the crowd off to the side… and drunken anger… “Get the fuck off my foot, you greasy tub a butter!”… Comrade Fleabittenov is more like it!”… “You don’t shove me, you big fat piece a blubber!”… “Master of Up the Asster!” The tumult only grew louder. Whatever it was, it was heading toward Magdalena and Sergei and Sidney Munch. Following it were two mobile camera stands. You couldn’t miss them, they were so tall. They rolled through the crowd like a pair of tanks.
Dios mío, the rumble! The edge of the crowd broke open—and the tumult was right on top of Magdalena. It was the great hulk of Flebetnikov himself—enraged. He was clad in an expensive-looking dark suit and white shirt. His neck was now bulging with veins, tendons, striations, and a pair of huge sternocleidomastoid muscles… and gorged with the blood of fury.
“Korolyov!” he bellowed.
Sidney Munch and Ms. Zitzpoppen knew enough to get out of the way. The big rabid Russian headed straight for Sergei, roaring in Russian, “You miserable little viper! You insult me, you attack me behind my back! On the TV! For three hundred million stupid Americans!”
He thrust his big red apoplectic face right in Sergei’s. Barely six inches separated the two. Magdalena stared anxiously at her Sergei. He didn’t move a muscle, other than to cross his arms upon his chest. He wore a smile that said I hope you know you’re crazy. He couldn’t have looked more confident or more relaxed. Cool was the word for it. Magdalena was so proud of her Sergei! She was dying to tell him that!
Flebetnikov continued to yell in Russian. “You dare call me a fool! A fool who did a foolish thing and lost all his money! You think I’ll just take that?!”
Magdalena noticed that the two mobile cameras were right on top of them, and the cameramen had their heads practically socketed into the lenses, hungrily eating up the whole scene.
Still smiling his very cool smile, Sergei was saying in Russian, “Boris Feodorovich, you know very well that’s not true. You know very well that our masters of reality here”—he motioned toward Sidney Munch and at the knob-headed director, who was right behind Flebetnikov—“will tell you any lies.”
Flebetnikov went silent. Magdalena saw him flick a glance at Munch, the producer, and she saw Munch, his arms still at his side flapping his open palm upward upward upward upward. Keep it up! Munch seemed to be signaling, Don’t stop! Pour it on! Wipe that cynical look off his arrogant face! He’s mocking you! Go get him, Big Boy! Don’t stop now!
Flebetnikov continued in Russian, “You dare stand there and mock me, Sergei Andreivich? You think I am going to put up with your arrogance! Am I going to have to wipe that smug face off for you myself?”
In Russian, Sergei responded, “Oh, come on, Boris Feodorovich, we both know this is something cooked up by these Americans. They just want to make you look foolish.”
“Foolish, there you use that word again! You dare call me a fool in my face?! Oh, I’m sorry, Sergei Andreivich, but I can’t let you go that far! Obviously, I’m bigger than you, but now you force me to do what I have to do! If you won’t remove that insulting little smile from your face yourself, then you leave me no choice!”
Magdalena had no idea what they were saying—but look at Flebetnikov’s face now! It’s positively swelling up! It’s gorged with blood! He’s putting it even closer to Sergei’s! He’s close enough to bite his nose off! He’s reached the boiling point! And Sergei! She is so proud of him. He is a man! He doesn’t flinch, much less retreat. The cool look he gave Flebetnikov hasn’t changed at all since this whole thing began. She sees Flebetnikov flick another glance at Munch. Munch nods a quick yes and flaps the open palm up and down at a furious rate. Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!
In Russian, Flebetnikov said, “Remember, I don’t want to do this! You insist that I do it!”
With that, he stepped back to give himself room to do what he “had to do.” With a cross between a grunt and a roar, he swung at Sergei. It was a big ponderous right hook. Even someone not as young and fit as Sergei could have wrapped up a telephone call and said goodbye before it arrived. Sergei ducked it easily and countered by ramming his shoulder into Flebetnikov’s midsection. Grrrrooof!—between