waits for the second date? Or by that time would she be leaning so close that—why hold back now that we’re practically already there?
With that, thank God, Zhytin slipped out of her mind and was gone.
Sergei took the exit off Collins Avenue onto the MacArthur Causeway. He drove slowly for a change… for maybe four or five hundred yards… then pointed to the right toward Biscayne Bay… nothing but a vast black shape in the dark… “See that little bridge? That takes you onto Star Island right there.”
“Star Island is that close to shore?” said Magdalena. “That’s such a short bridge, I don’t know how they could call it an island.”
“Well,” said Sergei, “it doesn’t touch the mainland at any point, so I guess that’s how.”
They zipped across the little bridge just like that, but then Sergei slowed down and said, “It’s the—I don’t know exactly which house on the right, but is not far. It is huge.”
Even in the darkness, Magdalena was aware of how lush, posh, and lavish the vegetation suddenly became the moment you arrived on Star Island… finely sculpted hedges, endless perfect allées of giant palm trees. The houses were set way back from the road. Even in this light, it was obvious that they were huge… vast… showy estates, so big that it seemed like they had been driving a very long way by the time they reached the one Sergei recognized as Flebetnikov’s. He turned into the driveway… walls of shrubbery on both sides, so high and thick you couldn’t see the house. The driveway came to an end between two buildings you couldn’t see from the road. Each was two stories high and deep enough for a good-sized family to live in… fancy enough, too… a sort of Bermuda-white stucco… a valet took their car… these two structures were nothing less than a double gatehouse. Beyond it… the main house. There it was. What a pile! It stretched on… and on… for a good tenth of a mile. The walkway to the house had been laid out in gigantic and conspicuously needless curves. But what was this? The beginning of the walkway was blocked by a velvet rope. To one side, barely ahead of the rope, a blonde—about thirty-five?—sat at a card table with a stack of forms before her. As Sergei and Magdalena approached the table, she flashed a bright smile and said, “You’re here for the party?”
When Sergei said yes, she took two forms from the top of the pile and said, “If you’ll just sign these, please.”
Sergei started reading the form she handed him—and suddenly twisted his head and narrowed his eyes and stared intently, as if the thing had turned into a lizard. He shot the blonde the same look. “What is this thing?” Vot ees dees zing?
The blonde smiled brightly again and said, “It’s a release. It’s just a formality.”
Now Sergei smiled. “Ah, that’s good. If it’s just a formality, then why we bother? Don’t you agree?”
“Well,” said the blonde, “we do have to have your written permission.”
“Written permission? For what?”
“So we can use your likeness and your speech in the video?”
“Liiiiikeness?” said Sergei.
“Yes, so we can show you in action at the party. You’ll be amazing, if you don’t mind my saying so. We love European accents on these shows. You’ll be wonderful… and you will, too!” she said, looking at Magdalena. “You’re the best-looking couple I’ve seen all evening.”
Magdalena loved that. She was dying to go in.
“What you mean ‘these shows’?”
“Our series,” said the blonde. “It’s called Masters of Disaster. They didn’t tell you? Maybe you’ve seen it.”
“No, I have not zeen it,” said Sergei, “and no, I never heard of it, and no, ‘zey’ did not tell me. I thought Mr. Flebetnikov is inviting me to a party. What is this Masters of Disaster?”
“It’s a reality show. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. Our ratings are really pretty good. Everybody’s crazy about stars, but they’re even crazier about seeing the stars fall and crash and burn. You know German? In German they call it Schadenfreude.”
“So Flebetnikov, he crashed and burned?” said Sergei.
“I’m told he’s a Russian oligarch, and he had a huge hedge fund and then some sort of deal went bad, and everyone’s pulled out of the hedge fund, and it’s a disaster for him.”
Magdalena said to Sergei, “Oh, I think I remember him! He was in our line at the opening day of Art Basel. A big man. He kept cutting into