Stepanov reclines in his chair. ‘I was telling Martin how Russians accept life as it is.’
Colin grabs the copy of The Exile. ‘Interesting,’ he says, referring either to The Exile cover — which shows a naked woman holding a hand grenade — or to Stepanov’s remark.
‘Martin is giving up dyevs,’ Stepanov says.
‘Again?’ Colin says. He’s wearing a brownish shirt, the logo of an expensive Italian designer stamped on his chest. ‘Is it because of your Siberian dyev?’
‘Tatyana,’ I say. ‘This time I’m really done. I need to take it easier.’
‘That’s great,’ Diego says, taking off his cap and rearranging his long hair. ‘I knew this was going to work. She’s beautiful.’
‘Bullshit,’ Colin says. ‘You’ve said that before. How many Tatyanas have you been with?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, irritated by the question. ‘Two. Perhaps three.’
‘So,’ Colin says, ‘this is Tatyana Four?’
In my mobile phone, I realise, she remains Tatyana Evans.
‘What’s your point?’ I say.
Colin grabs my shoulder and looks at me with a half-smile. ‘We’ve been over this, there’s no point wasting your time with one single dyev in Moscow.’
‘I can’t keep meeting new dyevs every week,’ I say. ‘I’m sick of all the plotting and scheming, of switching my phone off in the evenings, of having to come up with excuses all the time. I want to enjoy cooking at home, watching films, reading books, going to the theatre.’
‘You can do all that back in Europe,’ Colin says. ‘Why waste your Moscow time with books when you can enjoy real life?’
‘Maybe I’m not that excited about real life,’ I say. ‘Look at us. We get pissed, meet dyevs, then what? What’s the point of all this?’
‘Martin’s been reading Chekhov again,’ Stepanov says.
Stepanov and Colin laugh. The ravens, which have been silently approaching our table, retreat a couple of metres, wings fluttering.
Colin leans over the table. ‘Martin,’ he says, ‘fucking around is a great way to be happy.’ He glances over the terrace, then he drops his hand on my shoulder and looks into my eyes. ‘There is nothing sinful about fucking around.’
‘I just want a simpler life.’ I point at the copy of The Exile. ‘Maybe I’m getting too old for all this.’
Colin moves The Exile away from me, as if my finger-pointing were desecrating a holy text.
Diego is hiding behind one of Starlite’s laminated menus. ‘Martin is right,’ he says. ‘If he is happy with Tatyana, why should he meet other dyevs?’
‘So what,’ Colin says, ‘now you are giving up sex?’
The white-haired expats are looking at us from the other table.
‘If you stop sleeping around,’ Stepanov says, ‘your life will lose all its excitement.’
‘Excitement,’ I say. ‘Is that what we’re after?’
Stepanov shrugs his shoulders. ‘What’s wrong with excitement?’
‘Isn’t there anything more durable?’ I say. ‘More meaningful?’
‘Man, you need to stop reading Russian books,’ Colin says. ‘Excitement keeps you alive. It’s not the sex, it’s the chase. That’s the fun part of life. Do you know what the main difference between young and old men is?’
I lean back in the chair. ‘Age?’
‘Older men have given up on the chase,’ Colin says. ‘Once you stop looking for sexual partners, that’s death, man. Life becomes this dull, boring experience.’
‘Maybe a dull life is not such a bad thing,’ I say. ‘Maybe a dull life allows you to appreciate the beauty of it all.’
‘You’ll always have time for a quieter life down the road,’ Colin says. ‘When you leave Russia.’
‘Maybe I don’t need to leave Russia. I could stick around here. Make more money, buy a dacha. Grow vegetables, read, write. Live in touch with nature, like Tolstoy. Be happy.’
‘Tolstoy wasn’t happy,’ Stepanov says. ‘He was tormented. And he fucked his maids and peasants all the time.’
‘You know what I mean,’ I say.
‘Nobody is happy all of the time,’ Colin says, as the first drops of rain pepper our table. ‘Life is like a big ocean of boredom and then you bump into little islands of happiness. Total happiness doesn’t exist. Imagine that you marry your dyev, move to a dacha in Siberia and build yourself a quiet life. You’ll be going deeper into the ocean, with no happy islands in sight. Man, stop fucking with your head and enjoy what Moscow has to offer.’
‘So when does it stop?’ I say.
Colin raises his arms. ‘Stop what?’
‘The chase,’ I say. ‘The fucking around.’
‘Your dick will tell you when,’ Colin says. ‘He’ll know when you’re done.’
51
FIRST I SEE A PAIR of black leather boots. Spiny high heels, shiny leather. I’ve never seen her wear that kind of footwear before. I’m at the bar, ordering a round of drinks for the brothers. She’s on the dance floor. Not even sure it’s her. Not just the boots. The way she dances, elbows in the air, breasts pushed out.
It’s been a while since I last came to the Boarhouse. We used to come often during my first year, usually on Wednesdays, to enjoy the Countdown, back then the best happy hour deal in town. But today is Saturday, there’s no happy hour and we shouldn’t be at the Boarhouse.
These days the place is trashy. For some reason it’s maintained its two fuckies in The Exile. The Boarhouse remains a popular place among white-haired expats, those who don’t care about trendy clubs or are too old and too ugly to make it through face control. But earlier in the night we were at the Bavarian Brewery, drinking large jugs of beer with a bunch of expat football buddies and someone had suggested we go for drinks at the Boarhouse. And here we are. Wasted.
I pay for the drinks, ship them back to the brothers. I’m holding my shot of vodka in one hand, bottle of beer in the other. I drain the vodka at once, leave the empty glass on the table, take a sip of beer to wash it down. With the bottle of beer in my hand, I stumble out of the bar area and thread my way between the people, towards the dance floor.
Up close the boots look more plastic than leather. She’s wearing heavy make-up, bright red lipstick, thick eyeliner, her face more aggressive and hostile than I remember. Lost in the dancing, she doesn’t notice me. Deep inside, I still hope it’s not her. She’s dancing in a group of four, with another dyev and two older guys, clearly expats. They seem to be coupled up. Her girlfriend dances next to a tall guy with glasses, late forties. She — now I’m sure it’s her — is dancing with the older man, fifty-something, fat and bald, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, sweaty around the armpits.
Old disco hits from the 1980s blast through the loudspeakers. Dyevs in the club seem to love the music and are dancing with their arms up in the air, twisting their bodies in inelegant ways.