Tag Archive | Moscow

The night I nearly lost it all (Part 2)

I hadn’t realised how sick I’d grown of these club-rituals until I found myself struggling to walk in through the main entrance. Dima held my hand as we paced along the red carpet, but it was hardly the two of us on it. There was Joe on my side, Igor on Dima’s side and another two buff men whom I didn’t recognise walking close by keeping their backs to us. Another stark reminder that I was engaged to Moscow’s most sought-after businessman. They say that women have a sixth sense and I can attest to that. Only because, as we were striding along, I could have sworn my eye caught a glimpse of someone who didn’t fit well with the crowd.

An insistent photographer broke Dima’s man-chain and managed to take a picture of us up close. I felt sorry for him when Joe grabbed his camera and elbowed him away. Only because Joe’s elbows are not like the average man’s. The photographer fell on the ground like single card from a deck and his camera landed next to him a second later.

“Are you OK, Bella?” I wish he didn’t treat me like a baby, but Dima’s worry over my well-being was the only thing that could make him stop and turn amidst the crowd.

I nodded ‘yes’ and then we resumed our walk and finally made it inside. It was right on time too, because drizzle had began and I’d have hated to mess up my hair, which I had only hours ago fixed back at the mansion.

Joe led us to our usual spot inside -people like Dima have their usual spots which are nothing like spots really, more like studio-sized areas where they can lounge in privacy. I noticed Mr. Colson opposite us, sitting comfortably in a velvet armchair, and nasty-Cassy dancing away so out of beat right by his side. I watched them from a distance and I found it hard to believe that all this time the two had been an item. He caressed her behind, and she would occasionally lean in to give him pecks on his nose. Yuck! I mean, he was probably old enough to be her dad for heaven’s sake. I was about to turn my attention to more deserving sights, when I noticed Mr. Colson stand up to greet a man, whom I’d recognised from before. In fact, Mr. Colson and nasty-Cassy were privileged to be in the presence of well-known Argentinian businessman, Hector-Rodrigo Lopez. Hector was a sight for sore eyes, if I must speak the truth, and more importantly, he was part of Dima’s small circle of friends. I met him a couple of months back at a birthday bash.

“Honey,” I turned to Dima, who was checking his BlackBerry -much to my dismay since I’d told him time and again to give it a rest when we went out but he never listened- “what’s Hector doing with Baldy and nasty ehem, Cassandra?”

There were but a handful of Dima’s gestures which I instantly recognised as demanding my undivided attention. When he pulled me so close to him that I could barely breathe, I was positive he wanted just that.

“If I tell you, do you promise to keep it to yourself?” He whispered these words and I could feel my blood boiling instantly.

“Your lack of confidence in me, is a little insulting, honey. Now, tell me, what is Hector doing over there?”

As always, Dima was one step ahead. Of me, of Hector, of everyone who was around him. And in retrospect, he was right to have asked me to keep it to myself. I wouldn’t. Only because telling, would have been the right thing to do.

What Dima revealed was degrading for Mr.Colson, to say the least. And it was too much information that I wished -later- that I hadn’t become privy to. But as though an invisible power wanted to take revenge for Dima’s revelation, that night out at our usual club, became the night I nearly lost it all.

It was a single gunshot. I’d survived more. It ran past me. I’d survived more. It hit Dima. I went into shock.

Dima’s secret study

I close the door behind me, quietly. The size of his secret study is astounding. Perhaps, for some reason I expected this to be smaller. Denser. A crypt. It’s not that but it certainly is dark. No windows to trap any sunrays. Carefully, I take a step to the side. I take advantage of the glimmer of light piercing through the keyhole and let my fingers trail along the wall, the one adjacent to the door, for the switch. I quickly turn the light on. In front of me, spreads a long, long corridor. I am not sure where it leads to. It’s too dark to even discern what that large shadow is, at the end of the corridor.  An object. A piece of furniture, maybe. Possibly a desk. I gape at the floor, watching my step. It is wooden, a light, caramel colour. The walls are painted white, but a trace of brickwork shades from beneath the paint.  I can see why they’re painted. The white walls give an air of openness in this otherwise suffocating room. They make it falsely welcoming.

I cross the corridor leaving the entrance behind me. Along the way, I pass a wooden, dainty-carved table to my left and a fifties-style armchair of pistachio-velour on my right. As I am nearing the end of the corridor I am bathed in darkness once more. I walk towards the nearest switch and turn it on. Soon enough I can see the desk, but not only that. A tall, wide, wall-mounted bookcase reveals in front of me. Its shelves occupy the walls that surround the study, rendering the seating area in front of the desk something of a hearth. The desk itself is a mocca-brown colour and the chairs are a match. Light-brown leather pillows, too puffy for my liking, are placed neatly on each of the five chairs assembled in front of the desk.

I keep trying to think what this setting reminds me of, and for a second there, I nearly miss my favourite memory of them all. My Law School Library. Dima’s secret study reminds me of my Law School Library. This place could easily be mistaken for a library. After all, the bookcase covers up all of the walls in this room, if we exclude the ones along the corridor. And the shelves are dressed with books from the ceiling to the ground.

