The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt Page 0,262

was annoyed. “I cleared this whole night for you! I had stuff to do! You’re leaving?”

“Yes! And you’re coming with me. Because—” I threw my arms out—“you have to see the surprise!”

“Surprise?” He threw down his balled-up napkin. “What surprise?”

“You’ll find out.” What was the matter with him? Had he forgotten how to have fun? “Now come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Why? Now?”

“Just because!” The bar room was a dark roar; I’d never felt so sure of myself in my life, so pleased at my own cleverness. “Come on. Drink up!”

“Do we really have to do this?”

“You’ll be glad. Promise. Come on!” I said, reaching over and shaking his shoulder amicably as I thought. “I mean, no shit, this is a surprise you can’t believe how good.”

He leaned back with folded arms and regarded me suspiciously. “I think you are angry with me.”

“Boris, what the fuck.” I was so drunk I stumbled, standing up, and had to catch myself on the table. “Don’t argue. Let’s just go.”

“I think it is a mistake to go somewhere with you.”

“Oh?” I looked at him with one half closed eye. “You coming, or not?”

Boris looked at me coolly. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and said: “You won’t tell me where we’re going.”

“No.”

“You won’t mind if my driver takes us then?”

“Your driver?”

“Sure. He is waiting like two-three blocks away.”

“Fuck.” I looked away and laughed. “You have a driver?”

“You don’t mind if we go with him, then?”

“Why would I?” I said, after a brief pause. Drunk as I was, his manner had brought me up short: he was looking at me with a peculiar, calculating, uninflected quality I had never seen before.

Boris tossed back the rest of his vodka and then stood up. “Very well,” he said, twirling an unlit cigarette loosely in his fingertips. “Let’s get this nonsense over with, then.”

vi.

BORIS HUNG SO FAR back, when I was unlocking the front door at Hobie’s, that it was as if he thought my key in the lock was going to set off a massive townhouse explosion. His driver was double-parked out front in clouds of ostentatious fume. Once in the car, all the conversation between him and the driver had been in Ukrainian: nothing I’d been able to pick up even with my two semesters of Conversational Russian in college.

“Come in,” I said, barely able to suppress a smile. What did he think, the idiot, that I was going to jump him or kidnap him or something? But he was still on the street, fists in the pockets of his overcoat, looking back over his shoulder at the driver whose name was Genka or Gyuri or Gyorgi or I’d forgotten what the fuck.

“What’s the matter?” I said. If I’d been less tanked, his paranoia might have made me angry, but I only thought it was hilarious.

“Tell me again, why are we having to come here?” he said, still standing well back.

“You’ll see.”

“And you live up here?” he said, suspiciously, looking inside the parlor. “This is your place?”

I’d made more noise than I’d meant with the door. “Theo?” called Hobie from the back of the house. “That you?”

“Right.” He was dressed for dinner, suit and tie—shit, I thought, are there guests? with a jolt I realized it was barely dinnertime; it felt like three in the morning.

Boris had slid in cautiously behind me, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, leaving the front door wide open behind him, eyes on the big basalt urns, the chandelier.

“Hobie,” I said—he had ventured out into the hall, eyebrows lifted, Mrs. DeFrees pattering apprehensively after him—“Hi, Hobie, you remember me talking about—”

“Popchik!”

The little white bundle—toddling dutifully down the hall to the front door—froze. Then a high-pitched scream as he began to run as fast as he could (which was not very fast at all, any more) and Boris—whooping with laughter—dropped to his knees.

“Oh!” snatching him up, as Popchik wriggled and struggled. “You got fat! He got fat!” he said indignantly as Popchik jumped up and kissed him on the face. “You let him get fat! Yes, hello, poustyshka, little bit of fluff you, hello! You remember me, don’t you?” He had toppled over on his back, stretched out and laughing, as Popchik—still screaming with joy—jumped all over him. “He remembers me!”

Hobie, adjusting his glasses, was standing by amused—Mrs. DeFrees, not quite so amused, standing behind Hobie and frowning slightly at the spectacle of my vodka-smelling guest rolling and tumbling with the dog on the carpet.

“Don’t tell me,”