Die for Me Page 5

  A visit to a nearby hairdressing and nail salon completes our makeover. Kristina pays for everything from a large roll of cash, which I’m guessing is Dasha’s. In the salon she sits quietly, staring into space, as Oxana and I are attended to. The stylist gives me a short, choppy bob, while Oxana gets a spiky pixie cut. My nails end up turquoise, hers black. When we’re done Kristina gives us a rare, shy smile. “Now you look like proper Russians,” she tells us.

  Afterward, we take a taxi to Aviatorov Park. Why Kristina wants to take us there, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the nearest thing to a tourist attraction that Avtovo has to offer. As the sky darkens, and flurries of new snow whirl around us, we mooch across the near-deserted park to a frozen lake girded by dark, skeletal trees. On the far shore, a Soviet monument stands on a promontory. A MiG fighter aircraft leaping into the sky, arrested at the moment of takeoff. Kristina indicates it perfunctorily before continuing on her ghostly way along the icy lakeside path. Only then does it occur to me that she has been ordered to keep us away from the apartment for as long as possible, so that Dasha can search our possessions and decide what to do about us. Which might include selling us out.

  I ask Oxana about this, and she’s doubtful. “The only people who’d be interested in me, in us, are the Twelve, and they operate at a much higher level than outfits like the Kupchino Bratva.”

  “Dasha might have heard of them, though. Presumably she has access to all kinds of underworld information sources.”

  “I’m sure she has, but they wouldn’t lead her to the Twelve.”

  “Supposing she did make the connection. Just for the sake of argument.”

  “How would she get in touch with them? On Facebook?”

  I nod, not quite convinced.

  “Look, Dasha didn’t get to be a brigadier in a bratva by being stupid. If she breaks the vory code and betrays me to the Twelve or anyone else, she won’t ever be trusted again. Also, I’d kill her. Maybe not immediately, but one day I’d come for her, and she knows it.”

  Days pass, and I begin to feel stronger. My shoulders are still painful, especially in the mornings, and I can’t walk far without my ankle protesting. But Dasha feeds us well, and the effects of living in a container on starvation rations are beginning to ebb. Oxana runs every day, sometimes for two or three hours, and pushes herself through a rigorous exercise routine on her return. I spend the time trying to improve my Russian by reading Dasha’s back issues of Vogue and listening to Radio Zenith, the local current affairs channel.

  Sleeping with Oxana is so different from sleeping with Niko. Where Niko’s body was unambiguous, so familiar that it was part of my waking and sleeping, Oxana’s body is enigmatic. The more I explore it, the more mysterious it seems. Hard and soft, yielding and predatory. She draws me deeper and deeper. There are times when she slides into an impenetrable silence, or pushes me away from her, tense with anger at some imagined slight, but mostly she’s skittish and tender. She’s like a cat, yawning and stretching and purring, all lean muscle and sheathed claws. When we sleep, she faces outwards and I fold into her. She snores.

  She keeps the details about our departure from England vague, and is confident that Dasha believes her, more or less. She’s asked Dasha about fixing us up with Russian interior passports and new identities. This appears to be possible, for a price.

  What Oxana hasn’t yet raised with Dasha is the question of Lara Farmanyants, currently languishing in Butyrka jail in Moscow. Personally, I’d be happy to see the bitch rot there forever. Not only is she Oxana’s ex, she also tried to kill me. But Oxana wants her out of there, and is planning to ask Dasha whether it might be possible, through her vory connections, to make this happen.

  I try not to let the idea of Lara upset me, but Oxana knows how vulnerable I feel when compared to her former girlfriend, and misses no opportunity to drop references to Lara’s amazing physique, athleticism and sexual virtuosity. There’s a rational part of me that knows that she can’t possibly miss Lara in the way that she claims to, and probably doesn’t give her a moment’s thought from one day to the next. But love is not rational, and for all Oxana’s casual cruelties, I have stopped pretending to myself that I’m not in love with her.

