The dinner Zhurbin throws at the end of the year wipes the slate clean on their old life. The new world is there, embodied in a score of guests who live in the here and now, no longer content to focus their minds on some vague nostalgia, but on useful, pressing, and pleasant reality. Two couples across from Oleg are discussing the respective delights of islands they have just visited, which he would have difficulty in placing on a map, Baa Atoll and Ari Atoll. Eventually he gathers that they are talking about the Maldives … Another great discussion revolves around the sexual identification of different makes of car, or rather what type of woman one would expect to see driving this or that model. A Jaguar, it appears, is only fit for ball-breakers with too much testosterone … At the other end of the table, through the haze of tobacco smoke, Oleg can see two fair-haired men, quite physically similar, occasionally exchanging a quick kiss … This dinner party on December 20, 1995, is Zhurbin’s “pre-Christmas” and he tells the company he will be spending the holiday in Switzerland with his daughter. He passes around a photograph that gives rise to enthusiastic compliments: what a pretty little girl, oh, how she’s grown!

The fare is abundant, excessive even, and the quantity of it is intended to demonstrate not only Zhurbin’s generosity but also how commonplace such a display of food and drink is: porcelain dishes piled high with salmon, raw, marinated, and smoked; venison; boar; loins of beef; bowls of caviar ringed with ice cubes; orange mounds of seafood overhung with lobsters’ dangling claws, as big as a man’s hand … Bottles from all continents reminding the guests, as they remark—of many a trip, or anniversary …

“Ten years ago all this was inconceivable,” Oleg reflects, unable to find a better way to express the turning of the page on an era. The Maldives, expertise in choosing a brand of car, the two gays kissing, and Lugano, where Zhurbin is off to, just as if he were going to spend a weekend in the country … The theater of History has put on a new production with new costumes and a freshly scripted soundtrack. A few seats away from Oleg is a tall dark-haired man with a receding hairline and a very tanned face—Zyamtsev! Yes, the one who used to refer to him as a “Siberian peasant,” his rival for the role of male juvenile lead, who stole Lessya from him. “That series of yours, Erdmann,” he had exclaimed earlier, “is a masterstroke. And do you know, your touch is unmistakable.” And Oleg had nearly replied: “You mean my peasant’s touch?” Zyamtsev has his fiancée, a Dane, with him—“his entry visa to Europe,” Tanya mutters scornfully.

Oleg smiles in response to his girlfriend’s rigid mask. Tanya has recently undergone a face-lift. Her eyes are still wide open, the shape of her lips, now more prominent, is adjusting badly to the articulation of words. Oleg murmurs a toast: “Here’s to you. You’re my visa to happiness.” He drinks, trying to silence the painful thought now forming in his mind. Tanya is wearing a suit, the revealing cut of her jacket shows off the shapely curves of her breasts … “Just as false as her lips,” whispers the thought Oleg has been at pains to suppress. Yes, his girlfriend has had her bust reshaped as well, despite having referred to Zara, the actress playing the part of Catherine, and her bosom, in such mocking terms. For three weeks now they have not been making love—to Oleg it feels as if a frail convalescent were sleeping beside him, strips of bandages protect her bruised breasts, a thick layer of cream forbids kissing …

A bell rings! Everyone jumps, they have still not got used to the cell phones that are just beginning to colonize pockets and purses. Tanya takes hers out in a somewhat exaggeratedly relaxed way, extricates herself from the chair and slips out of the private room where the dinner is being held. The sounds from the main dining room filter in through the door, the voices of waiters.

Conversations resume. Ngorongoro Crater Safari Park is well worth a visit, but the snows of Kilimanjaro are a bit of a letdown. Yes, it’s global warming. It’s really easier to buy a cottage in Finland—ecologically sound and not many thieves. The Trust Bank offers an 8 percent return on dollar-denominated investments … Zyamtsev embarks on a funny story: Yeltsin is drunk and calls the Ukrainian president: “Tell me, Leonid, those war planes of mine. Did I send them to bomb cities in your neck of the woods or was it in Chechnya?”

