Just as we are finally about to enter the hotel, a pleasant male voice calls: ‘Akbar Nikolaevich.’
‘Schneider?’ Akbar turns to face a stout middle-aged man in a brightly-colored shirt and a black felt wide brim hat, which conceals his large nose and rich eyebrows.
He comes from the classic black Rolls-Royce parked a few yards away: ‘Long time no see,’ he says in Russian with a Jewish accent, opening his arms wide in a welcoming gesture, showing off a white Siberian tigerskin belt that reins in his more-than-extended belly.
‘Not since last week,’ Akbar smirks cynically, giving the man a formal embrace and an unceremonious clap on the back. ‘Do you have any news?’ he asks dryly.
‘Well, that depends on what you’re going to do with the information,’ he says with a smile, briefly gazing at me.
‘She’s my banker. She’s fine,’ Akbar says, picking up on Schneider’s suspicious look.
‘Are you sure?’ Schneider asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, in that case … It’s my distinct pleasure to meet you, young lady.’ He briefly pulls his hat off. ‘My name is Schneider. Semyon Schneider. Welcome to my office,’ he says, courteously taking my arm under his, and leads me to his Rolls-Royce.
I look at Akbar, frightened.
‘It’s OK, Katyusha, we’re just going to have a quick word, so to speak, and then we’ll go and change,’ he says, following us to the car. The authority in his voice is hard to resist.
‘The back seat is all yours,’ Schneider says in a saccharine voice, letting me into the beige interior, pungent with the smell of fresh leather. ‘And here is a little treat,’ he adds, giving me a little white pill. ‘It’s pure.’ hHe winks with the smile of a wicked Queen, giving a poisoned apple to Snow White.
‘Go for it,’ Akbar insists, intensely staring at me through the darkness, from his seat next to Schneider a few inches away - or a few miles, perhaps.
‘OK,’ I powerlessly obey. A bitter taste and chemical smell pervade my body, and my surroundings are set into swirling motion.
A lurid, ear-splitting sports car jets by, leaving a big, happy sapphire trail in its wake, under the faint slice of lemon moonlight that we are riding into. The ecstatic air tingles my nose with an ambrosial smell, inviting me to glide into it … it wants to tell me a secret. I reach out to touch it, but my stone-heavy dress holds me back, nailing me to the beige leather … crucifying me … covering me with a cloud of exultation, Cherenkov blue.
‘So are they going to withdraw the allegations against me in London?’ Akbar’s voice glimmers in a desultory orbit.
‘My contacts in Israel say Zilbermans won’t do it in these conditions,’ Schneider slowly splatters.
‘The fuckers only lent me a couple of hundred million and now they dare to sue me for billions, even to send me death threats!’ Akbar’s shaky baritone makes the multiverses dance in front of my eyes.
‘This is utterly unfair,’ Schneider says calmly. ‘We almost convinced them, but they seem to hope for Wagners’ support.’
‘As if Wagners care!’
‘Well, they invested family money in Russian gas projects.’ Schneider’s sweet voice sounds very far away. ‘The gas pipeline would cut them out of business …’
‘I’ve reorganized my entire production just because our friends were in such a rush to start the pipeline construction.’ Akbar’s fierce voice cuts through the air.
‘You know, the Middle East is such a delicate matter - as impossible for European minds to grasp as it is vital to them, for its gas,’ ponders Schneider, lighting up a cigar, suffocating me with its smell.
‘It is not European minds that are supplying arms to Syrian sheiks … we can cut them out … via Afghanistan, Iran or even Iraq … for free, if they permit the construction,’ Akbar says.
‘Yes, that should help to push the deal through.’ Schneider’s voice sounds like the wind rustling over the beach after a tanker spill, as countless oil-drenched swans die a slow death.
‘I need guarantees that I’ll be the main steel contractor for the pipeline, and that the cost of the arms will be included in the contract.’
‘I’ll tell that to our allies in Frankfurt tomorrow … the wrangle with Wagners is taking a new spin,’ Schneider smirks, unabated. ‘It can reach another level if you take over the Zilbermans’ plant in Siberia.’
