Chapter 1: Seduction
Here in the borderland, any place with more than 5000 people is called a city. Small cities probably have an annual budget smaller than mine. On the evening this story began, that amounted to another three or four days before my pockets ran dry. The credit cards in my wallet had expired long ago.
I sat at a table beside a picture-window. Before me, an empty plate. I had eaten soup and vareniki; I chose these for cheap sustenance, not because I love the taste of potatoes and dill-weed. Outside the window, the city street-lights made a pretence of festivity: white, yellow, orange, green, red and blue, twinkling through a thin fog of smoke. I guess the city buys job-lots of cheap lightbulbs, price more important than colour.
The evening coal-train groans and clanks through the valley, heading for the coast. Night-birds churr and screech. The warm spring sunshine has given way to night. Typical evening in the borderland rust-belt.
The waitress approached. Wordless, as always, she gestured at the empty plate. She made a mime of drinking. After four nights in this hotel, she was accustomed to my preferences. They built these rat-holes for the occasional visiting apparatchik, and nowadays a guest is a rare and memorable creature. She took the plate, and returned with coffee and a small flask of Armenian cognac. It's fire-water, but it helps a man to sleep.
Bored with the vista, I looked around the room. The only other guest that night was a serious-faced brunette woman, maybe 45 years old, whom I had passed in the lobby earlier. She sat alone at a table behind me, also beside the long window. She was eating one-handed, in the American manner. Beside her plate of food lay a thin sheaf of papers, which she was reading as she ate. Her shoulder-length hair was loose, and hung like a curtain against her face. I could not see her features. Her white blouse, black skirt and charcoal-grey hose made it plain, she was travelling on business. I turned my gaze back to the window. Nothing had changed out there. I had been out here, in the shittiest parts of what used to be the Soviet Union, for almost 5 years. Waiting for something to change. Exactly like the locals. All of us waiting for something to change.
As I tipped the last measure of cognac into my glass, I felt a presence at my back. Turning, my eyes met those of my fellow guest: dark, very dark brown eyes. The colour of rosewood. Rosewood eyes, set in a face the honey-colour of well-aged sitka spruce. She smiled at me. Small, even, white teeth behind pretty lips. Yes, she had a few wrinkles around the eyes. But I can hardly make comment on that, with my face almost as creased as my scrotum...
I rose to my feet, she put out her hand and spoke:
"Good evening!" Her voice had that richness of intonation unique to the Slavic women. A musical quality, with none of the abrasiveness which can pervade Russian voices in any other language. The kind of rich music you get, from a sitka-rosewood guitar.
"Perhaps I may join you?" I gestured toward the chair facing me, and she seated herself elegantly. As she crossed her legs, there came the subtle rustle of silk.
"You travel here on business?" she said. "I too. My name is Irina. I work in medical technology and pharmaceuticals. Today I think I had big success. I will know for certain in morning. Tonight I wish a small celebration, but I am alone. Perhaps you will celebrate with me?"
Stranger, if I am honest I was not in a mood for celebration. I did not particularly want company. But there was something about the woman... maybe those dark eyes. And it would be pleasant to converse with a fluent English speaker.
"Yes, thank you Irina. It will be my pleasure to celebrate with you, I'm happy you had a good day. My name is..."
At that moment she interjected, with a smile, "your name is Andy. I know this. I know many things about you, Andy. I do not choose my companions at random. A woman must prepare, and keep herself safe in places such as this. People can disappear, in these borderlands". She waved her hand - she wore no rings, I noticed - and the silent waitress appeared beside us.
"Champagne, cognac, two Americano, and bring an ashtray" said Irina. The girl nodded. As she turned away, I noticed that she too had dark brown eyes. Common enough, in the Slavic races, and very attractive.
The order fulfilled, Irina drew a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the slim black bag she had laid on the table. "Prilyuki". The brand I habitually smoke. She shook one out with an elegant hand movement. She closed her lips around the protruding tip of the cigarette, and slowly drew its length from the pack. She took it between thumb and two fingers of her left hand, almost stroking the paper cylinder. With her right hand, she struck the lighter. Her eyes met mine and held my gaze as she brought the flame to the cigarette, and drew it into crimson life. She took it from her lips, formed them into an 'O', and blew a lazy smoke-ring into the air between us. Then she passed the lit cigarette across to me, still holding my eyes with her own, with the words "yes, dear Andy. Many, many things I know. You will pour some champagne, please? I wish to toast your health and happiness, dear Andy".