  I know that I can never tell her this, just as I’m certain that she will never tell me that she loves me, because those words have no meaning for her. I know that I have only myself to blame. I believed that I could somehow finesse her affectless nature, and in the cold light of day I see this to be impossible. St. Petersburg winter days are short, however, and the nights are long. In our shared bed, wrapped in darkness and dreams and the warm smell of her body, I find myself believing it again.

  A week after our arrival, Kristina directs Oxana and me to a department store where there is a photo booth. When we return, Dasha takes the prints and tells us that we should have our Russian internal passports and other identity documents within the week. In total, for both of us, the cost will be fifteen hundred U.S. dollars, which Oxana pays immediately. There are cheaper versions available, Dasha says, but they are recognizable as forgeries. I’m glad to see the money handed over, because I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable about accepting Dasha’s hospitality on an indefinite basis, vory code or no vory code. I’m also aware of Oxana’s increasing restlessness, which running and exercise cannot assuage. “I need to work,” she tells me, pacing the flat like a caged panther. “I need to feel I’m alive.”

  “Don’t I make you feel alive?” I ask, and immediately wish that I hadn’t. Oxana turns a pitying gaze on me and says nothing.

  After pocketing the cash for the documents, Dasha informs us that she’s hosting a dinner at the apartment that evening. Her boss is coming, his name is Asmat Dzabrati, and we should address him as Pakhan, or leader. He is a hugely respected figure, apparently. A gangster boss of the old school, who in his younger days was known for dispatching rivals with an ax. With the Pakhan will be the gang’s three other brigadiers, Dasha herself being the fourth. It’s an important occasion, Dasha impresses on us, and she’s anxious for it to go well. Kristina will lend us the appropriate clothes.

  Oxana is in a vile mood, so the session doesn’t go well. She glances into Kristina’s wardrobe, snatches a Saint Laurent tuxedo suit, holds it against herself, glances in the mirror and walks out without a word.

  Kristina watches her go. “Everything OK?”

  “Oh… you know.”

  She smiles faintly. “I do know.”

  “Kristina?”

  “Kris.”

  “Kris… are you with Dasha?”

  “Yes. For a year now.”

  I stare at the array of dresses, not knowing where to start. “Do you love her?” I ask impulsively.

  “Yes, and she loves me. One day we’re going to move out of the city to a village in Karelia. Maybe adopt a daughter.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  She takes a ruffled silk Bora Aksu dress from the rail, looks at it, and frowns. “You and your Oxana. You’re going to live happily ever after, is that the plan?”

  “Something like that.”

  She hands me the dress. “She’s a killer, isn’t she? A professional.”

  I hold her gaze. Listen to the sound of my own breathing.

  “I can recognize them straight away. That look they have. Do you like the name Elvira? I think it’s so pretty for a little girl.”

  Asmat Dzabrati is one of the least remarkable men I’ve ever met. Short, with thinning hair and mild, rabbity eyes, he’s the last of the evening’s guests to arrive. His entrance is low-key, but he’s immediately the center of attention. The Pakhan wields the kind of power that doesn’t proclaim itself, but is evident in the demeanor of others. As he is helped from his shabby overcoat, led to a chair and furnished with a drink, the other guests enact an elaborately deferential dance, positioning themselves around him in hierarchical ranks. The inner circle consists of Dasha and the other brigadiers, then there’s a cordon of bodyguards and foo
t soldiers, and finally the wives and girlfriends. Oxana threads herself between these groups like a shark, never quite finding a resting place, while I drift around the outer perimeter of scented, dressed-to-kill women, smilingly listening in on conversations, and moving on if there’s any suggestion that I’m expected to do more than nod in agreement.

  We’re in the apartment’s principal reception room. This is furnished with heavy grandeur and dominated by a spotlit portrait of Dasha lounging in a smoking jacket, holding a cigar. Opposite the painting, between the tall windows overlooking Stachek Prospekt, an ice sculpture of the Russian president riding a bear drips on a sideboard. At the far end of the room a white-jacketed steward with a bandaged head is serving drinks at a generously stocked bar. Belatedly, I recognize the gang member that Oxana laid out cold in the warehouse. His colleagues mock him, slapping him condescendingly on the cheek as they collect their drinks, laughing at his idiocy in allowing himself to be hospitalized by a woman.

