Misha took another gulp of coffee, trying to weigh up whether he should put the question to her he had in mind.
‘Are you free for dinner tonight? I go back to Leningrad tomorrow.’ He could see her hesitating; being asked out by showroom clients must be an occupational hazard, he thought. ‘A business proposal,’ he added, trying to reassure her. He saw her relax a little.
‘And you can practise your Russian. You name the time and place’
‘All right,’ she said, giving in. ‘Eight this evening.’ She suggested a local restaurant not far from where he was staying.
For the next two hours she changed in and out of another dozen or so styles. Finally, they finished. He reckoned up the order.
‘Are you going to pay in cash?’ Ilaria asked him in Russian. ‘You could probably get another 15 per cent off these list prices.’
From his satchel Misha extracted a wad of neatly bound US dollar bills, in varying denominations and condition, each totalling one hundred dollars. He stacked them carefully on the table and pushed them forward. He was making a bet with his entire life savings.
‘Ask for twenty-five.’ Misha gave her her due, she didn’t hesitate in relaying his offer in Italian. Luigi punched at the calculator in his hand; more, Misha thought, to give himself time to weigh up his offer. It was a simple choice: cash up front, no risk, no agent’s percentage, a direct sale into a promising new market – his first Russian customer.
‘And tell Luigi that if this goes well I’ll be back and I’ll want exclusive distribution rights for his line in Russia.’ Misha was looking directly at Luigi as he spoke.
Luigi put down the calculator. ‘Did I tell you where I met Michael, Ilaria?’ said Luigi. She shook her head. ‘At the bar, in the finest hotel in Leningrad, doing his homework, talking with businessmen, picking their brains… I think he’ll go far. D’accordo! Twenty-five per cent.’ He grinned and held out his hand. They shook on it.
Misha counted out the agreed amount and pointed to several empty canvas bags next to Ivan. ‘Please pack the order in these. We’ll be back at eleven tomorrow morning to collect.’
Leaving Ivan to do his own thing, Misha spent the latter part of the hot afternoon absorbing Milan. He wished he had allowed himself more time now, time to map it all out: high street to high-end boutique.
He stopped outside a men’s store. A beautifully cut suit had caught his eye in the window. He stood staring at it, hesitating. It struck him as strange that he didn’t have to be a high party member to go in. In Milan he was as entitled as anyone. A smartly dressed doorman standing inside opened the door for him.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked a sales assistant the moment he stepped onto the marble floor. He was mid-twenties, Misha guessed, and wore a close-fitting black suit, white shirt, black tie and patent black leather shoes.
‘I am from Russia,’ said Misha in heavily accented English, hoping it would explain everything.
Misha pointed at the black suit in the window. The sales assistant led him over to the suit rail and, guessing his size, unhooked one.
‘This is the same as the one in the window: Zegna, an excellent make. Would you like to try it on?’ Misha tried not to wince at the price on the ticket.
Twenty minutes later, Misha left with a new suit, two white shirts and a new pair of soft leather shoes. It was an altogether new experience. The sales assistant could not have been more charming or the quality of clothing more extraordinary. He felt embarrassed thinking about the suit hanging on his door at home and determined to give it away at the first opportunity.
Back at the hotel, Misha wrote down everything he remembered while it was still fresh in his memory. By the time he had finished it had already turned seven fifteen. He quickly showered and changed into his new clothes. Standing in front of the wall mirror, he was shocked at how different he looked. Gone was the rough-looking young Russian; before him stood an entirely different character, well dressed, Italian style. He squared up to the mirror, ran his hands through his still damp, vaguely long fair hair, and over his unplanned designer stubble. The jacket fitted his broad shoulders perfectly, tapering at the waist. He tugged down his white shirt cuffs, leaving an inch or so showing, copying the way the mannequin had been dressed in the window. Any lingering uncertainty about spending so much money evaporated.
At a little before eight Misha seated himself at the bar of the restaurant where they had agreed to meet. He ordered a Peroni recommended by the bartender and wondered what Ivan was up to. Italian women, he knew, would have been his first priority. Sat there, facing the bar, enjoying his drink and air conditioning, Misha reflected on the last two days, the experiences it had brought and how a three-hour flight had delivered him to a new world, unimagined. The sound of a Russian female voice behind him jolted him out of his reverie.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ she said.
He turned round. Ilaria was wearing high heels, black leggings and a diaphanous black silk top. Her hair was no longer fastened back but fell straight on her shoulders, her eye make-up subtle but smouldering.
He could see her taking in his new attire, reappraising him.
‘Zegna,’ she said, looking at his suit; a statement not a question. He was impressed.
He ordered a glass of Soave from the bartender as she swivelled onto the stool next to him, crossing her long legs only inches from his.
They touched bottle and glass.
‘Ilaria,’ he said trying out the name.
‘Mikhail Dimitrivich.’ She had heard Ivan use his first name and patronymic in affectionate frustration during the afternoon session.
‘Misha… that’s what my friends call me.’
‘Misha then,’ Ilaria repeated, introductions settled. ‘And what do you think of Milan?’
‘How long have you got? It is difficult to take in how much you have of everything… back home even basics are hard to come by… even things like shoes,’ he added, thinking of the shoes he had brought with him, another item he vowed never to wear again.
‘Back home,’ he said again, his expression hardening slightly, ‘there are shoe shops but often there are no shoes. If you find a pair that fit you, if you are that lucky, you buy them; if they don’t fit, you buy them anyway and advertise a swap for your size in the newspaper.’ He could see her struggling with the reality of what he said. ‘Ask your mother, but maybe it was better back then.’ Her expression softened a little.
‘And what about pere—?’
‘Perestroika… before we had a bad plan, now we have no plan. Shortages are worse than before… much worse.’
‘But you have been allowed to travel. My mother told me how difficult it was in her time to leave. Isn’t that a change?’
‘Yes. It’s just that hardly anyone has woken up to the fact, or they don’t believe it will last… and maybe it won’t. People fear that the hardliners will seize power again, especially now, when there is little sign of progress… they should see Milan! Maybe that would change their minds. The opportunity though is huge, for those willing to step into the vacuum.’
‘Are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m here. That’s a start.’
The restaurant owner arrived and led them to their table. Misha followed Ilaria, this time without the added complication of having to decide whether to buy what she was wearing.
Ilaria translated the menu for him. She described food he had never encountered before. In the end they plumped on bruschetta to share as a starter and seafood risotto and pumpkin ravioli as a main. Ilaria choose the wine – a dry white Verdicchio.