Chapter 9
There are a dozen different Moscows. The concert halls with cellists playing Rachmaninov, the private jets flown by billionaires, seedy clubs brimming with my friends, and a bar like this full of beautiful kids who think they can change the world. I brought Kesera here because I thought it was her kind of place, but it was probably a mistake.
The girl at the door wouldn’t have let us in if the manager didn’t owe me a gambling debt. The couples at the neighboring table keep slanting worried looks our way, now that the ma?tre d” looks like he might be about to have a heart attack. My singing angel sits in front of me, knitting her fingers together like she’s trying to find something hidden beneath the skin.
I reach over and take her tiny, trembling fingers in my large fist. She’s so damn pretty and she smells like flowers, but she’s way too good for me.
I have no idea how to romance a woman at all.
A heavy weight settles in my gut, as if I’m stepping around land mines. If history has taught me anything, it’s that women who get close to me end up shattered.
“What do you want to drink?” I look around the room for a waitress and wave at a woman with a nose ring and bleached hair who pretends she hasn’t seen me. She begins to rearrange some cutlery on a nearby table.
Kesera rolls her neck, looks at me from under long, dark lashes, and gives me an embarrassed smile which makes me want to kiss her. “I know it makes me sound like an old woman, but I’d love a hot drink with some honey. It helps my voice.”
I look over at the ma?tre d”, who glares at the waitress and says something that makes her rush over. “I’ve got an idea,” I say, ordering a drink and rubbing her fingers with my thick thumbs to try to stop her trembling. I’m torn between wanting to wrap her in cotton wool and wanting to tear off her clothes.
I’m saved from my jangling thoughts when a flight of vodka appears. Little jewel-colored shot glasses balance on a piece of wood, along with a glass teapot containing a bright-orange drink.
“What’s this?” She pulls her hands from mine and runs her fingers along the teapot’s silver filigree handle, avoiding my eyes.
I reach to take the pot from her and pour her a small cup. The liquid glows like the sun on a polluted day.
“Try it. It’s a berry that grows wild in Siberia.” I grin at her like I’ve done something clever and then feel like a fool. I don’t want to scare her, and the women who seek me out for a quick fuck usually do so for the cheap thrill of being scared.
Kesera lets her eyes fall shut when she takes a sip and moans softly as the drink slides down her throat.
“It’s so gooood,” she says, her southern accent caressing the vowels. It makes me think of other ways I could get her to make that sound. “It’s like the drink the handsome prince in a fairy tale would bring thousands of miles across Siberia for the princess to try.”
I can’t help laughing when she smiles at me.
“You should laugh more often. It makes you look younger.” She tilts her head to the side and watches me with those mossy-green eyes for a moment.
“You’re determined to see everything as a fairy tale, aren’t you?”
A shadow falls across her face, and she reaches for one of the vodka shots, picks it up, and drains it, wincing a little before she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“God, that’s strong.” She stares at me and then says, “I got saved by a handsome hero and now I’m drinking a magic drink. Isn’t that the kind of thing that happens in fairy tales?” There’s a fierceness in the way she says it, like she can will it to be true.
“I’m not sure vodka qualifies as magic.”
“The Day-Glo orange stuff. It tastes like magic.”
She looks at me with those big eyes, and I run out of words. I reach for her hand and thread our fingers together. We sit in silence for a few minutes as the cathedral’s gleaming domes shimmer in the water below the window. There’s a strange kind of comfort in it, but I feel compelled to warn her.
“I’m nobody’s hero, zolotaya. I’m not a good man, and you shouldn’t put your trust in me.”
Her smile goes brittle and doesn’t crinkle around her eyes. “You keep calling me that nickname, and I’m no one’s golden girl. Not anymore.”
“Tonight, you are. You’re mine.” I bring her fingers to my mouth again, kissing them softly.
The vodka must have gone to her head, because to my surprise, she circles the table and slides in next to me. She draws my head to hers and kisses me so softly it feels like feathers or angel wings. Like every soft thing I didn’t know I was missing.
When I open my eyes, she’s staring at me.