The laughter erupts. Oleg turns in his chair, goes out into the corridor, stops beneath an open transom. The icy air, after the stifling tobacco smoke, seems like a substance never before inhaled. The tension in his temples relaxes. “A deep sea diver who’s been brought back to the surface too quickly,” he thinks. “I’ve emerged too suddenly into this new world …”

He sees Tanya reflected in a mirror at the end of the passage that leads to the main dining room. With her head down, concentrating on the little device pressed against her cheek, she does not see him. It’s hard to hear what she’s saying. There is something about her face that strikes Oleg as both touching and disturbing—the face-lifted skin striving to register an expression, tender, disarmed … “A relative, a colleague, a girlfriend, a lover?” Oleg wonders, realizing that this portable means of communication adds to the number of conceivable situations. Everything is becoming conceivable. Every combination of bodies, feelings, lives. Absolute freedom to act out this new life. The only limiting factor is the impossibility of picturing two riders on a road at night, two beings who, for the love of one another, abandon the games of this world.

He returns to the private room, where the discussions have broken off—Zhurbin, a glass of champagne in his hand, is holding forth: “And here I’m addressing my friends in the press, in particular. When you tell your readers about this dinner, don’t forget to pass on the message loud and clear. Starting next year the guests in our chain’s five-star hotels will be staying in specially themed suites of rooms. A Potemkin Suite, that’s got a bit of class, don’t you think? Furnished in period style. The Empress Suite will contain an alcove that’s a precise copy of the love nest where Catherine received her favorites. And, by the way, our menu today is a replica of the selection of dishes the guests enjoyed at the Winter Palace. Our expert can confirm this. It’s true, isn’t it, Erdmann?”

Oleg agrees, his reply lost in the hubbub of voices, the conversations are incoherent now, heavy with alcohol. Tanya takes her place again, her thoughts elsewhere, picks up her fork, looks along the table to see what stage the succession of courses has reached. Oleg has an impulse to show her the photograph of Zhurbin’s daughter, then changes his mind, nervous of exposing the child to her indifferent gaze.

Zhurbin appears behind them, already quite tipsy, leans forward, putting his arms around their shoulders. “Tomorrow, Erdmann, you’re going to shoot us a real peach of a scene in the alcove. Now let me tell you how I see it. OK! So far, I guess, our Catherine’s been much too good a girl. Now she needs to let herself go. We need heavy. We need hard. Tanya agrees with me.” He hiccups and laughs, tries to kiss Tanya on the neck. She pushes him away and her taut face settles once more into a vague, indefinite grimace. Zhurbin straightens up and makes a tour of the table, staggering as he goes, and embracing his guests.

Oleg unobtrusively slips the photograph of the child back into his jacket pocket, still convinced he is protecting the little girl from what he sees around him. She was photographed near a place where there are swings and slides and, despite the clever choice of background, seems very remote from that setting. Oleg senses that this child, with her sad smile, would understand what his own feelings are amid this new life.

They ought not to have met the next day. Zhurbin has a yellowish look, and a furred tongue. Oleg has a vise-like headache, he wishes he could press his forehead against the corner of the black marble desk, injure himself to ease the grip.

The pain would be bearable if there were not this shared awareness neither will admit to: yesterday’s celebration had been a failure, despite the laughter, the jokes, the lavishness of the blowout. There they had been, all vaguely despising one another, everyone feeling that the whole thing was a banquet for the well-to-do in the middle of a country that has been pillaged. And, to crown it all, they were not even the most bloated profiteers, just medium-sized predators. As they eyed Zhurbin’s young mistress, a blonde hardly out of her teens, everyone was mentally calling her “a little slut.” And Tanya, with her smooth, frozen face, was provoking sarcastic remarks in whispers among the female side of the company (“Poor girl, her skin is so stretched that when she closes her eyes, her mouth opens …”). Zyamtsev’s Danish companion understood very little Russian and, overcome with drink, was speaking in a rudimentary English that gave eloquent expression to the emptiness of the chatter all around her …

Zhurbin remains in his armchair. Oleg, seated on a visitor’s chair, feels like a naughty boy summoned for a thrashing.

