But then Gorbachev was making conversation, “So now, Mr. Golden, with your lovely Russian wife you are one of us, almost, I would say, and I can see you are a man of consequence, so allow me to ask you…” Except that this wasn’t Gorbachev talking, it was his interpreter who was called maybe Pavel, peering over Gorbachev’s shoulder from behind like a second head, and speaking so soon after the former president that he was almost in lip sync, which meant either that he was the greatest, fastest interpreter ever, or that he was making the English up, or that Gorbachev always said the same kind of thing. In any case Nero Golden in his immense and mounting irritation at Vasilisa’s behavior wasn’t going to allow himself to be interrogated by the guest of honor and interrupted him to ask a question of his own.
“I have business associates in the city of Leipzig, formerly in GDR,” he said. “They told me an interesting story and I would be pleased to hear your comment.”
Gorbachev’s face became grave. “What is the story,” his second-head Pavel asked.
“During the unrest of 1989,” Nero Golden said, “when the protesters took refuge in the Thomaskirche, the church of Bach, the chief of the East German Communist party, Herr Honecker, wanted to send in troops with machine guns and kill everyone and so much for the revolution, it would be gone. But because of the proposal to use the army against civilians he had to call you for permission, and you refused it, and after that it was only a matter of days until the fall of the Wall.”
Neither Gorbachev nor his second head said a word.
“So my question is this,” Nero Golden said. “When you received that phone call and were asked that question, was your refusal instinctive and automatic…or did you have to think about it?”
“What is the purpose of this inquiry?” Gorbachev-Pavel said with grim faces.
“It is to raise the question of the value of human life,” Nero Golden said.
“And what is your view on the subject?” the two Gorbachevs asked.
“Russians have always taught us,” Nero said, and now there was no mistaking his deliberate hostility, “that the individual life is expendable when set against reasons of state. This we know from Stalin, and also the poison-tipped umbrella murder in London of Georgi Markov and polonium poisoning of KGB refugee Alexander Litvinenko. Also, this journalist hit by a car, that journalist also accidentally deceased, though these are of secondary concern. Regarding human value, the Russians show us the road to the future. In this year events in the Arab world confirm, and will soon further confirm this. Osama is dead, I have no problem. Gaddafi is gone, poof, let him go. But now we will see that the revolutionaries, their end too will come soon. Life itself goes on, unkind to many. The living are of small importance to the business of the world.”
The table was silent. Then Gorbachev’s second head spoke even though Gorbachev himself said nothing. “Georgi Markov,” the second head said, “was Bulgarian.”
Gorbachev answered very slowly, in English. “It is not an appropriate forum for this conversation,” he said.
“I will take my leave,” Nero answered, nodding. He raised an arm and his wife at once rose from her friends’ table and followed him to the door. “Magnificent evening,” he said to the room at large. “Our thanks.”
WIDE SHOT. MANHATTAN STREET. NIGHT.
A YOUNGISH MAN, tall, muscular, maybe forty, with hair oddly, prematurely white, wearing aviator shades even though it is night, a person who could be a tennis coach or a personal trainer, walks with his date, a petite BLOND WOMAN with a resemblance to another personal trainer, down Broadway toward Union Square, past the AMC Loews at Nineteenth Street, past ABC Carpet, past the third, penultimate location of the Andy Warhol Factory at 860 Broadway and then the second location, in the Decker Building at Sixteenth Street. Considering their solitude, the absence of security, he is probably not a billionaire, and does not own a large red yacht or a one-and-a-half-million-dollar hypercar. He is just a guy alone with a girl in the city after dark.
Music is playing. Unexpectedly it is a Bollywood song, “Tuhi Meri Shab Hai,” and the lyrics are subtitled. You alone are my night. You only are my day. The song comes from a film released in 2006, starring Kangana Ranaut. The name of the film is Gangster.
NARRATOR (V/O)
According to The New York Times, homicides in America reached an alarming peak in the 1990s but are now near historic lows. There are fears that the heroin epidemic and a resurgence of gang violence may push the numbers up again in some cities: Chicago, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Dallas, Memphis. However, more optimistically, in New York City there has been a twenty-five percent year-on-year decrease.
The man in the aviator shades and the woman with the highly toned arms are crossing the park now, walking between the statue of George Washington and the entrance to the subway station.
The song continues, growing louder, with no need for subtitles:
SONG
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
As the YOUNGISH MAN and the BLOND WOMAN pass the subway entrance, a SECOND MAN comes out of it, moving fast, wearing a motorcycle helmet, pulls out a handgun with a silencer, shoots the YOUNGISH MAN, once, in the back of the head; and as he falls and the BLOND WOMAN opens her mouth to scream he shoots her, too, very fast, once, between the eyes. She falls straight down onto her knees and remains like that, head bowed, kneeling, dead. The YOUNGISH MAN lies facedown in front of her. The SECOND MAN walks away quickly, but not running, to the corner of Fourteenth and University, past the chess players’ zone, still holding the weapon. There are no chess players, it’s too late at night. There is however a MOTORCYCLIST waiting for him. He drops the gun in the trash bin on the corner, gets on the man’s motorbike and they leave. Only now, when the motorbike has gone, do POLICE OFFICERS emerge from the squad cars stationed around the square and move quickly to the kneeling woman and the fallen man.
Cut.
INTERIOR. NERO GOLDEN’S BEDROOM. NIGHT.
VASILISA is fast asleep in their large bed with its ornate, gilded rococo headboard. NERO’s eyes, too, are closed. Then, in an EFFECT SHOT, he “steps out of his body” and walks to the window. This ghost-self is transparent. The camera, behind him, sees through him to the heavy drapes, which he slightly parts, to look down at the Gardens. The “real” NERO continues to sleep in his bed.