Martin Smith - Stalin’s Ghost

“You want a stool? A ringside stool down where the action is. The action, you know.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for much action.”

“A table?”

“A booth. I’m expecting friends.”

He ordered a beer and asked whether Zelensky or Petya were around. Isakov and Urman were probably at a Russian Patriot event, but word would get back to them that he hadn’t left Tver. He couldn’t provoke Isakov and Urman if all he did was hide.

The waitress asked, “You know Vlad Zelensky? Are you a film producer?”

“A critic,” Arkady said.

Spotlights made the dancers bright and blurry. They strutted up and down the stage in platform shoes and thongs, keeping in constant motion like fish in a tank while an audience of men hung in suspended animation. When a dancer paused and sprawled on the runway, ringside aficionados tucked money in the thong. Otherwise, as a sign said, No Touching.

Arkady settled into a leather booth the color of arterial blood. The table had two menus. A food menu featured tropical cocktails, egg rolls, and sushi. A “Crazy” menu offered a lap dance in the Sportsman’s Lounge, a personal chat with a naked woman, “an intimate hour with a lovely companion in the VIP Jacuzzi or an entire evening with an anything-goes beauty (or beauties!!!) in the luxurious Peter the Great Bedroom.” The price of a royal romp was a thousand euros, cut-rate compared to Moscow clubs.

The waitress brought his Baltika. “It really ought to be the Catherine the Great Bedroom. She built the palace here and she did a lot more fucking than Peter ever did. Food?”

“Just some black bread and cheese.”

“But you’ll be drinking?”

“Naturally.”

The “Crazy” text informed Arkady that “the women of Tver are legendary for their beauty. Today, some of Russia’s top models are daughters of Tver. Their fame has grown worldwide and bachelors from the United States, Germany, Britain, and Australia, to name but a few, travel to Tver seeking the aid of Cupid.”

Tanya and a peppy little dancer were up next. The first time he had seen Tanya she was in a white evening gown strumming the harp at the Metropol. In little more than the flesh she was even more in control, with a cool smile and long strides that prompted rhythmic clapping at ringside.

Across the room Arkady saw his waitress lead Wiley and Pacheco to an opposite booth. Pacheco adjusted his tie while Wiley tried hard not to look at Tanya. They couldn’t have found the Tahiti on their own, Arkady thought and, soon enough, Marat Urman joined them. His canary yellow jacket brought style to the scene; a Tatar could wear colors that made a Russian quail. Urman blew Tanya a kiss, but her eyes tracked Arkady as he changed booths.

“Look what the cat drug in.” Pacheco made room for Arkady.

Urman said, “You can’t be serious.”

“Tanya looks good,” Arkady said.

“She looks magnificent,” Pacheco corrected him. “Milky skin, a dancer’s body, fabulous tits.”

“Her nose looks good,” Arkady said.

The music started, a throbbing bass that made the room reverberate, and the dancers climbed the poles.

“ R-E-S-P-E-C-T . I love this song,” Pacheco said.

Arkady said, “Somehow I think they missed the point.”

“It’s the beat that matters,” Pacheco said. “Got any good Mongolian love songs? Like to your favorite horse?”

Urman said, “You should take off your wedding ring.”

“Why?”

“It promotes impotence. It’s a Slavic tradition to wear a wedding ring no more than four hours a day for reasons of health. Ask Renko.”

“Is that true?” Wiley asked.

“Some men believe it. Some believe they shouldn’t wear a ring at all.”

“It’s scientific fact,” Urman said. “The ring is like a closed circuit and the finger is an electric conductor.”

Pacheco said, “Well, the Slavic dick is a more delicate instrument than I would have thought.”

“Where is Isakov?” Arkady asked.

Wiley said, “A visit to an erotic club is not an appropriate image for a candidate of reform.”

“Does he have momentum?” Arkady asked. “I understand that’s important.”

Wiley was happy to avert his gaze from the stage and take refuge in politics. “Momentum is all he’s got. He’s got no genuine party machine behind him, so one misstep and his campaign is over.”

“But he does have momentum,” Urman said.

“He was only chosen to steal votes from the opposition,” Wiley said. “Nobody expected his candidacy to come alive.”

“He has a chance,” Urman insisted.

“If he finishes with a bang.”

“In the States pole dancing is the new workout,” said Pacheco. “Honest.”

Tanya was sex wrapped around a pole, with a slow head-down slither that seemed to swallow brass. The other dancer swung around her pole like a dynamo, which seemed quaintly Soviet.

“Tanya had classical training for the ballet, but she grew too big for the men to catch.” Urman turned to Arkady. “Well, you’ve wrestled her, you know.”

Pacheco’s ears perked up. “Wrestled? That sounds interesting.”

“We had a special moment,” Arkady said.

“We need a bang.” Wiley concentrated on the table top. “A long-shot campaign has to end with a visceral, explosive climax.”

“Like what?” Arkady asked.

Wiley looked up. “There’s a statue of the Virgin Mary in Tver. The people here swear she cries. They sincerely believe they see it.”

“You’re going to have the Virgin appear at the dig?”

“Do you have Diet Coke?” Wiley asked the waitress.

Pacheco said, “She plays the harp and she strips. This is a talented young lady.”

“If not the Virgin, who?” Arkady asked. “Anyone in mind?”

“People see what they want to see,” Wiley said. The smaller dancer peeked at Wiley from between her legs. She had short dark hair and a beauty mark. Her name was Julia; she was twenty-three, spiritually advanced, looking for a man with his feet on the ground. Arkady knew because he had seen her photograph and description in the Cupid album of marriageable women.

“Renko can’t do anything,” Urman reassured Pacheco. “He’s hiding from the prosecutor here and disowned by the prosecutor in Moscow. Besides, he’s a dead man.”

“You mean, he will soon be a dead man?”

“No, I mean he’s dead now. He got shot in the head. If that’s not dead, what is?”

“I’ve noticed that Isakov never actually says Stalin’s name,” Arkady said.

“Why should he?” Wiley said. “Right now all anyone knows about Nikolai Isakov is that he’s a good-looking war hero. Everything stays vague and generally patriotic. Once he actually uses Stalin’s name, Stalin is an issue, which has some negatives. Our job is to connect Isakov and Stalin without saying so out loud.”

“How do you do that?”

“Visuals.”

“At the new dig? As I understand it, a mass grave of Russian soldiers has been discovered. That’s a strong visual, isn’t it? Any chance that a patriot named Isakov will be there, shovel in hand, when the television cameras arrive?”

Pacheco said, “The son of a bitch doesn’t sound that dead to me.”

Aretha Franklin sang, “R-E-S-…”

Tanya slid off the runway, ignored her ringside regulars and climbed onto Arkady’s lap, where she breathed heavily and stamped him with sweat and powder. She kissed him as if they were lovers reunited and when he tried to ease her off she clung to his neck.

“Where is this hole I hear about? Is it the size of a bottle cap?”

She pressed herself against his face while she felt his scalp. All that remained of his operation were drain scars, but she found them. If Arkady had humiliated her, she would humiliate him. On stage Julia spun at half speed.