Mishka Ben-David - Forbidden Love in St. Petersburg

When I got back to my own office, having taken a substantial detour, I telegraphed my findings to HQ. Considering the unreasonableness of cancelling the rental agreement, I recommended that I stay put. Perhaps due to the blunder of the security department in not knowing that Russia’s counter-espionage HQ was in Liteyny Prospekt, or perhaps because of my emotional state, HQ agreed to my recommendation but instructed me not to dare go past that building ever again. I, in any event, had no intention of doing so.

On the third evening Anna was sitting in her usual place by the window, and as usual she looked amiable, remote, and pensive. When she nodded her head in my direction a lock of hair fell over her eyes and she pushed it back with a slow movement of her hand. The small creature burrowing in my iceberg informed me that I was far from having to place her in my drawer of missed chances.

That evening and on the evenings that followed I tried to ignore her. I had every reason in the world to expect nothing from her. But when the restaurant became overcrowded again and she was forced to sit at the table opposite mine, I noticed the merest light movement of her tongue–the tip of her tongue–that protruded slightly, wetting the corners of her mouth. That movement tore into me like a pile of ice picks.

I am forty years old, I thought to myself. I’d been with a woman for more than half of my life. I had been in love with my wife. Since we’d parted I’d felt almost nothing, certainly not towards women. What on earth could make the barely visible tip of a tongue wetting the dry lips of a strange woman so alluring. Beautiful, it’s true, but nonetheless strange. Or make the slow movement of the hand spontaneously brushing away a lock of hair that insisted on slipping down from her brow and across her oval eyes, so captivating? I had no idea. But the hidden organism within me knew and went berserk, threatening to bring down the walls of the iceberg that were now thinner than ever after it had been burrowing into them so continuously.

As I got up to leave Anna stopped me with a slight gesture of her hand. I found a copy which includes the chapter ‘At Tikhon’s’. Would you like it? Without waiting for my reply she took the thick volume out of her bag. Does it interest you? She looked at me, as if curious to know why I hadn’t yet responded.

Yes, yes, of course. It’s so nice of you to have made the effort, that I…

That’s OK, it’s my job, remember? An amused expression spread over her face at my enthusiastic appreciation. It was no trouble at all. One email to secondhand book dealers, and a copy soon arrived in the post.

I took the book from her, barely touching her outstretched hand.

How much did it cost? I asked, placing the book on the table, searching for my wallet.

You don’t have to pay me, it’s a loan.

I insisted.

I can’t take the money now. I have to enter it in the accounts and give you a receipt. We’ll do it some other time. In the shop, perhaps.

I left the restaurant with the address of the bookshop and with that feeling of joy once more sneaking its way in. So there we are. It wasn’t just me thinking about her all this time. She was also thinking about me, and she even went to some trouble on my behalf.

At home I skipped the two hundred pages left in my own copy of Demons and went straight on to read about the last meeting between Nikolai Stavrogin and Bishop Tikhon in Anna’s copy. I didn’t fall asleep until I’d finished the chapter. Tomorrow we’ll have something to talk about.

But the next day a dispatch from the European front company awaited me in the office. Upon receipt I was to set up an encrypted contact with HQ, which I did. We want you to be in Makhachkala when the equipment arrives, and attached is all the information you need concerning the city, wrote my controllers. Shortly before that they had received my report about the closing of the deal with the Dagestanis and the shipment of the production line to a fish canning plant in Makhachkala, on the shores of the Caspian sea.

The directors of the plant had written to say that they would be happy to host me. Because the equipment was arriving that night and would be assembled in the morning, they advised me to come as soon as possible. A guest suite had already been reserved for me from that evening on the owner’s estate.

I didn’t want to appear to be overly keen but at the same time I also didn’t want to compromise the cover story that enabled me to be present while the equipment was set up. So with much regret I booked an evening flight, which meant not seeing Anna.

ITOOK AN instant dislike to the luxurious limousine waiting for me at the airport and politely but firmly refused to taste any of the local drinks loaded into its bar, ‘not even the Smirnoff’. After a short drive we stopped outside a large iron gate and were waved in by a uniformed armed guard. Only the light of the moon lit up the otherwise hidden, well-kept gardens between the gate and the large building. The dull light illuminating the residence of the owner of the canning plant gave no hint of the grandeur inside. The same man was also the proprietor of most of the shrimp fishing vessels in Makhachkala as well as being the owner of an indeterminate number of other businesses in Dagestan–in other words he was the head of the local Mafia in whose home the guest suite had been made ready for my arrival.

I was at a loss to know what entitled me to such honour, as I was greeted by the sight of enormous dazzling chandeliers, Persian rugs, statues of lions, and two shiny wooden staircases leading up from the entrance hall to the guest floor. Immediately after I’d placed my things in the suite, a servant escorted me to a reception room where the host himself was waiting, attended by a phalanx of servants. The portly bald man was called Mahashashli. He turned out to be a very pleasant individual in midlife assuming, that is, that his rivals would allow him to live out his natural span. The little bit of hair he had left was dyed blond and his eyes, to my surprise, were sky blue. The remnants of the long years of Russian involvement in Dagestan had somehow sneaked into his gene pool.

His very limited grasp of English prevented us from having a real conversation as did the copious quantities of caviar, shrimps, and other seafood that were served. He managed to ask what a man like me was doing in Leningrad–that’s what he called the city–and also to clarify the purpose of the lavish entertainment I was getting: he wanted us to sign a new contract at a price ten per cent above my offer. I would get the entire one hundred and ten per cent from his company but return the extra ten per cent to him personally. I, of course, would be losing nothing, while he in this way would go on building his empire. And after this deal, he said, there would be many more. If the production line succeeded, he would need at least another ten such lines. Each at 110% of the price I offered.

Mahashashli said all this with a slight smile, though the colour of his eyes had changed from sky blue to steely grey and it was obvious that a ‘no’ from me to his proposal was not an option. I didn’t think that he would have tried to harm me. At most I would have found myself outside his palace in the darkness of the forest and wouldn’t have ever seen a single penny of my money.

Fortunately, there was no possibility of my seeking authorization for this convoluted deal which almost certainly would not have been approved by HQ. I also had no chance of turning it down. As soon as I agreed Mahashashli ordered more hard liquor and more caviar to be brought to the table, leaning over to ask whether I preferred a dark-haired woman, a brunette, or a blonde to come to my room that night.