‘The lithium plant?’ Akbar asks, and I instantly try to lift my heavy lids. Lithium? The stuff Ahmad wanted to buy? ‘Why would I do that? I have enough problems with alloy.’
‘Attack is the best form of defense, my friend …’
‘I don’t know, Schneider, it’s all getting way too expensive with metal prices falling down the toilet,’ Akbar says.
‘If you do it aggressively enough, Zilbermans will have to react,’ Schneider says, puffing out more of the cloying smoke. ‘Those low, greedy thugs only know one way – an armed fight. This is how you’ll show Zilbermans’ true face to the judges. Besides, it’s in an old atomic city. All sorts of accidents might happen … that should keep Wagners busy, so we can speed up the gas pipeline resolution.’
‘What about the lithium buyer?’ Akbar asks.
‘I can …’ I pipe up, wanting to tell them about Ahmad’s matching enquiry.
‘We’ll meet him now …’ Schneider’s face is visible in the dark as we approach a loud, vibrant party zone, with ladies in red bikinis dancing on the roofs of red sports cars.
‘How are you, young lady?’ Schneider asks, leaning over to me.
‘I’m OK,’ I say quietly.
‘Good,’ he says cheerfully. ‘We’ve duly delivered you to Jimmy’s – the most happening place in Monaco.’
‘But I wanted to change my dress …’ I plead with Akbar, who is suddenly in a rush to get to the club.
‘We can always go back to the hotel, but the prince is not going to stay long. He has an early morning helicopter flight,’ Schneider says, opening the door for me to get out and head towards the alluring music, via the VIP entrance. ‘So what do you say?’ he deviously smiles, either to me or Akbar.
Putting on an exuberant smile and ignoring the agony of my stilettos, I step out onto the exquisite red carpet.
Our energetic host Antonio appears right by the car and introduces himself, complimenting me with typical Italian charm on coinciding with the leopard-themed dress code tonight.
He takes us through a private passage decked out in red monochrome, to join an exclusive crowd on a semicircle-shaped patio by an artificial lake. The glass roof high above is sliding into the mountain, revealing the colorful melting stars, but the loud music and the smell of overpriced alcohol suggest we are not completely out in the wild.
We come to the largest black leather couch in the center of the little island, where a dark, skinny, Middle Eastern-looking man with a bushy beard is sitting shaking a magnum bottle of champagne. Five tall, skinny blondes in tiger-print minidresses seductively dance in front of him to the energetic rhythm, touching each other’s enormous breasts.
‘You like money, I’ve got lots of it,’ he laughs, like Palpatine from Star Wars, spraying the champagne all over the blondes, making a bunch of random Slavic sluts squeal with jealousy on the dance floor below.
‘Mohamed!’ Akbar exclaims, leaving me standing there wishing someone would spray some red wine over my dress so I wouldn’t look like those hookers anymore.
‘Akbar! Brother, salaam!’ exclaims Mohamed, clasping Akbar in an embrace. ‘I’ve just heard we can go dirty-dirty,’ he winks, with an appropriately dirty gesture. ‘You know I’ve almost gotten hold of Demi Moore for you … your all-time fetish, right, brat?’ He naughtily taps Akbar on the shoulder.
‘I only liked her in Ghost,’ Akbar says dismissively, ‘and that was a long time ago … she’s too old now.’
‘No, no, no,’ Mohamed refutes. ‘There’s no old when it comes to Demi Moore! With plastic surgery and lifts … you know, she’s in Hollywood … if you want her, you should have her.’ He slams his fist down decisively.
Akbar courteously turns to me, hiding his inconvenience with a polite smile: ‘Katyusha, I need to talk to my friend in private. Just a few minutes and then I’m all yours, so to speak. Help yourself to everything here.’ He kisses his index finger and places it at my lips. ‘Shall we?’ he says to Mohamed, who is busy slapping all the blondes’ cheeks before leaving.
The more I drink the more I feel it. That’s why I drink too. I try to find sympathy and feeling in drink … I drink so that I may suffer twice as much!
