He asked to be let off at the corner of Nevsky and Marat. After paying he realized he had to reallocate his money. He took a few bills out of his wad and put those in his pants pocket and the rest in his jacket, next to his heart. Laughing at himself, he crossed the street and caught another cab, this time quite successfully. The cabbie was young and smirky and looked like a lazy scoundrel. The writer liked scoundrels, he’d spent many years among scoundrels and knew how to behave in their society. He showed his money and explained what he needed to do. The cabbie’s gray eye and gold tooth flashed gamely. He was taking no risk. Better to stand around than drive. Better to do nothing than something. Naturally, given a previously agreed upon payment; money up front.
They idled across the street where they could see both the room windows and the hotel entrance. The wait could take hours; the writer relaxed and lowered his seat back slightly.
Bored, the cabbie inevitably struck up the usual, fairly pointless conversation, but the writer immediately interrupted him and started talking himself, and it was a monologue. He had long known that you could calm any idle chatterer if you immediately sucked up all the air. And forced him to listen to you. The writer had a few monologues at the ready, each of which could be made to last as long as needed. The total corruption, war, gas prices in Europe and Asia, weapons, prison, the outrages of traffic cops, air travel, games of chance, cars and motorcycles. Once I was in Barcelona; and once I was in Amsterdam. Generalities were not advisable—the chatterer would interrupt you right away. You needed concrete stories fashioned in keeping with the rules of dramaturgy, with a beginning, middle, and end. Mentions of large sums of money go down well. One time, there I was giving someone fifty thousand German marks—that was before the euro came in—and the man arrived for the meeting with a rubber belt under his shirt to hide his riches on his person, and he was amazed when he saw a thin stack instead of lots of raggedy bills; he didn’t know there were thousand-mark bills… And so on. The stories leapt out of the writer by themselves, one led to another, the episodes were recast in decisive criminal slang, rough curses, and minimal gestures.
Thus passed nearly four hours. The driver was tired— chatterers don’t know how to listen—and had smoked all the cigarettes the man had given him. And then the writer saw his wife.
Basically, the earlier arrangement was repeated, only in reverse. First, in lively conversation and even with little explosions of carefree laughter, the three persons of the female persuasion passed by; the male person, by now tieless, coat flapping open, was bringing up the rear of the procession. His left arm dragged a solidly filled package bearing the logo of a cheap supermarket. Tensing, the writer managed to make out his perfectly ordinary face in the light of the streetlamp. The heavy cheeks of a thirty-year-old not inclined to adventures, moderately charming, inoffensive. The writer managed to glimpse the gentleman checking out his female companions’ figures. He’s choosing, the writer thought angrily. Three of them, one of him, and the whole night ahead… But if it’s her and him, that’s a disaster. He’s boring. He has boring hair, boring ears, boring boots. What’s he got in that package? Kefir?
The windows lit up, and again vague shadowy patches began to move behind the curtains. The writer got out. After the stuffy car the air seemed prickly and sweet. He took out his phone and called.
“Everything’s fine,” his wife said matter-of-factly. “I just got back, I’m tired, and I’m going to bed. What are you doing?”
They lobbed a number of everyday questions and answers at each other and said goodbye. The writer paced back and forth. A car passing through a puddle gave him a good, stiff splashing.
The light in the room went out, and the curtains were lit up blue from the inside. She’d turned on the television, the writer realized. Or had she? A television masks noise well. For instance, in prison, if you had to break some idiot’s bones, first you turned up the volume on the television and only then called the idiot in for a chat.
Who is the idiot now? the writer asked himself. Me, naturally.On the other side of that wall, in their room, they’re watching television. They have a blanket, pillows, and tea. Maybe even wine. Actually, his wife barely drank. Whereas I have a heavy sky, icy damp creeping under my collar, and next to me a greedy fool with yellow nails on his short fingers.
The light went out, eleven o’clock—what should he do? Where should he go? Tomorrow afternoon she’d return home. He hadn’t seen, hadn’t understood anything.
He went back to the car and immediately caught a familiar whiff that called up a number of the most varied associations. The driver was looking in his direction.
“I could go for a joint myself,” the writer declared. “Got anything?”
“Not on me.”
They quickly came to an agreement and drove off. In the process of making the deal they’d had to find out something about each other. The driver’s name was Peter.
“Bear in mind, I’m not the pusher,” Peter warned. “But I can introduce you. It’s nearby. Liteyny Prospect.”
The apartment—huge, in an old building—turned out to be something between a squat and a lair. The young guy who led the guests in looked like Jesus gone to drink. A lump of gray ash hung in his beard. While the writer was considering whether to take off his boots, a petite young woman in an alcoholic’s tank top and outsize camo pants emerged from the depths of a dark hallway on her way to the kitchen, holding onto the wall, which was covered with pieces of different-colored paper instead of wallpaper; her left arm was adorned with a badly wrapped gray bandage. The writer decided to keep his boots on.
Entering this place, the driver was subtly transformed and became both looser and cruder. He curtly reproached Jesus for being hammered again and looked at the girl with undisguised hatred. The writer picked up on this immediately and tensed. He himself had not experienced hatred for many years and hoped never to experience it again.
“For you,” Peter told Jesus, and he nodded at the writer, who straightened the strap on his backpack, making it clear he was a guest, a stranger, he’d come on business and would leave right away, as soon as he got what he needed.
“Follow me,” Jesus responded in English, and he smiled at the writer and stepped into the hallway’s dimness. He moved slowly and smoothly. He threw back a blanket covered in large fuchsia flowers that served as a door and led the writer and driver into a room hung solid with watercolors of flowers, eyes, and clouds in various combinations and even symbioses: some flowers had pupils and lashes, while the clouds looked like blossoms with partly opened petals. The illustrator didn’t have much talent but was obviously a very passionate creature, and the writer chuckled to himself; he himself wrote books that had passion but not much talent.
“I’m not the pusher,” Peter repeated, flashing his tooth. “Talk to him.” And he pointed to Jesus.
Jesus smiled again, calmly and shyly.
The writer didn’t like dealers; he silently pulled out a large bill and set it on the edge of the table, which was covered with dirty glasses and cups. Jesus nodded and left the room.
“This is my pad,” Peter announced carelessly, moving the clothes off the couch and taking a seat. “Well, nearly mine. Two rooms out of five. My granny dies, I’ll have three rooms. Some businessman already bought the other two. Granny dies, I’ll sell him the third. My sister and I’ll be left with a room apiece. We’ll split the money”—he snapped his fingers—”and I’ll buy a boat. In the summer I’ll take tourists around, and in the winter I’ll go where it’s warm. Rostov, Sochi…” He fell silent, then added, “But Granny isn’t dying.”