‘That won’t be necessary,’ said the Head of Security, staring daggers at Gutbucket Petrovich. ‘The Head of Security makes these kinds of decisions. Not a gallery attendant supervisor.’
Rudi stood up. ‘Very glad to hear it.’ He barged past Gutbucket Petrovich, who was left to stew in her own juices — the only juices that she’d ever know in her lifetime. Through the door of the porter’s lodge I could see Rudi trundling the third waxing machine into the back of his van, still in the loading bay. I noticed he’d left his papers on the desk, so that I could pick them up, and follow him. We’re a team of professionals. Sure enough, he was waiting for me in the back of the van.
‘Babe,’ he muttered, ‘I’m going to go to Jerome’s first, to drop off the painting. I’ll be back later. There’s one or two of Gregorski’s people I need to see first.’
‘Suhbataar?’
‘Never mind who. I’ll see you soon.’
‘I love you.’ What else could I have said?
The backs of his fingers brushed my breasts. He jumped down to get the last waxing machine. The one with the Delacroix hidden in its undercarriage, still in the loading bay. So close now, so close.
‘Well, you must be very pleased with yourself, Latunsky.’ Gutbucket Petrovich’s head and shoulders appeared in the loading door of the van.
Why choose now to stop ignoring me? ‘Why! It can talk, after all.’
She rolled up a strip of chewing gum, put it in, and bit down hard. She folded her arms. ‘Do you really think a nobody like you is going to get away with this?’
‘I have no idea what you think you’re talking about.’
She smirked as she chewed. I wondered what to do. How could she know? ‘Drop the ham acting, Latunsky. Everyone knows about the little game you’re running here.’
Behind her, out of sight of the gloom of the lodge, Rudi had picked up a monkey wrench and was walking up very slowly behind her, his forefinger over his lips. My mind raced ahead, saw the steel flashing down onto her skull — I felt — I don’t know what I felt — keep her talking, keep her talking, I felt afraid, a part of me even wanting to warn her, but another part of me felt warm and hungry. Don’t move a muscle, bitch. Bunnykins is coming.
‘And what little game would that be?’ We would dump her body in the marshes out towards Finland...
‘Stop playing games! You’re lousy at it! I’m talking about your little scheme to pull yourself up into the high life, of course!’ That look in Rudi’s eyes, bad cocaine. Gutbucket thinks she has me on the run. Ravens would come and peck out those beady eyes of hers. Wild dogs would fight over her belly, arse and thighs, the stronger getting the juicier cuts. Her life is in my hands, and she doesn’t even know it... I no longer want her to run away, and I have to stop myself laughing. She’s still chewing, her fat face, badly in need of an expensive beautician. ‘You’re after Head Curator’s job, aren’t you? Sleeping your way into his office chair! You’re just a shameless whore, Latunsky. That’s what you’ve always been and that’s all you ever will be.’
Rudi lowered the monkey wrench, and I laughed, and spat at her. That got rid of her.
I finished my cigarette. Even the bats had gone. What was wrong now?
Nothing, that was what. I checked my watch: 2.24 a.m. The picture would be safely stowed at Jerome’s, Suhbataar would be handing over the cash from the buyers, and I could start packing for Switzerland. After all these years I was finally getting out! In the iron curtain years Switzerland was as near in dreams and far in fact as the Emerald City. I attacked the rest of the stairs. It was natural I should be jittery. I’d just stolen a painting worth half a million dollars.
I knocked Rudi’s code on my front door, just to please him. But there was no reply. Well. I hadn’t expected one. He’d be home soon.
In my hallway I clicked the light-switch, but the bulb had broken. I clicked a switch further down the hallway, but the second light also wasn’t working. Odd. The electricity must be down. But I didn’t really need electricity tonight, anyway. The White Nights were here, and the sky over towards Europe was lit by perpetual dusk and the milky way. I walked into my living room, saw my coffee table with its legs in the air and my nerves snapped like a string of cat-gut.
My room had been wrecked.
The shelves yanked off the walls, the TV smashed, the vases flung to the ground. The drawers ripped out, the contents hurled across the room. The pictures methodically pulled apart and tossed aside, one by one. My clothes foraged through and ripped to ribbons. Shards of glass littered the carpet like dinosaur teeth.
Who would want to do this to me?
All this destruction, all this silence.
Oh God, not Rudi. Was he safe? Had he been taken?
A corner of shadow was twitching under the wreck of the dining table. I felt my throat constricting and refusing to swallow. My eyes strained to read the swarmy dark. The corner of shadow was a pool of blood, blackened by the twilight — I recognised the tiniest of whimpers—
Oh my God oh my God Nemya, not dear little Nemya. I crouched and peered under the table. There was a mesh of torn roots where one of her hind legs should have been. I think she was too close to death to be in pain. Her eyes looked back at me, calm as a Buddha on a hill somewhere, outstaring the sun. She died, leaving me falling alone, unable to see the bottom.
An awful form was floating down the Neva from the marshes. Lazily, on its back, until it reached Alexandra Nevskogo Bridge. It would crawl up a support, and haul its stumps and teeth through the streets, looking for me.
What do I do? What do you always do? ‘Ask your desire!’ orders the serpent.
I went into the bedroom, and telephoned Rudi’s mobile phone number, the one for emergencies. The static hiss sounded like the crashing of waves, or the noise of many coins falling? Thank God, the call connected. I blurted out, ‘Rudi, they’ve turned the flat over—’
A woman’s voice was talking back. A cold, metallic one. Smug as Gutbucket’s.
‘The number you have dialled has been disconnected.’
‘Christ above! Reconnect it, you frigging whore!’
‘The number you have dialled has been disconnected.’
‘The number you have dialled has been disconnected.’
What?
I put down the receiver. What next? Desires. I wanted Switzerland, and Rudi, and our children. So I needed the Delacroix painting. That simple. Rudi will be proud of me. ‘Babe,’ he’ll say, ‘I knew I could rely on you.’
I telephoned Jerome.
‘Hello, my dear. A shplendid evening’sh work.’ His voice was woozy with alcohol.
‘Jerome, have you seen Rudi?’
‘Of coursh, he left here only twenty minutes ago after dropping off the latest addition to our family. My word, she is a beauty, isn’t she? Hey, did I ever tell you about Delacroix’s fling with the nephew of—’
‘Has Suhbataar come yet?’
‘No. The Great Khan telephoned to say he would be arriving shortly — did you know that in the thirteenth century, the Mongolians used to seal their captives in airtight containers and conduct feasting atop the box, listening to the sounds of suffocation—’
‘Jerome, shut up. I’m coming over now. We have to move out.’
‘But my dear, that’s scheduled for tomorrow. And after everything I’ve done I think I deserve not to be told to shut up like I was a—’
‘Tomorrow has to happen now! My place has been done over. I can’t get hold of Rudi. My—’ my cat has been killed, and I felt it move nearer down the river, ‘something’s going wrong. It’s all going wrong. I’m coming over for the painting now. Pack it.’
I hung up. What did I want?