Part 19 (2/2)

'I thought we could approach the Great Hall by way of the Delacroix. Such an underrated little treasure!' Head Curator Rogorshev turns to me, tracing the inside of his lips with the tip of his tongue.

I simper like the virgin he likes me to be.

'I'll have to have all these fittings sniffed for explosives.' The Head of Security snorts in once and out once, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

'Whatever. I know how the French amba.s.sador loves to point at things with his stick.' They walk on. At the door the Head Curator turns, blows me a kiss, points to his watch and mouths 'six o'clock'. Then he flexes his index finger like his itty-bitty hard-on.

I flash him a look that says 'Oh yes, oh yes yes! Stop before I explode explode!'

He trots after the security man, thinking, 'Ooh, Head Curator Rogorshev, you cunning rogue, you master of seduction, another female of the species caught in my web.' The truth is, Head Curator Rogorshev is a master of only one thing, and that is the art of kidding himself. Look at him! That shock of s.h.i.+ny black hair? I glue it on myself every Monday. There will come a time, not long from now, when he will see whose web he has been stuck in during the last year. And so will the Serious Crime Police Squad.

My birthday is coming soon. Another one. That explains why Rudi has been too busy to see me recently. He knows how I love surprises.

Gutbucket Petrovich comes to take my place while I go for a tea-break. They dropped me off the rota once, and left me sitting in my gallery for a whole day. I made Rogorshev sack the ringleader. None of them ever speaks to me now, but they never forget my tea-break.

The staff canteen is empty. The catering workers have already gone home by the time my break comes around, so I am all alone in the echoing hall. The Gutbucket crew consider this ostracism a victory, but it suits me. I make myself a cup of my own American coffee and smoke my favourite French cigarettes. The soft flame ignites the tinder-dry tip and I suck and Ah! As exquisite as being shot! I know how much my dear co-workers would adore the merest puff of this cigarette, so I like to leave the room perfumed.

I can see Dvortsovaya Square from here. A whirlpool of wet cobbles. It takes two minutes just to walk across. A dwarf is running after his umbrella, he'll cover it in one.

How dare those dairy cows come on so pious with me? The fact is they are stewing with jealousy that I possess the basic female skills to net my men, while they do not. They can't net their hair. I admit that my little understanding with Head Curator Rogorshev brings me my privileges, quite beside its place in the grander plan, but if they could, any of those warty hags would die for these privileges quicker than you could say 'knickers round your ankles'. Yes, even Gutbucket Petrovich, with her frothy new panscrubber hairstyle and lardy thighs.

When Petersburg was Leningrad, I could have had the whole ruddy lot posted to the middle of f.u.c.king nowhere! Further than nowhere! They'd have been s.h.i.+pped out wholesale to mind a museum in the Gobi Desert and live in gerts! gerts!

I was the concubine of two powerful men, you see. First, a politician. I'm not going to tell you his name, he was as high as you could get in the Politburo without being knocked off as a potential threat. High enough to know the codes to nuclear warheads. He could have ended the world if he'd wanted to, virtually. He pulled some strings at the Party Office for me and got me a lovely little apartment overlooking Alexandra Nevskogo Square. When he died suddenly of a heart attack, I selected for my next lover an admiral in the Pacific Fleet. Of course, I was given a new apartment and the lifelong lease that befitted an admiral's station. I still live there now, near Anichkov Bridge, down Fontanki Embankment. He was very affectionate, my admiral. Just between you and me, I think he used to try a little too hard. He'd try to outdo the presents that the politician had bought for me. He was terribly possessive. My men always are.

My G.o.d, were those ever the days.

'Lymko,' I'd say, 'I'm a little cold when we go to the ballet at nights...' And the very next morning a mink coat would be delivered. 'Lymko, I need a little sparkle in my life...' I'd show you the diamond brooch that came, but I had to sell it to set up a business venture of Rudi's, back in our early days, you understand. It would have made Gutbucket Petrovich's jaw drop so far that she wouldn't be able to shut her mouth for a week. 'Lymko, so-and-so at the Party department store was quite beastly last week. Quite improper. I wouldn't want to get anyone into trouble, but he said things about your professional integrity that hurt me deeply...' And the next morning so-and-so would discover that he had been promoted to junior cleaner in the public s.h.i.+t-houses around Lake Baikal. Everyone knew about me, but everyone played along to keep the peace. Even his wife, kept out in the naval base at Vladivostock with her clutch of admiral brats.

Another cigarette. The ashtray is already half-full. The dwarf never caught his umbrella.

Back on my plastic chair. I'm almost groaning with boredom. I'm forced to play this game of patience, dying of a lack of interest, day after day after day. The end of the afternoon staggers into view. I'm hungry and I need a vodka. Rogorshev has his own secret bottle. I count the seconds. Forty minutes, times sixty seconds, that's twenty-four thousand seconds to go. There's no point looking outside to relieve the boredom, I already know the view. The Dvortsovaya embankment, the Neva, the Petrograd side. I'd get Head Curator Rogorshev to change my gallery, but Rudi says no, not now we're so close to the big night. Jerome agrees with him for once, so I'm stuck here.