Books? I never thought Dima a bibliophile. Intrigued, I pace quickly towards the bookcase, unease building up inside me. There is something odd about this room. For one, there’s no direct sunlight coming in or air circulation for that matter, and I can feel my claustrophobia twitching its claws at me.

I gaze at the books and realise how difficult it is to understand what they’re all about. First, there’s so many of them and second, a lot of them are stacked so high up the shelves, way beyond my reach. I couldn’t read them even if I could get hold of them. As I come closer to this potent bookcase, with a bit of struggle I manage to pick up one of the books, which is, in hindsight and a broken nail later, stacked a tad too tight with the rest. Once I manage to take it out I can’t help but stare at the cover. The book is a dated hardback and the title is pressed against it, in burgundy letters. Right there, at the very centre of the book. The cyrillic writing makes it difficult to read. I turn it over in search for the writer’s name. Again, the name is in cyrillic but it is shorter and I just about comprehend the second letter “E”, the third “Z” and the final two letters, “EN”. “Herzen,” I mouth. I put the book close to my nose to sniff it -strange habit but I’ve had it forever – and to my surprise it smells only of paper. There’s no trace of dampness, no iota of dust. Someone is taking care of these books. I eye the rest of the books and I am tempted to pull them all out. I wonder the kinds of stories these books can tell. When you know how to read them, that is. I turn to look at the desk and I am surprised again to find that it is in immaculate shape. Clean, polished, well preserved.

I am making my away along the bookcase when, suddenly, I hear a rythmical thumping noise. Toum-toum-toum. I’m startled, obviously. I think about the turned on lights and contemplate switching them off, but I am too far away from the switches for that. Definitely for that first switch. And if anybody comes down here, they’ll realise someone’s in Dima’s secret study, well, because I’ve left the entrance door unlocked. The thumping resumes, this time closer to me than before. I follow the sound, taking small, soft steps alongside the room. And then it stops. Someone is snooping around Dima’s sacred territory. Who else is home apart from me, his mother and Joe the Giant? No one should be home, apart from us. And no one should definitely be in here. Not even me.

In a state of emergency…

The phone rings and my worst fears are verified as quickly as the popping of the cork from the bottle of Chablis red last night.

“It looks like I’m grounded, honey.”

“I’m just glad you arrived safely,” I mutter, lying coolly. My true feelings break the richter scale of one to ten and settle in an uncomfortably intense twelve. We begin with, relief for having arrived prior to the storm, anxiety that he’ll be in midst of the scariest hurricane to hit the US, sadness for having to share him with business associates abroad, eagerness to finally spend some time alone and investigate The Incident further, fear that I’ll be nestling in the lion’s den on my own -save for Joe the Giant- and ultimately emotional and physical deprivation for as a matter of fact I shall be spending a whole bleaming week away from him. And who the fuck’s gonna make my worry ease away when he’s stranded -hardly, but still – in bloody New York, miles and miles away from me when such a cataclysmic event is about to unfold?

I cough and swallow down a knot of stress, fear and panic.

“So what are your plans for this evening?” His voice is rushed.

“You’re staying in with Joe and Tamara, yes?” He continues breathing heavily. I can trace worry in his words, even amidst the war of pretended nonchalance that he so elegantly deploys. “Oh yes. My babysitters have increased from one to two, recently. Have you no worry master. I shall stay put.”

“You make me laugh…” Indeed, a tiny chuckle escapes him that I can only barely discern from the background noise.

“Erm… Dima, what is this noise?”

“Ah yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you about this and I’ll do it in a hurry ’cause as far as I can see…”

“Dima? Hello?”

“…I’ve not got much time.”

“Time for what? Dima?”

“It’s rather stupid but listen, they’re…”

“Dima, you’re breaking up…”

“…safehouse?”

“A what?”

“OTT Americans, Bella. What can I say. Anyway you know where I’m staying, right?”

“The Plaza, yes, I remember.”

“OK so I’ve got to run. Try to remember what I asked you before I left.”

“Erm, where I packed your favourite Boss socks?”

“Bella, are… you insane?”

“Right, not the socks, silly, silly me. Erm, you asked if I had planned a trip for March.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t a trick question, Bella. Have you?”

“Well… we’ll talk when you get back, Dima. What the fuck is this noise?”

“I think it’s the wind…”

Wind? Not by a longshot. That was a gargling sound enriched with heavy thumping and violent glass-breaking. Oh no. Where has he got himself into this time?

“Dima? Hello, are you still there?”

The phone goes dead. His silence and my guilt join hands as they hook their pointy spears all around my neck. How could I have misjudged his acuteness? How could I have been so blind? All I know is that I’m missing someone and that he’s stranded in a state-of-emergency-New-York. Hardly my cup of tea.

I hope he stays safe. Please let him stay safe.

And the million-dollar-question, is:  when you’re in the eye of the hurricane, what is your first thought?