Guillermo Erades - Back to Moscow

‘Tolstoy wasn’t happy,’ Stepanov says. ‘He was tormented. And he fucked his maids and peasants all the time.’

‘You know what I mean,’ I say.

‘Nobody is happy all of the time,’ Colin says, as the first drops of rain pepper our table. ‘Life is like a big ocean of boredom and then you bump into little islands of happiness. Total happiness doesn’t exist. Imagine that you marry your dyev, move to a dacha in Siberia and build yourself a quiet life. You’ll be going deeper into the ocean, with no happy islands in sight. Man, stop fucking with your head and enjoy what Moscow has to offer.’

‘So when does it stop?’ I say.

Colin raises his arms. ‘Stop what?’

‘The chase,’ I say. ‘The fucking around.’

‘Your dick will tell you when,’ Colin says. ‘He’ll know when you’re done.’

FIRST I SEE A PAIR of black leather boots. Spiny high heels, shiny leather. I’ve never seen her wear that kind of footwear before. I’m at the bar, ordering a round of drinks for the brothers. She’s on the dance floor. Not even sure it’s her. Not just the boots. The way she dances, elbows in the air, breasts pushed out.

It’s been a while since I last came to the Boarhouse. We used to come often during my first year, usually on Wednesdays, to enjoy the Countdown, back then the best happy hour deal in town. But today is Saturday, there’s no happy hour and we shouldn’t be at the Boarhouse.

These days the place is trashy. For some reason it’s maintained its two fuckies in The Exile . The Boarhouse remains a popular place among white-haired expats, those who don’t care about trendy clubs or are too old and too ugly to make it through face control. But earlier in the night we were at the Bavarian Brewery, drinking large jugs of beer with a bunch of expat football buddies and someone had suggested we go for drinks at the Boarhouse. And here we are. Wasted.

I pay for the drinks, ship them back to the brothers. I’m holding my shot of vodka in one hand, bottle of beer in the other. I drain the vodka at once, leave the empty glass on the table, take a sip of beer to wash it down. With the bottle of beer in my hand, I stumble out of the bar area and thread my way between the people, towards the dance floor.

Up close the boots look more plastic than leather. She’s wearing heavy make-up, bright red lipstick, thick eyeliner, her face more aggressive and hostile than I remember. Lost in the dancing, she doesn’t notice me. Deep inside, I still hope it’s not her. She’s dancing in a group of four, with another dyev and two older guys, clearly expats. They seem to be coupled up. Her girlfriend dances next to a tall guy with glasses, late forties. She — now I’m sure it’s her — is dancing with the older man, fifty-something, fat and bald, wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, sweaty around the armpits.

Old disco hits from the 1980s blast through the loudspeakers. Dyevs in the club seem to love the music and are dancing with their arms up in the air, twisting their bodies in inelegant ways.

I tap her shoulder. She turns round, looks at me for a couple of seconds and smiles.

‘Privet, Martin, kak dela?’ She doesn’t seem surprised to see me.

‘Privet, Lena. I wasn’t sure it was you.’

‘It’s me.’

Her breasts are pushed up, look enormous. I’ve never seen Lena wear anything like this before. I can almost see her nipples. I notice that she’s not wearing her golden chain with the cross.

Here she is. Lena. My long-disappeared Lena.

I find myself thinking of the days we spent together, just after my arrival, when I had plenty of energy and Moscow was a white canvas. The Propaganda era. I picture Lena lying on her kommunalka bed. Or sitting on the floor of my balcony, her legs dangling through the bars, gazing over the city.

‘It’s been a long time,’ I say.

She nods.

‘Oh Bozhe, Lenushka, you look so different.’ My eyes can’t help going from her face to her breasts and down to her mini-miniskirt.

‘Thanks for the compliment.’

‘I sent you so many messages,’ I say. ‘You never called me back.’

She stops dancing, steps aside. ‘Call you? What for?’

‘To talk, to see each other. I thought a lot about you. Lena, I’ve missed you.’

Behind Lena, the two older expats are looking at me, impatient. Lena steps back as if to go back to dance.

‘Would you like a drink?’ I ask.

‘No thanks, I’m OK.’

‘I didn’t know you came here.’

‘I’ve come a few times,’ she says. ‘I like the music.’

I can hardly hear her, I step closer. She’s wearing the same perfume she wore back then, and, as I inhale as much of the sweet aroma as I can, I feel a shudder through my body, and now I’m seeing Lena in Propaganda, the first night we met, when she was the most beautiful dyev in the club and I whispered a few Pushkin verses in her ear.

‘Where are you working now?’ I say. ‘I went to the restaurant. They told me you don’t work there any more.’

‘I quit work. I’m taking a break now.’ She comes closer. ‘Listen, I can’t talk right now.’

Her girlfriend comes over, talks in her ear.

‘I really need to go,’ Lena says. ‘It was nice seeing you.’

She turns round but I grab her arm and pull her aside.

‘I’ve been wanting to see you for ages. Lena, you look great. I’ve missed you so much.’

‘Martin, you are drunk.’

‘I really miss you, Lena. I miss what we had.’

‘What did we have?’ She shakes me off. ‘You only wanted me for sex.’

‘That’s not true, Lenushka.’

‘Martin, I need to go now, let’s talk another day.’

‘What are you doing later tonight?’

Lena puts her hand to her neck, as if to grab the necklace she is not wearing. ‘Martin, you are drunk. Go back to your friends.’

The old fat expat comes to me. ‘Listen, man,’ he says, ‘tonight these two ladies are with us. Move on and look for another one.’ He is American.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘she’s just an old friend.’

‘Tonight she’s our friend.’

‘Whatever.’ I turn to Lena. ‘See you later. Don’t leave without saying goodbye.’

I go back to the brothers, who have gathered in a corner next to the entrance.

‘I see you’re relaxing your policy,’ Colin says.

‘What do you mean?’

Colin smiles and points his bottle of beer at the dance floor. ‘I just saw you over there,’ he says, ‘trying to pick up a whore.’

I look back at the dance floor, where Lena is dancing. The shiny boots. The push-up bra. The miniskirt. The make-up. I should have realised sooner. Of course Lena can’t possibly like the fat American. Of course Lena has not come to the Boarhouse for the music.

I leave my beer on the floor, rush outside the club to get some fresh air. I sit on the kerb. Maybe everything is a misunderstanding. Sure, there are plenty of prostitutes at the Boarhouse. It’s a trashy place and that’s why we don’t like it. But not Lena, I tell myself, not my Lenushka. I need to talk to her, clarify things. I need to hear her tell me what’s going on. I need to go back into the club. I try to get up on my feet but I realise I’m too drunk, I can hardly stand.

The image of the fat American flashes in my head, the hollow feeling in my stomach grows. I feel a spasm, as if I were about to cry, but I hold back my tears and, instead of crying, I puke. Beer. Pieces of mashed Bavarian sausage.

I feel a bit better. I breathe deeply, find some chewing gum, go back into the club.

The air is steamy. I find Lena next to the bar, drinking a cocktail with her girlfriend and the two old guys.