Strange to think, us Russians once mattered in the world. Now we we have to go begging for handouts. I'm not a political woman thinking about politics was too d.a.m.ned dangerous when I was growing up. Besides, what was this Union of Socialist Soviet Republics, really? have to go begging for handouts. I'm not a political woman thinking about politics was too d.a.m.ned dangerous when I was growing up. Besides, what was this Union of Socialist Soviet Republics, really? Republics Republics need real elections and I never saw any of those, I d.a.m.n well never heard of any need real elections and I never saw any of those, I d.a.m.n well never heard of any Soviets Soviets I'm not even sure what one is. I'm not even sure what one is. Socialism Socialism means the common people own the country, and all my mother ever owned was her intestinal parasites. And where was the means the common people own the country, and all my mother ever owned was her intestinal parasites. And where was the union union? Us Russians pouring roubles into these pointless little countries full of people eating snakes and babies all over Asia just to stop the c.h.i.n.ks or the Arabs getting their hands on them? That's not what I call a union union. That's what I call buying up the neighbours. An empire by default. But could we ever kick a.r.s.e in those days! Jerome told me that some schoolkids in Europe have never even heard heard of the USSR! 'Listen, of the USSR! 'Listen, meine kinder meine kinder,' I'd tell 'em, 'about this country you've never heard of, we used to have enough nuclear bombs to make your side of the Berlin Wall glow beetroot for the next ten thousand years. Just be grateful. You could have been born with the arms of a mushroom and a bag of pus for a head, if you'd been born at all. Think about it.'

But sometimes, I wonder if much has changed at all, since Sc.u.mbag Gorbachev. Sure, for the common people, their floorboards rotted through and down they fell. At the top, I mean. The same people who shredded their Party members.h.i.+p cards now wheel out the democracy bulls.h.i.+t slogans by the steaming cartload 'flair and verve in the strategising stages', 'originality in capital manipulation', 'streamlining and restructuring'. The letters I type out for Head Curator Rogorshev are full of it. But really, where's the difference? It is now what it's always been. Recognising the real, but invisible goalposts, and using whatever means are at your disposal to score. These means might be in a bank vault in Geneva, in a hard disc in Hong Kong, encased in your skull or in the cups of your bra. No, nothing's changed. You used to pay off your local Party thug, now you pay off your local mafia thug. The old Party used to lie, and lie, and lie some more. Now our democratically elected government lies, and lies, and lies some more. The people used to want things, and were told, work and wait for twenty years, and then maybe it'll be your turn. The people still want things, and are told, work, and save for twenty years, and then maybe it'll be your turn. Where's the difference?

I'm going to tell you a secret. Everything is about wanting. Everything. Things happen because of people wanting. Watch closely, and you'll see what I mean.

But like I said, I'm not a political woman. The things you think of, sitting here.

I recognised Head Curator Rogorshev's footsteps striding down the corridor outside with the footsteps of a woman. I heard him telling her the same jokes he had told me months before while I was seducing him, and I heard her laughter flutter, just like mine had. It's a very special talent that men have, to possess seeing eyes yet be so blind.

'And here,' Head Curator Rogorshev said wheeling a tall leggy woman into my gallery, 'you'll doubtless recognise Eve and the Serpent, Eve and the Serpent, by Lemuel Delacroix.' He winked clumsily at me, like I couldn't see what was going on. by Lemuel Delacroix.' He winked clumsily at me, like I couldn't see what was going on.

She was repulsed by the Head Curator a sign of good taste but she hid it well. Western clothing, French boots, an Italian handbag. Dark, a touch of Arabia in the shape of her eyes. Thirty or thirty-one, but to men like Rogorshev she would look younger. No eyeshadow, rouge or foundation, but well-chosen mulberry lipstick. Interesting. I had a rival. Good.

'Ms Latunsky, this is Tatyana Makuch. Tatyana will be with us on release from the Stanislow Art Museum in Warsaw for the next six weeks. We're very lucky to have her.'

Tatyana walked over to me, her boots creaking slightly. I stood up. We were the same height. We looked into one another's eyes, and shook hands slowly. Blue.

'Charmed,' I said. 'Truly.'

'Delighted,' she replied. 'Sincerely.' What a rich voice. Polish-flavoured Russian. Coffee with chocolate in it.

'Head Curator Rogorshev,' I said without looking at him, 'shall I still come to your office at the usual time this evening? Or will Miss Makuch be taking over your personal dictations from now on?'

Tatyana spoke first, with just the right half-smile. 'It's Mrs Mrs Makuch. And I'm afraid my talents don't extend to secretarial skills.' Makuch. And I'm afraid my talents don't extend to secretarial skills.'

She was good. She was very good.