  I take a glass of pink Latvian champagne from the bandaged barman, who eyes me ruefully, and search the crowd for Oxana. She’s deep in conversation with Dasha, and although I can’t hear what either of them is saying I can see the sly flash of Oxana’s eyes and Dasha’s slow, complicit smile. They look at me and laugh, and although I’m tempted to hurl my glass at them, I sip the sweet, ice-cold champagne instead.

  Kris materializes beside me. She looks elegant in gray chiffon, but out of place among the glittering Kupchino Bratva women, like a moth among fireflies. “They’re so boring,” she murmurs to me. “It’s impossible to have an intelligent conversation with any of them. They only talk about three things. Clothes, kids, and how to stop their men screwing around.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Exactly. Oh God! They’re endlessly telling me how the nanny’s so lazy, how she spends her whole time stuffing herself from the fridge and WhatsApping her friends and ignoring little Dima or Nastya, and then they look at me pityingly, like they’ve just remembered, and say, ‘But of course, you haven’t got children, have you? Do you think you might have some if you met the right guy?’ And of course I have to be polite and play along, because Dasha would be high-key angry if I was rude to them, but I want to say, ‘You know what, bitches? There’s never going to be a “right guy,” so suck on that.’”

  For Kris, this is quite a speech.

  “Are you sure this whole vorovskoy mir is for you?” I ask her.

  She gives me a weary smile. “I love Dasha, and this is her world, so I guess it has to be for me. How did you and Oxana meet?”

  I’m wary. Has Dasha instructed her to fish for information about us? But then I drain my champagne glass and look Kristina in the eye, and she’s so transparently guileless, and I so badly need an ally, that I’m almost tempted to tell her the truth.

  I don’t, though.

  Clapping her hands to announce that dinner is served, Dasha squires the Pakhan out of the room. The rest of us follow the two of them at a sedate pace into an ornate dining room, where a long table has been set for twenty. A crystal chandelier sends out rainbow spikes of light, the air is heavy with the scent of lilies, and along the center of the table, framed by gold cutlery and glassware, a glazed sturgeon is laid out like a corpse. Place cards indicate where we should sit and the protocol is strict. The Pakhan occupies the place of honor, flanked by Dasha and another brigadier, the soldiers are arranged on either side of them, and the women cluster around the table ends.

  Oxana, looking fabulous in the tuxedo suit, has been placed between two of the soldiers, and I watch as her eyes narrow with anger as she realizes that she has not been seated among the Kupchino Bratva elite. I’ve learned the hard way just how badly she reacts to any perceived disrespect. Something flips in her. Possessed by the need to reassert control over the situation, she’s capable of the most lacerating viciousness. I watch as one of the men tries to converse with her and is icily ignored. I could have told him not to bother. When she’s like this she’s impossible.

  “So which is your man?” asks the woman seated on my left, as a selection of blinis, salads and caviar is brought to the table, along with silver trays of vodka in shot glasses. A glance at her place card tells me that her name is Angelina. She has nervous eyes and hair the color of burnt caramel.

  “I’m with Oxana,” I tell her. “Over there, in the black suit.”

  She regards me uncertainly for a moment. “Pavel,” she says, nodding to one of the men whom Oxana is studiously ignoring. “My husband. He’s a boyevik. One of Dasha’s crew.”

  “So how does he feel about working for a woman?”

  “He says he doesn’t mind, because she’s clever like a man.”

  “So what do you do?” I ask, piling caviar onto a blini.

  “What do you mean, do?”

  “Like do you work, or…?”

  “I put up with Pavel and all his bullshit precisely so I don’t have to work.” She glances downwards at her cleavage, which has been sprinkled with tiny gold stars. “That’s why we’re married to these bratva guys. They’re wealthy. Not Forbes Rich List wealthy but, you know, comfortable. So where do you come from? Your Russian is like, really weird.”

  “I’m from London. It’s a long story.”

  “And this Oxana, you’re friends, or…”

  “Partners.”

  “Business partners?”

  “Life partners.”

  Her face goes blank for a moment, then she brightens. “That’s a really beautiful dress, where did you buy it?”