‘Does he have Botox in his balls?’ One of the tall, skinny blondes approaches me by the table to add vodka to her champagne, disturbing my Facebook trance on the couch.
‘Excuse me?’ I ask, dumbfounded, lifting my head up from my news feed.
‘His balls … Do they look huge?’ she asks, making circles with her hands. She looks tipsy and probably older than she really is, with those big inflated boobs disproportionately jutting out from her skeletal body.
‘Um, I don’t know,’ I mumble, not knowing what to say.
‘Oh, c’mon, we’re all virgins here,’ she says sarcastically. ‘You’d feel it if they were … I’ve already got bruises all over my thighs.’
‘Actually, I’m his private banker. I’ve lived in London, I studied in Italy,’ I say self-importantly, attempting to distinguish myself from the crowd.
‘I’m begging you,’ she sighs, mockingly giving my dress the once-over. ‘We’ve all lived in London and Italy and worked for FTSE-100 companies. It’s either this or get married to some loser,’ she says disparagingly, adding a white powder to her cocktail.
‘You could be happily married to someone like Akbar,’ I dispute.
‘Are you serious? Akbar’s wife,’ she laughs, sipping her drink. ‘Look at Mohamed, happily married father of five. His daughter just won a jet ski competition here that he sponsors. To celebrate, he ordered a private jetload of younger chicks … but then got wasted and pissed off about something, and sent them back to Moscow … so it’s just us,’ she says, pointing at the girls by the table. ‘That’s family values, baby,’ she says, inviting me to try her drink. ‘Relax and make the most of it, while it lasts.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking a sip, which instantly makes my stomach growl, crescenting into a violent symphony of pain, twisting my lower belly and reaching up into my throat, so I can barely keep myself from throwing up on the table.
Shaking, I stagger on my skin-cutting heels out of the VIP area, desperate to find the bathroom. Without any delay, a huge figure comes to my aid - a Sumo wrestler-like bouncer, dressed all in black, with tattoos all over his arms and up to his face. With a persuasive, impassive look, he takes my hand and walks me through the insanely hedonistic crowd. The low vibration of the bass only makes me perspire like a pig and feel even sicker, but eventually he delivers me to the line for the bathroom.
I unzip my suffocating dress on the way into the ladies’ room, and the second the door closes behind me I throw up. The expensive food and champagne floods out of me in a green cascade, prompting a sharp pain in my abdomen. I quickly turn around to let the diarrhea rush into the toilet and some of the dirty water splashes up against my thigh and on my dress.
The smell is terrible.
The laces of my sandals cut into my already swollen and blistered skin. In agony, I take them off and drag myself to the sink. The soft, carefully rolled towels by the fancy sink come in handy to wipe my legs and the dress. I am so freezing cold that even the hot water from the tap does not warm up my hands.
All I want right now is to lie down … even the mattress at Richard’s would do just fine. He would make me a mug of strong tea and bring me some medicine to feel better …
Instead I kneel over the toilet in my unzipped dress, trying to delay the moment when I have to squeeze myself back into it again. My stomach keeps growling but there is nothing left to come out of me …
What the hell am I doing here?
Resisting the pain, and with a tremendous effort, moaning and crying, I breathe in and zip the dress back up.
Barefoot, carrying my sandals, I walk out to the thumping noise and the stoned horde. The bodyguard, without saying a word, takes my hand and leads me all the way back across the Neanderthal dancefloor to the VIP area, where Akbar is dancing with the libidinous skinny blondes in animal-print dresses.
Cutting through them, I walk straight up to him, almost fainting from the smells of smoke and booze.
‘I’m not feeling well,’ I shout over the ear-splitting beat, barely having enough strength to rise on my tiptoes to reach his ear.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, touching my shoulder with his huge palm, cold and wet from holding a drink.
‘I’ve got food poisoning or something. I might throw up again,’ I say seriously.
‘The prince could come any time now, so to speak. Let’s stay,’ he says, caressing my face, which is no doubt still deathly pale. ‘I’ll introduce you.’
‘You promised we’d go back whenever I wanted,’ I say firmly, looking him straight in the ice-cold eyes. ‘Please.’
‘Fine,’ he responds.