. Would you be a buyer and fashion coordinator for me, run my Milan office, not that I have one at the moment… set it up? I can’t promise to pay much to start, but as I’ve said there is a massive opportunity here, and not just one.’ He had already begun to think of other possibilities. Wasn’t Russia short of just about everything?

‘To the Soviet there is no such thing as a consumer, only the proletariat, but when the proletariat,’ he said mockingly, ‘start spending…’ He didn’t finish the sentence. ‘There are fortunes to be made… if you can leverage the system.’

‘And what about you?’ she cut in, half teasing.

‘Oh, the biggest fortune of them all, of course,’ he said, joking. It was not something he had thought about in any depth until now; making money yes, but not serious money. They fell silent for a moment. ‘But not until you accept this job. That will be the first step. It will be hard work. As I say, not much pay to start… we wheel and we deal.’

‘So, what do you think, Ilaria?’ Misha knew he was taking a risk with someone he hardly knew, but he decided to go with his instinct as he had on so many other occasions.

‘Do I get a contract or anything?’

Misha took a serviette and wrote down a number and signed it.

‘Will that do?’

She looked at him, slightly embarrassed, before breaking into a broad smile.

‘I think that will do fine. When would you want me to start?’

‘Tomorrow. I’m heading back to Leningrad in the morning. If this goes down as well as I expect, I’ll be back on the phone to you in the next few days and you can put together the next order with Luigi.

‘And one more thing.’ He reached into his inside pocket and fished out two small 35mm film cassettes.

‘The shots from today?’

‘Not quite.’ He handed her the new-looking film case. ‘These are the photos from today. Can you get them back to the showroom and developed by eleven tomorrow morning?’

She nodded.

‘And this one…’ it was obviously a lot older than the first, the casing duller. ‘Do you know a private photographer who could develop this? Eight by tens. Some of them may be partly exposed.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘A bit cloak and dagger?’

‘Maybe, but the less you know about this the better. When you speak to the photographer, make sure he understands you want the negatives and all the photos back. He’s not to keep any copies.’

‘Can I ask what they are of?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know, but the people who have been after them don’t play around.’

Chapter 10

^LENINGRAD

The return flight was uneventful. A distance that under the old Soviet had seemed almost infinite was suddenly commutable. Still, Misha did not think the average Russian would be making the journey any time soon.

In the baggage hall at Pulkova he and Ivan stacked six tightly packed canvas bags on two airport trolleys and pushed them towards the military customs point. An officer waved them over to a long steel table.

‘Your declaration,’ he said abruptly, snapping his fingers. Misha handed over the list of items and the invoice from Venti.

‘Import permit?’

Misha handed him the permit. The officer looked at it briefly.

‘Unzip the top bag.’

The custom’s man rifled through its contents, glancing occasionally at the permit. He held it up to the light.

‘This permit is a forgery. You will need to leave these bags here.’ He handed back the invoices.

That nagging doubt about Gleb came to the fore. He shouldn’t have trusted him.

‘Come to my office. I will take your details. There will be a fine to pay,’ he said, indicating a glass-paned wooden box.

Misha folded a fifty dollar bill inside the invoice and handed it back to the customs officer once inside the dingy cubicle.

‘Officer, I am sure if you look again you will find this permit in order.’

The officer sat down, unfolded the invoices, pocketed the dollar bill and stamped the declaration approved.

‘There you are, that’s all in order,’ he said. He pointed at an import permit taped to the cubicle window. Misha could see the difference. A large watermark in the shape of an asterisk was missing.

‘You have my address’ said Misha. ‘If your girlfriend or wife would like an outfit, she can have her pick.’ Misha wrote down his telephone number.

‘That would be good, comrade,’ the officer said, pleased with the added bonus.

‘That Gleb, he’s a chancer,’ said Ivan as they wheeled their load through to Arrivals. ‘You could have had the whole lot impounded.’

‘Well I can assure you he is not going to get away with it.’ Misha had to have people he could rely on, not risk losing everything because someone tried to shortcut him.

Ivan’s friend Rodion met them at the exit. They piled the bags into the back of a heavily scratched and dented van with the words ‘Leningrad Freight’ on the side and squeezed themselves into the front. It didn’t take long to negotiate their way through the city. They stopped at a building just east of Anichkov Bridge. One of Ivan’s security contacts had suggested it, a small nondescript manufacturing unit that was no longer manufacturing. Alina, Rodion’s girlfriend, had already assembled mobile clothes rails around a large empty office.

The three of them unpacked one of every style, while Misha wrote out and affixed price tickets. The main stock they sorted tidily on shelves in the second room. It was early evening by the time they finished. Misha decided to stay the night and slept on an ex-army canvas fold-up that Rodion seemed to procure from nowhere.

Next morning, Misha had Ivan put word out on the street that a fashion consignment was newly arrived from Italy, and by the afternoon the shelves had been cleared at many times the price Misha had paid. Only the sample styles remained hanging on the rails. Alina, who had been helping, look frazzled; the morning had been a free-for-all, with traders jostling each other for attention.

He counted her out fifty roubles. ‘I have another job for you, if you are interested. I want you to go visit those people who left empty-handed and then the ones who bought, take advanced orders, 25 per cent upfront, US dollars, balance on delivery, 10 per cent for you, all right? Just traders – we need volume.’

Alina nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’ll be on it as soon as I finish this coffee.’ She was clearly pleased with the turn of events. ‘When are you going to bring in the next order?’ she asked, putting on her jacket.

‘Let’s see how you do on the sales side.’

Misha went out onto the street and found Ivan smoking a cigarette in animated conversation with Rodion. He handed him a wad of dollars.

‘You were right about Gleb. I could have had my whole consignment impounded. The End. And I’ve been thinking… I do need security, plenty of it. I have a good feeling about all this – better than that. How about you running that for me… security? You know how it works. You’ve got contacts… Rodion, for instance.’ Misha mentioned a figure in US dollars many times what he was making trading CDs on the street and nightclub security work. ‘And you won’t have to be sharing digs with me forever, not on that! What do you think?’

‘Seems like I’m about to get paid for what I’ve always done for free,’ he said smirking. ‘Okay.’

‘Good,’ said Misha, delighted. ‘Have we still got the van?’

Ivan pointed down the street at its tail poking from a side turning.

‘Right… first job.’ He looked at his watch – three thirty.

‘We’ll take the van, drop off the money at the lock-up, and then pay a call on Gleb.’

They parked one hundred metres down from the café. Misha recognised Gleb’s man standing on the doorway. The three of them climbed out of the van and broke up, taking different directions. Ivan approached the café from the left, Rodion from the right and Misha from across the street. The guard on the door had no time to react. Rodion felled him with one blow to the solar plexus. He let out a loud ouff sound and collapsed onto the pavement. Inside, Ivan grabbed hold of the second minder, bending his arm behind his back and spinning him around so that his face was pushed hard against the rough plaster. Gleb, startled, jumped to his feet as Misha stepped forward, kicked over the table and punched him hard in the face, breaking his glasses. He fell heavily to the ground, gushing blood from his nose. Misha bent down, prised open Gleb’s front pocket and extracted a wad of dollar bills. He counted out $300 – the price he had paid – and threw the rest back at him.

‘I like to think I’m a reasonable man, but you let me down badly, Gleb. I could have lost my entire life savings, such as they are.’

Gelb stared at him. ‘What do you want?’ he said finally, trying to stem the bleeding with a handkerchief.

‘Exit visas and import permits, real ones, free for the next six months. I’ll send my man. Let me down and you won’t live to regret it.’