'It's all right Ms Latunsky,' Head Curator Rogorshev was saying to me as if he had any say in the matter, 'please come at the usual hour. I have some important despatches I wish to make,' G.o.d, he spreads it on thick, 'and I know only you can perform to my satisfaction.' He got his lines from lunchtime dramas. 'Please come along now, Mrs Makuch, we must complete our whirlwind tour before the clock strikes six and I turn into a werewolf!'

'We'll be seeing each other,' Tatyana said.

'We will be.'

A quarter to six. We were shooing out the lingerers. The rain won't stop and the minutes won't leave. Head Curator Rogorshev will be prettying himself up in his private washroom now. Not many men get to manicure their own corpse. A cigarette would be nice. Jesus Christ, the sooner Rudi and I get out of this d.a.m.ned place the better. I say to Rudi, 'Look! Let's just bag ten whoppers in one night! Some Pica.s.sos, some Cezannes, some El Grecos, and in seventy-two hours we could be shopping for chalets in Switzerland on the money we've already got, and sell off pieces of the golden goose year by year.' Lakes, yachts, water-skiing in the summer. I've already designed my boudoir. I'm going to have a full-length leopard-skin coat. The locals will call me the White Russian Lady, and all the women will be jealous and warn their cheesemaking financier husbands against me. But they won't need to worry. I'll have Rudi. Away from all the distractions of the lowlife here, I know he'll straighten out. When the weather is warm, he'll teach our children to swim, and when it's cold we'll all go skiing. As a family.

'Let's do it! Gregorski can get the visas ready,' I say. 'It's so simple!'

'It's not simple at all!' he says. 'Forget the fact you're a woman and use your brain! The reason it's worked so far is that we haven't been greedy. If we lift pictures at a faster rate than Jerome can replace them, people notice they are missing! And for every single picture that is missing, multiply by ten the number of pigs Interpol give the case! Multiply by twenty the pay-offs I have to dish out! Multiply by thirty the difficulty I have in finding buyers! And multiply by fifty the years we'll get in the slammer!'

'It's all very well for you to lecture me in arithmetic, it's not you who has to get skewered by that bald porker every week!'

Then Rudi really bawls me out and if he's been drinking slaps me about a bit, just a bit, because of the drink, and he storms out and goes for a drive and I might not see him for a couple of days. He's under a lot of pressure.

'I love you!' yells Head Curator Rogorshev, jockeying up and down with my bra strap wrapped round his windpipe. 'Rabbit's coming! Oh, gobble me and be spliced my fairy cake. I gobble you and devour you! Bunny's coming! Destroy me, my wh.o.r.e, my master, I love you!'

I know he's imagining I'm Tatyana. That's fine. I make it tolerable by imagining he is Rudi. I hope he'll finish soon so I can have a cigarette. I'll steal some of his Cuban cigars for Rudi, to impress his business contacts. I wrap my legs around his hippo girth to hasten the end. He groans like a kid on an out-of-control go-cart hurtling down a hill, and mercifully soon comes the hanged-man gasp and the legs on his eighteenth-century chaise longue stop squeaking.

'G.o.d, my G.o.d, I love you.' He kisses the flat bone between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. For a moment I wonder if he means it, whether there is an alchemy that turns l.u.s.t to love. 'You're not jealous of Tatyana, are you? She could never replace you, you know, Margot, my love...'

I blow a smoke ring and watch it spinning into the corners of his office, where the evening is thickening. I imagine a circle of wild swans and pat his toupee-less pate. He doesn't even bother to take his socks off these days. His portrait farcically flattering stares down from behind the desk. Quite the man of destiny.

All alchemists were frauds and liars, but it doesn't matter. I'll work on Rudi. He doesn't know it yet but we'll be spending Christmas in Zurich.

Head Curator Rogorshev always leaves first. He showers in his private office bathroom so his wife can pretend nothing is happening, and I might do a little paperwork for the sake of appearances. I hear him, singing and shampooing me down the plug-hole. He puts on a new s.h.i.+rt, kisses me to show me he cares, and goes off. I might do some invoicing for Rudi's cleaning company, or make Jerome out a new pa.s.s, or some free pa.s.ses for Rudi's clients. Or I might just stare out of the window at the cupolas of St Andrew's Cathedral. I usually leave around 7.30. Jerome wants the guards to stay used to seeing me around after hours.

'Nothing to declare tonight?' the Head of Security at the staff exit grins his b.u.t.tery grin. I wish I could be around to see it dribble off his chin when the s.h.i.+t explodes. He knows about my affair with Rogorshev, and has the hots for me himself. Of course, it's a part of the plan for everyone to know. He body-searches me! Me, Margot Latunsky! Him, an ex-army malingerer who thinks s.h.i.+ny badges and a walkie-talkie make him Rambo. I feel his hands lingering longer than they should. I think of ways I could incriminate him from Zurich.

'No, Chief,' I demur, a wary little stray, 'no stolen masterpieces tonight.'

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