rational, and for all Oxana’s casual cruelties, I have stopped pretending to myself that I’m not in love with her.
I know that I can never tell her this, just as I’m certain that she will never tell me that she loves me, because those words have no meaning for her. I know that I have only myself to blame. I believed that I could somehow finesse her affectless nature, and in the cold light of day I see this to be impossible. St. Petersburg winter days are short, however, and the nights are long. In our shared bed, wrapped in darkness and dreams and the warm smell of her body, I find myself believing it again.
A week after our arrival, Kristina directs Oxana and me to a department store where there is a photo booth. When we return, Dasha takes the prints and tells us that we should have our Russian internal passports and other identity documents within the week. In total, for both of us, the cost will be fifteen hundred U.S. dollars, which Oxana pays immediately. There are cheaper versions available, Dasha says, but they are recognizable as forgeries. I’m glad to see the money handed over, because I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable about accepting Dasha’s hospitality on an indefinite basis, vory code or no vory code. I’m also aware of Oxana’s increasing restlessness, which running and exercise cannot assuage. “I need to work,” she tells me, pacing the flat like a caged panther. “I need to feel I’m alive.”
“Don’t I make you feel alive?” I ask, and immediately wish that I hadn’t. Oxana turns a pitying gaze on me and says nothing.
After pocketing the cash for the documents, Dasha informs us that she’s hosting a dinner at the apartment that evening. Her boss is coming, his name is Asmat Dzabrati, and we should address him as Pakhan, or leader. He is a hugely respected figure, apparently. A gangster boss of the old school, who in his younger days was known for dispatching rivals with an ax. With the Pakhan will be the gang’s three other brigadiers, Dasha herself being the fourth. It’s an important occasion, Dasha impresses on us, and she’s anxious for it to go well. Kristina will lend us the appropriate clothes.
Oxana is in a vile mood, so the session doesn’t go well. She glances into Kristina’s wardrobe, snatches a Saint Laurent tuxedo suit, holds it against herself, glances in the mirror and walks out without a word.
Kristina watches her go. “Everything OK?”
“Oh… you know.”
She smiles faintly. “I do know.”
“Kristina?”
“Kris.”
“Kris… are you with Dasha?”
“Yes. For a year now.”
I stare at the array of dresses, not knowing where to start. “Do you love her?” I ask impulsively.
“Yes, and she loves me. One day we’re going to move out of the city to a village in Karelia. Maybe adopt a daughter.”
“Good luck with that.”
She takes a ruffled silk Bora Aksu dress from the rail, looks at it, and frowns. “You and your Oxana. You’re going to live happily ever after, is that the plan?”
“Something like that.”
She hands me the dress. “She’s a killer, isn’t she? A professional.”
I hold her gaze. Listen to the sound of my own breathing.
“I can recognize them straight away. That look they have. Do you like the name Elvira? I think it’s so pretty for a little girl.”
Asmat Dzabrati is one of the least remarkable men I’ve ever met. Short, with thinning hair and mild, rabbity eyes, he’s the last of the evening’s guests to arrive. His entrance is low-key, but he’s immediately the center of attention. The Pakhan wields the kind of power that doesn’t proclaim itself, but is evident in the demeanor of others. As he is helped from his shabby overcoat, led to a chair and furnished with a drink, the other guests enact an elaborately deferential dance, positioning themselves around him in hierarchical ranks. The inner circle consists of Dasha and the other brigadiers, then there’s a cordon of bodyguards and foot soldiers, and finally the wives and girlfriends. Oxana threads herself between these groups like a shark, never quite finding a resting place, while I drift around the outer perimeter of scented, dressed-to-kill women, smilingly listening in on conversations, and moving on if there’s any suggestion that I’m expected to do more than nod in agreement.
We’re in the apartment’s principal reception room. This is furnished with heavy grandeur and dominated by a spotlit portrait of Dasha lounging in a smoking jacket, holding a cigar. Opposite the painting, between