“If you don’t advance, Erdmann, you lose ground. That’s the law of television. I know you’re trying to rescue my commercial turkey with your aesthete’s brilliance. But I have to tell you that the viewers don’t give a rat’s ass about your clever little touches. In the scene where the soldiers are raping the young bride you included a shot of a doll. What the hell for? Well, I know why: the brutality of the rape and alongside it this hint of childhood. Now how subtle is that? Except that none of the viewers noticed your little trick. The woman with her thighs open, yes. The husband tied up and sobbing, that too. But as for your stupid goddamned refinements, what the hell do they care about them? Do you want people to call you Tarkovsky or what? Too late, my friend. Tarkovsky was a dissident and that’s why they praised him to the skies in Europe. He could have filmed dog shit and they’d have called it a masterpiece. That’s all finished. You don’t make films for goddamned eggheads now. You make them for millions of men and women who’ve come home from work and who want to take a break, have a thrill, have a laugh. Yes, and there’s nothing wrong with that …”

“That’s great, Ivan, your theories of cinema are fascinating. But I’ve got a very bad headache: you really should get a different champagne supplier … And, in practical terms, what are we doing?”

“What we’re doing is light eroticism in general and hard sex scenes in particular. That’s a clear enough program, isn’t it?”

“So, blue movies. And as the series is on at ten-thirty p.m., peak viewing time, it’ll be banned.”

“Sure, that’s possible. Happily, I’ve engaged a first-rate director, a certain Oleg Erdmann, who, by the way, is beginning to be a pain in the ass, and this very gifted guy will know how to …”

The telephone rings. Zhurbin picks it up and speaks in rising tones of fury: “No, Sasha. Tell them Zhurbin’s not selling his shares … What if they insist? Then I guess you’ll have to explain to them that one of my bodyguards is a top professional marksman. He won’t kill them, because we’re nice guys. He’ll just aim for their balls. Either the right or the left, whichever suits them best. That’s it, Sasha. That’s what you’ll tell them, word for word. OK? Ciao!”

The look he gives Oleg is filled with hate, even though his hatred is directed at others.

“So, as I was saying … Yes, a director of genius, this Erdmann, a virtuoso, like my marksman. He’ll know how to film the most risqué scenes without anyone coming and accusing us of marketing porn on television. There you are, buddy. Now it’s up to you. And, stop acting like a halfhearted virgin! To film the episode I’m going to tell you about, you’ll need to have balls, preferably two of them. Catherine’s going to be making out with her horse, Orlik …”

Oleg bursts out laughing and the jolting from this hurts him so much that he really does press his head down against the cold edge of the desk. Then he sits up again, grimacing with pain.

“Listen, Ivan. I appreciate your sense of humor, but … Well, no comment …”

“But it’s your comments I want to hear. I’d like to know how you’re going to go about it.”

“Phew! … We drank too much yesterday. Why don’t you go and lie down?”

“Erdmann, the horse will be ready at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning …”

“You’re out of your mind. At least give me time to pinch myself, so I know I’m not dreaming.”

“I’m not out of my mind. That scene will be filmed! Either by you or by someone else …”

“That scene’s a ridiculous lie, Ivan. In 1917 they invented lots of them, to discredit the Romanovs …”

“I don’t give a good goddamm about the Romanovs! We need that scene and it needs to be both shocking and acceptable to the bosses of the channel. You’re going to do it!”

“You bet I’m not. You can start looking for a madman who’ll take over from me. And you’ll need to find a woman sick enough to play Catherine having an affair with her horse …”

“Don’t you worry, Erdmann. Zara’s already agreed to it. And let’s get this straight. There are going to be no images of bestiality. It’ll all be allusive, but very physical. I know you want to stay pure. It’s the reflex of an egghead who’s afraid of getting his hands dirty. Oh yes, a good little German, with all your lace handkerchiefs. Oh dear! A horse! That stinks! And when the stallion gets a hard-on it’s not a pretty sight. And then, horror of horrors, a naked chick wrapping her arms around it. You’re all the same: you, Zyamtsev, and the rest—cold pasta instead of guts! And that’s why the cute little crap stories that you guys film will be forgotten! When the Marquis de Sade wrote about Catherine he showed her being served by a whole battalion of brutes. Or rather, she was the one who was violating and torturing the men. And Sacher-Masoch? Oh, I’ve read him, too, don’t worry. He has Catherine as a dominatrix, whipping Diderot, who’s dressed up as a monkey. And you’re scared shitless about showing a horse … Right, that’s it. You’re fired! I know who I’m going to hire. A guy who’ll film Catherine being fucked by a rhinoceros if necessary!”

