I woke up with a start to see a peeping Tom staring at me.
‘What do you think you’re staring at, you faggot?’
He zigzagged off, looking over his shoulder once or twice.
I don’t understand why I’m so drowsy today. It must be this weather, this storm that refuses to break. It’s like being locked in a cleaning cupboard.
Rudi and I have always enjoyed a very liberal relationship. Don’t be fooled by appearances! He’s an uncut diamond, and the love we have for each other runs deep, strong, and true. The lovers I took before Rudi were older men, who used to protect and nurture me. I won’t deny that Rudi brings out a maternal streak in me. But the bullshit that says a woman has to be one man’s slave and never even look at another man, that died out with my mother’s two-faced generation and good riddance! If she really believed that, where did I come from? Both Rudi and I go on dates with other people: quite informally, and it doesn’t mean anything. In Rudi’s work, escorts are often a necessary part of the right image. I don’t mind. He couldn’t conduct his business if he didn’t have the right image. It’s not that I’m getting too old to go with Rudi or anything, it’s just that I’ve done all that scene before, and frankly, it bores me. Usually, Rudi introduces me to some of his gentleman friends, always men of the very highest predigree, and always very rich, as you’d expect. Rudi knows that I used to be a social firefly, and doesn’t like to see me fester in our little home. Rudi’s friends are often in town on business, and they just want a little feminine company to show them around. Rudi knows how gifted I am at handling men, and making them feel at ease. They always express their appreciation to Rudi in a financial dimension, and sometimes Rudi insists that I take some expenses for my time too, though God knows, that’s not what I’m interested in. It doesn’t mean anything. Rudi knows he is the centre of my world, and I know that I am the centre of his.
The evening is waiting in Head Curator Rogorshev’s office. I have the windows open, and the electric fan on, but my sweaty lingerie is still sticking to my skin. The tip of my cigarette glows in the gloom.
Nemya, my little cat, will want to be fed. But Rudi won’t be back yet, and Mr Suhbataar never answers the telephone. Mr Suhbataar. He’s a strange man. I’ve barely seen him. Once I got used to the shock of his sudden arrival a week ago, things worked out all right. He’s quieter than Nemya, and often when I think he isn’t at home I’ll pass by him on the way to the kitchen, or when I think he is at home I’ll knock on his door, and there’s nobody in. I’ve never seen him eat anything, I’ve never even seen him use the toilet! He drinks, though, glass after glass of milk. When he shuts a door there’s no sound. And when I ask him about his family or about Mongolia, he’ll give answers which don’t sound evasive at the time, but when I sit down and think about what he said later I realise that he’s told me absolutely nothing. I have strong powers of insight and intuition, and my grandmother possessed the power to place curses. So I can usually see right through people, but it’s as though Mr Suhbataar is invisible in the first place. He is handsome, in a slight, hawkish, semi-Oriental way. I wonder what kind of woman he likes? Savage Wild Asian, or Refined Lacy European? Assuming he likes women, and he’s not another Jerome. No. He’s real man. I wonder what Mongolia’s like. I must ask him before he leaves.
The telephone goes. I let the Head Curator’s new answerphone take the call.
‘Margarita? It’s Rogorshev Rabbit. Are you there? Pick up the phone... don’t be cross with me, you know how much it cuts me up...’ I can’t be bothered. Another cigarette. ‘I forgot to tell you. It’s my wife’s anniversary. I promised her I’d take her and the kids to some new movie. Some nonsense about dinosaurs... I’m sorry, my fairy cake... Next week? Are you there? No? Okay... Well, I hope you get this message...’
I see. So, I did my make-up for nothing. Waste of time. Waste of money. Men don’t know how expensive decent cosmetics are. I hope there’s a fire in the cinema and all the little Rogorshevs turn into potato crisps. I can crunch them to crumbs, like I will their father.
The Head of Security was reading the sports pages, chewing a brick-sized sandwich that dripped red jam. The tinny radio was on in the background. ‘Good evening, Madame Latunsky,’ he said silkily. ‘How was your day? Quiet?’ He groped down his pants to re-position his balls. ‘Or were you tied up with business in our Head Curator’s office?’
Fat bastard. ‘Did your ambassadors have a nice time?’
‘Oh yes, yes, dare say we gave them something to brag about with their mistresses.’ He looked at me for just a moment too long.
I lit a cigarette. You are going down, Fatso. Enjoy it while it lasts, because you are going to be in prison by the end of the month. ‘Floor-polishing night, next week. The head of the cleaning company phoned Head Curator Rogorshev’s office just now to confirm. Usual time. It seems he’ll be coming along again himself this month, just to make sure the waxing machines run smoothly.’
The Head of Security swivelled round on his squeaky chair to look at the office blackboard. ‘Right you are.’
I knock Rudi’s stupid code on my own door, but there’s nobody home. No Mr Suhbataar, no Rudi, not even little Nemya. I take a shower to wash away the day’s grime and the make-up. Green eye shadow and apricot blusher lost down the plug-hole. The bathroom is much cleaner than usuaclass="underline" Mr Suhbataar always cleans up after himself. He even cleans up after me. I don’t trust men who clean up after themselves. Jerome’s another one. Give me a slob like Rudi, any day. I force myself to eat a boiled egg, and sit down by the window to watch the canal. A pleasure craft chugs into view, with a cargo of tourists. I see my son and daughter amongst them, laughing at something I can’t see. Blond-haired toddlers. I want to go out but I can’t think where. I have many close friends, of course, all over the city. Or I could hop on the overnight train to Moscow and stay with some of my friends from my theatre days there. I haven’t been to Moscow for years. They are always clamouring for me to visit, but I tell them, it’s a question of time. I can invite them to Switzerland when I’m settled, of course. They can stay in the guest chalet I’m going to have built. They’ll be green with envy! I’ve decided to live near a waterfall, so I can drink fresh water from the glaciers every day. St Petersburg water contains so many metals it’s almost magnetic. I’ll keep hens. Why am I crying?
What’s wrong with me tonight? Maybe I need a man. I could put on that pair of unladdered red fishnet tights, slip into the new black velvet suit Rudi got me as an extra birthday present last week — and go and pick up some young boy with a motorbike, in a leather jacket and with thick black hair and a powerful jaw... just for fun. I haven’t done that for a long time. Rudi wouldn’t mind, especially if he didn’t know about it. I said, we have a modern give-and-take relationship.
But no. I only want Rudi. I want Rudi’s shoulders, and his hands, and his smell, and his belt. I want to feel Rudi’s lunges, even if it hurts a little. Look at the rooftops, spires, cupolas, factory chimneys... Rudi is out there somewhere, thinking about me.
From Lapland comes a front of thunder, and when I look to where the night melts into the storm, I see a lick of lightning, and I wonder where my little Nemya could have got to.