Fenek Solère: Rising

‘Over there is Petrograd and Vasilievsky’, said the driver. ‘You can visit the battle ship Aurora . Do you know the history of the Revolution?’ For a moment the Professor’s memory was filled with shaky old black-and-white newsreels of a crowd surging up against a thin line of troops, plumes of gun smoke, Comrade Lenin standing on a banner-strewn platform, clenched fist pumping.

‘I know a little’, he replied, rightfully reckoning his guide had lived through the Brezhnev epoch and been dumbfounded by the Gorbachev turnabout. He thought it best not to raise difficult subjects and just to let sleeping dogs lie.

‘This side’, the man continued like a well-rehearsed tour guide, ‘is the Marble Palace, built by Rinaldi in 1768. It was a gift for Catherine the Great’s right-hand man, Orlov. Now it is an art gallery. I have been there many times. If you like eighteenth-century paintings, then this is a good place for you.’

They drove on. ‘Now this is spectacular, the Hermitage, one of the biggest museums in the world. There are artefacts from Egypt, India, and China. My favourite place is the gallery where they keep works by Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, Raphael, Matisse, and Michelangelo. Very big exhibit, you must give yourself time.’

Fifty metres ahead, the traffic lights were rolling to red. The driver cursed loudly, flicked his headlights on and off to warn of his intentions, then floored the accelerator onto Dvortsovvy Proezd. To the left was a vast circle of buildings and a flat square with a massive stone column rising like a strong muscular arm out of the ground. Tom thought it seemed to be reaching greedily upwards to grab for the Moon.

‘The Alexander column took four years to build. It is made from Karelian granite. The idea was to celebrate Imperial Russia’s victory over Napoleon.’ For a second, the Professor tried to recall how the little Corsican Emperor had marched in ahead of half a million men and crawled out with less than twenty thousand. ‘I came here with thousands of other people to light a candle for Zhirinovsky. My wife did not agree, but I came all the same. You know, before he was assassinated, he said, “Russia once saved the world from the Ottoman Empire by sending its troops to the south. Seven centuries ago we stopped the Mongols. We have saved Europe several times: from the south, from the East, from the north and from the centre of Europe itself. The world should be grateful to Russia for its role as saviour.” He was a great man…’ His voice broke off in the dark, his pain palpable, almost as if he was reliving the day when the leader of the Liberal Democratic Party of Russia was gunned down in the street. ‘A great, great man…’

The whole square was filled with a mournful blue tint. One could imagine the Imperial troops parading before their Tsar, starched epaulettes and sabres shining in thin northern light. ‘Most of the buildings were designed by Rastrelli in the Baroque style. They are large, no?’ Tom nodded silently, overwhelmed by the endless contours of pink and yellow facades as they undulated, curving away in symmetrical lines off the square. To his right, the trees of the Admiralty Gardens stood tall against the buildings, twisting trunks casting fluttering silhouettes beyond the skein of encroaching streetlights that shone like pale torches through green-lime leaves.

They circled the gardens slowly. Tom made out vampiric shapes wandering about under the tree cover. Then, without warning, the BMW pulled over onto leaf-strewn Admiralteyskiy Proezd. He heard the driver open the front door and watched as he got out and walked away from the car. For a moment, the Professor became anxious. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Was he being set up? Then the footsteps stopped and he saw a cigarette light up. The car doors on either side swung open. Tom looked quickly to his left and right as two girls, one blonde and one brunette, slid across smooth leather. Before he knew what was happening he felt two thin arms wrap around his neck, a hot tongue invade his mouth, and a second pair of eager hands unzip his trousers.

Back in his hotel room, Tom waited a few moments before switching on the light. He was looking down onto the traffic below. The girls stood behind in the shadows, unsure what to expect: tears or passion? Most men could not wait to tear into their flesh, but there were some who snivelled on endlessly about their broken hearts and sad lives. They sensed this client was very different. He was cool and detached, thoughtful and reckless all at the same time. After a while, he went to the minibar and poured them two flutes of champagne and a large tumbler of whisky for himself. He stood looking up at the Cathedral through the huge window, sipping at his scotch, thinking hard, his black jacket cast carelessly over a chair.

They watched him closely, studying his long, slim body set against the illuminated dome. A ballet of stars danced on tip-toe over the frosted cupola. Below, the last trailing troop of revellers were making their way home. They thought his room, all cream-coloured duvets and red headboards, was just like a film set. And they liked making that kind of film. The girls began slipping out of their clothes, pale shoulders and slim-finned swimmer’s hips reflecting in the luminous mirror. One drew an ice cube over her breasts in order to entice him. The other was spooning ice cream from the minibar.

The door to the drinks cabinet was hanging open, almost leering, showing off miniature bottles of vodka and gin. He swirled his glass, listening to chunks of ice clink against crystal. His eyes fixed on the perfect bodies disrobing before him. He felt surprisingly reinvigorated considering that he had been on a non-stop lecturing tour for weeks on end. London to San Francisco, then Vancouver and Quebec. Returning to London temporarily, he had flown on to Bratislava, and now the Baltic. It had become a blur of airport lounges, tubular steel, and tinted perspex. He had been strip-searched and questioned about his baggage and the purpose of his journey by uniformed officials of every colour, height, weight, and sexual orientation.

‘I’m Anna’, the blonde breathed as a beautifully manicured hand tousled his hair. He felt a tongue flick wetly over his stiffening nipples. Simultaneously, pointed breasts pressed into his back.

‘And I’m Oksana…’ Arms surrounded him, warm palms caressing his buttocks. He found their voices irresistible as they chattered to each other, occasionally breaking into English, telling him what they were going to do to him, h ow they would make him feel. After a few moments they had removed his shirt and trousers. His watch read 02.15. Their three bodies were framed by the window. The street outside was quiet now, only the night wind walked the pavements and courtyards. Whirling chocolate wrappers darted about the square, scratching pale stone, colliding with railings, catching in the prickling branches stretched out before the vast doors of St Isaac’s Cathedral. There, all alone, a couple stood bathed in wet moonlight. They were talking intently, hands gesturing before they walked on, casting ghostly shadows under the streetlight in the far corner of the square. Her long brown hair flowed over his shoulder.

Tom let the curtain fall on the scene, finished his whisky, and dropped onto the bed beside his two companions. He began to take his pleasure mechanically, gratified by the wet sensations he was feeling and the sucking sounds that filled his ears. His eyes drifted over the room one last time before he switched off the bedside light. His briefcase was open on the table. The laptop’s screen threw a metallic stare at the far wall. Mouths and fingers roamed. The scent of musky orifices filled his nostrils as they all worked towards a simultaneous spasm. Afterwards, slowly but surely, they relaxed into an uneasy sleep, Anna’s head on his chest and Oksana’s bony knee jutting his kidney.