Zhurbin yells that last sentence standing in the doorway of his office—Oleg had already stood up and walked out without saying anything. Zhurbin’s secretary does not react. Two visitors waiting to see him exchange quizzical, but not really uneasy, looks. The Russia of these days blunts all capacity for amazement. The country is run by a president who, at the conclusion of his trips abroad, is frequently brought home dead drunk. So, a rhinoceros …

Returning home on foot, Oleg reflects on this indifference in the face of outrageous events, such as Diderot, naked, being whipped by a woman in thigh boots or indeed a tsarina coupling with her favorite horse … Madness! But as nothing surprises anymore …

In his jacket pocket he comes across the photograph he had forgotten to give back to Zhurbin: his daughter beside a plastic slide.

… Later on he will sense that Zhurbin’s rage was an expression of the inevitable postrevolutionary syndrome. Russia had been stirred by so many hopes during the past ten years! The goal was achieved: political parties proliferated, the economy was privatized, frontiers were opened … And Zhurbin had even been able to organize a dinner very much like the ones to be seen in films made in the West. And yet inwardly he must be asking himself: “What’s the point of all this, if I’m forced to produce this sleazy television series and the only reason for its success is its dreary sensationalism?”

Over the next two days Oleg sees no sign of Tanya. He begins to worry—in this unpredictable country anything could have happened: a bomb attack on a train, a kidnapping … Or maybe another installment of plastic surgery, but what’s left to be chopped?

Tanya reappears on the evening of the third day, avoids his embrace, sets down two suitcases in the entrance hall, and opens them. They are empty.

“Are you going away? And by the way, where have you been?”

He is not sure what tone to adopt, settles for mild grumpiness.

“Yes, I am going away … I can’t take any more, Oleg. You’re never there, always stuck behind your camera. So why don’t you go ahead and marry your Catherine, your great, fat Zara, while you’re about it? You spend more time with her than you do with me …”

“Well, as it happens, I’ve just been fired. So now you may risk seeing a bit too much of me …”

“And then there’s your artistic selfishness! Ready to sacrifice everything for your filming. Well, I’m sick and tired of it! I’ve had enough of being bossed around. I’m not a German, you know!”

Oleg realizes that all the points in her indictment had been prepared in advance—it was just that Tanya had not anticipated his losing his job. The parade of her grievances continues, his work on the series is blamed, even though he no longer has any work. Oleg reiterates this, assures her that their life can now be less frenetic, talks about the New Year holiday, vacations they can take …

The suitcases are filling up, mainly with clothes and cosmetic products. The reproaches take their course, directed at the person he no longer is. The scene seems strangely familiar to him, as if he had already lived through it … But when?

Each case snaps shut with a definitive click.

“I wish you all the success you deserve. I guess it’s the one thing in life you care about …”

That’s it. He’s got it. This scene of a breakup is modeled on those in films made in the West! The suitcases, the ping-pong of the dialogue, the tone of voice adopted by the woman as she walks out. All those psychological dramas have gone to their heads, they’ve been convinced that this is how couples in civilized countries tear themselves apart … The cinema is one hell of a brainwashing device! Or rather, one for laundering people’s emotions …

“If there’s any stuff I’ve forgotten, don’t throw it out straightaway … No, the cases aren’t heavy. I’m off. Bye!”

From his window Oleg sees Tanya opening the trunk of a four-wheel-drive. The windows are smoked glass, it’s impossible to make out the face of the man at the wheel. Is he hiding? Or has Tanya told him not to show himself? Just a driver? Or the man she’s going to live with?

“He’s the one she’s had her face lifted and her breasts inflated for …” Oleg realizes that he’s never known this new body of hers, never kissed the rictus of the reshaped mouth. A new costume change for a richer, more brilliant life, one that calls for these fleshy lips, a smooth skin, a firm bosom …

“Maybe she’s even found herself an oligarch,” he thinks, with a smile. “Yes, the tycoon who long ago sent in his henchmen to beat up the journalists at No Comment. Or, if not him, one of Zhurbin’s competitors, the one who’s going to be emasculated one day by a marksman! Everything’s possible in this country. Absolute freedom …!”

He gives a little laugh, moves to close the wardrobe doors: bare hangers, empty plastic bags … Standing on tiptoe, he feels at the back of the highest shelf—nothing. In her haste, Tanya has gone off with the gift he had planned to give her at Christmas …

At the start of their argument he had been expecting her to insist on his leaving the two-bedroom apartment they were renting together. This idea had given him a feeling of relief as he pictured himself back in his room in the communal apartment, as in the old days. That place, for all its poverty, seems endowed with a truth that cannot be found elsewhere.