“I know we don’t have long. It’s only hours, really. Can we suspend reality until I leave? Call it a fairy tale for a little while?”
I pull her tiny frame against me, wrapping her against my side and enjoying how small and delicate she feels. She sighs, shifts, and leans her head on my chest, and I watch the snow fall into the dark water outside as I explore the sensation of having this strange woman put her trust in me. I’m plucking up the courage to kiss her again when I hear a soft snore and she slides sideways into my lap. She’s out cold.
The drink must have knocked her out because I can’t wake her up and I have to carry her to the car, cursing myself for not looking after her better. Once we’re in the car, the noise of the city fades as we pass the ring roads and reach the snowy countryside on the outskirts of Moscow.
This is the best time to leave the city. When the snarls of traffic calm to emptiness. It’s the thing I fucking hate about Moscow, and it’s one of the many reasons why I have to get out of here. Nothing works. Everything is a zero-sum game. You could have all the billions in the world and die of a heart attack before the doctors could reach you in an ambulance because the streets were clogged with cars. Money can’t buy you out of the dogfights and the chaos. The only way out of this mess is to leave. China, America, it doesn’t matter. Sasha and I need to be anywhere but here.
I look over at the sleeping girl in the seat next to me as we pull off the highway and into the woods. The darkness of the winter roads stills my mind as the white birch trunks flash past me. I’ve sent the driver home. I don’t want to share these hours with anyone else, even if she’s fast asleep.
She’s curled in my coat, her wavy hair a gold-streaked cloud above her cheekbones. I don’t know much about her and I won’t have time to find out, but it’s probably better that way. I wouldn’t chance bringing her to the dacha otherwise. Too many painful memories.
This place belongs to the Night Governor, but Sasha and our friends use it. I never really understood what Guelman saw in a bunch of no-hopers from the same orphanage. He’s a sick fuck, but in a twisted way, I’m grateful to him.
The only one of us that didn’t belong in that godforsaken children’s home was Sasha’s sister, Polina. She was too beautiful and gentle for that damned place or this blasted city. I don’t think we’ve brought a woman here since Polina. The house probably smells of men’s socks and stale beer.
I look over at my little songbird. She’s wearing my coat, but her legs stick out the bottom, amid a clatter of beads and chains. I’m just thinking about stripping off her layers when the phone rings.
“Vadim, you still in town or did you leave?” Sasha’s voice stretches out across the darkness.
“I’m on the way to the dacha. Almost there.” My eyes scan the lines of snow-crusted branches and the white flash of birch trunks. “Trouble?”
“Nothing has blown up yet. Antonov is talking with the Night Governor. I’m going to lie low and hope I don’t have to go to the ass end of Siberia. It’s probably good that you’re out of town. Is she with you?”
“Yeah, fast asleep. I think the time difference knocked her out.” I keep my eyes on the dark road as trees flash by the windows.
“What’s the attraction? She’s not your usual type. Since when do you hang out with sleeping women? Aren’t you usually in and out too quickly for anyone to catch any shut-eye?” He chuckles to himself at his poor joke. Sasha’s no better with women than I am, but he’s a handsome fucker, so he’s not spoiled for choice.
“Maybe it’s a palate cleanser. I like it out in the woods, and it’s not like I can bring Oksana or one of the other dancers out here. Sleeping or awake, there would be drama, and then they’d get ideas and I’d never be able to shake them off. This is simple. I’m putting her on a plane on Sunday. A nice, clean break. I can come back into town when I drop her off.”
“I’ll let you know,” he clips out.
Hanging up the phone, I listen to the snowbound silence and the ticking of the engine. I can hear her soft breathing next to me. I’m playing at being someone else: the kind of man who does good turns for women without expecting something in return. It’s a game, but it’s a game I can play a couple of hands of this weekend.
I know it can’t last.
I glance down at the sleeping woman at my side as night shrouds the trees. There’s nothing but headlights on the snow and the soft sound of her breath next to me and the rapid beating of my heart. For the next twenty-four hours, I can be anyone. If that’s not a fairy tale, then I don’t know what is.