  I’m saved from answering by Dasha, who stands, raises her glass, and proposes an elaborate toast to the Pakhan. “Long life and good health to the father of our bratva,” she concludes. “Death to our enemies. Strength and honor to our fatherland.”

  The Pakhan blinks, smiles his rabbity smile and touches his shot glass to his lips.

  “I’d also like to welcome my sister Oxana,” Dasha continues. “We holidayed together in Dobryanka, the finest resort in the Urals. And believe me, friends, she was one tough bitch. They told us that she’d hanged herself in her cell, but here she is, alive and well.”

  Oxana bows, grins and raises her glass to Dasha. “From one tough bitch to another, spasibo.”

  At this point Dasha evidently thinks she should bring me into the conversation. “You and Oxana had quite a journey, didn’t you? The Baltic container route can be quite cold, I believe?”

  A polite silence descends on the table, and nineteen faces turn toward me. I force a smile and, suddenly unconfident of my Russian, attempt to explain that Oxana and I spent the entire week shivering.

  Dasha’s eyes widen with shock, and she starts to laugh. Everyone else joins in, even the Pakhan. The men stare at me and at each other, spluttering as they repeat my words, and Dasha has tears running down her cheeks. The laughter goes on and on, as I look desperately from face to face. Even Kris is smiling. “Don’t worry,” one of the brigadiers says, wiping his eyes with his napkin. “You’re among friends. Your secret’s safe with us.” Only one person is not amused, and that is Oxana, who is staring at me with icy, undiluted hatred.

  The meal seems to go on forever. Endless courses of soup, baked meat, ash-roasted beetroot, sturgeon with porcini mushrooms, dumplings and pastries. And vodka, glass after tiny glass of it. Citrus vodka, cardamom vodka, raspberry, pepper and bison grass vodka. Every couple of minutes someone proposes a toast. To companionship, loyalty, honor, the vory life, beautiful women, absent friends and death. I try to sip discreetly rather than swig, but am soon hopelessly, wretchedly, drunk. Time slows to a ticking standstill. The conversation and laughter rise and fall, the room swims in and out of focus. Angelina and others attempt conversation, but give up when they discover that I can only manage slurred and simplistic responses. From time to time I glance over at Oxana, but she is making a point of avoiding my gaze, and conversing animatedly and flirtatiously with everyone around her. The briefest complicit smile or sympathetic glance would turn
the evening around for me, but none is forthcoming. Instead, her eyes slide over me as if I’m simply not there.

  Finally, mercifully, the last toast has been drunk. Na pososhok, one for the road. Everyone stands, and the Pakhan is escorted from the dining room by his bodyguards. Standing at the door, I watch the guests file past. Some smile at me, some shake hands; one or two of the women, clearly as drunk as I am, embrace me like old friends. As Oxana passes, her face is stone.

  The apartment empties, leaving Dasha, Kris and Oxana standing in front of the glassy remains of the ice sculpture. “Go to bed,” Oxana orders me as I approach. “Dasha and I need to talk.”

  “Planning another torture session?” I ask, and Dasha has the grace to look uncomfortable. “Can I just say I’ve had the loveliest evening. The food was divine and your friends are delightful. I particularly liked the Pakhan. He’s a riot.”

  “Eve, please,” Oxana murmurs. “Haven’t you embarrassed yourself enough tonight? Do us all a favor and fuck off.”

  I obey, picking my way carefully through the thick silence to our bedroom. There, I sit on the edge of the bed for ten minutes, listening to the thudding of my pulse as the vodka creeps through my system. Drawing back a curtain, I watch as a tram rumbles laboriously down the street, sparks intermittently cascading from its overhead cable. Then I go to the chest of drawers, open the second drawer and take the Glock from beneath my bee-striped sweater. I’m sorry that I haven’t yet had the chance to wear the sweater, but it’s time to face the fact that my life is over. I have made a catastrophic series of decisions, the worst of which was entrusting my life to a murderer with mental health issues whose interest in me was fleeting at best. She persuaded me that there was nowhere else to hide, that she was my only chance of survival, and I in my turn persuaded myself that this was true.