The new job was not far away, in fact it was right there in Lasnamäe. And not in a factory or an agency, but in an ordinary flat in an ordinary nine-storey block. Kiira said it was some kind of social work, helping people. At first sight it definitely didn’t look as if anybody was in need of help in there – it looked classy and up to European standards. It was larger than Natalya Filippovna’s, definitely three rooms, perhaps four. It was very clean and tidy but different from Natalya’s. Everything in hers was simpler, bluer, yellower, greener, with light-coloured curtains adorned with a pattern of little flowers. Here everything was darker and more luxurious. Through the door that opened into the living room – it probably was the living room – she could see a large, dark, soft sofa and dark red velvety curtains – like in some kind of palace. Or somewhere in the south. Yes, for some reason the curtains she’d spied through the doorway reminded Natalya of Crimea and she felt a frisson of warmth, as if the clock had turned back for a moment.
There were only two people in the household: a husband and wife, both around Kiira and Natalya’s ages, perhaps slightly older. The woman was as plump as Natalya Filippovna, but more flamboyant in colour – florid red lips, a square face and small black stripes of eyebrows. The man was shortish and stocky, the type whose appearance never betrays his age; he was bull-necked and fair – his eyes, brows, the few hairs that traced a thin yellowish grey strip over his bald patch – all fair. The man appeared nervously matter-of-fact.
He shook Natalya Filippovna by the hand and said his name so quickly that Natalya couldn’t catch it, then introduced his wife just as quickly. Well, no matter – likely as not she could find out their names from Kiira – seeing as they didn’t introduce themselves to Kiira the three of them must know each other already. Kiira had so many friends – a whole city’s worth.
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” said the man. “Kitchens are better places to drink tea in.”
The kitchen was simpler with light-coloured furniture, and over the table hung a large lamp with a globe shade covered with an orange fabric. There were jugs ready on the table, small glasses and a bottle of brandy. The brandy was a Moldovan brand – Bely Aist. Everything – the glowing orange lamp and the bottle of brandy – reinforced the impression that if you looked outside you’d see plane trees and the warm dark sea…
“This is good old stuff!” said the man. “A shot of brandy helps keep your wits about you. And if you can’t do that these days, you won’t cope!”
The man swallowed some brandy and the woman some tea – from a large, round Thermos flask. When the woman had sat down, the man declared, “Right! I don’t like lots of chit-chat and explanations, because time is money and we can’t just fritter it away!”
At these words Natalya froze because she had time aplenty these days and felt guilty that she was so foolish and incapable. She had time but didn’t know how to make any money from it; she was just frittering it away, a valuable source of funds.
“We have a problem,” the man continued. “Everything was fine before: I drove the taxi, I looked for clients and my wife looked after them, but now it so happens that my wife is ill. She has to go in for an operation. More likely than not everything will go well – women’s trouble – they’ll keep her in, but it’ll just take time – in hospital and at home. She’ll be over it in three or four months definitely, that’s what they said… But we have trusted, regular customers and don’t want to lose them. And they – they trust us too; these days stable businesses are all built on trust… But we’re going to have to stop providing our services for a while – and our customers won’t wait. They need the service we provide. They’ll go looking elsewhere and then, well, we can forget it.”
He paused for a few moments, bowed to Natalya Filippovna and spoke to her with great conviction and intensity, “So we need someone, a replacement. Someone clean and tidy who can keep things to themselves. And of course, someone who can take my wife’s place – because our clients are shy with us, coy, and not used to new… That’s how it is!”
“Keeping things to myself is not a problem,” said Natalya Filippovna hesitating, “but what will I have to do?”
It all seemed too plain and simple.
“Nothing,” the man replied, “just lie back – and at the right moment, spread your legs.”
“What? Sorry?” mumbled Natalya Filippovna, a bitter lump rose in her throat and took her breath away, “I don’t understand…”
“What is there to understand?” said the man. His voice became a shade warmer and he explained slowly, patiently, as if to a child, “Men have needs; many men have needs but no opportunity, and they’re nervous of brothels; quiet, respectable men who are willing to pay if they can only find a small, safe place that services their need… What’s the harm in that? I know how to choose clients. As soon as someone gets in the car, I know if he’s single and desperate. I can tell straight away who the troublemakers are. I don’t accept them, I take them to a brothel. But everything is safe here, with condoms. Anyone who refuses can go and find some stupid girl, I wouldn’t offer my wife to them, and the conditions for you, Natalya Filippovna, will be exactly the same. And it’s good money: half a grand up front that we can split between us fifty-fifty. That means a quarter of a grand a time for you, six thousand a month for definite, and for only a few evenings a week. If it’s late, I’ll drive you home. You live nearby and I’ve got a car downstairs, no problem… It’s a really good offer, you think about it… It’s not something I’d offer to anyone quite frankly, just like that, but Kiira trusts you…”
She heard the words as though muffled by other sounds. The man opposite her looked hazy and yet she understood every word, and saw how the man eyed her, hard-headedly, appreciatively, like gift-wrapped merchandise on a shop counter, seemingly pleased with what he saw… Everything was at the same time so hazy and so clear, as if Natalya had two pairs of eyes and two pairs of ears – in one set everything was foggy and raucous, but in the other everything was clear and sharp…
“But how…” she said – Grisha! Grisha used to beat her solely because she had a… a fanny that she might… might shag other men with… “But how do you bear the idea that your wife… with complete strangers, for money?” And she burst into tears.
The man seemed to find this verging on amusing.
“There, there,” he comforted Natalya, “have another drink… What a sheltered life you’ve had… Things aren’t what they used to be you know, bread always on the table, roof over your head, work easy to find. Nowadays you have to settle for what there is and use it to the best economic advantage; you can’t let anything go to waste or just stand idle these days – people need to provide a service whether it be using their brain, their hands or their crotch… What do you think it is that politicians do? They sell their brains – everyone sells what they have. It’s nothing to be ashamed of… What is it that makes a brain better than a crotch? Or any worse? Is it that one of them should be sold and the other shouldn’t? I was crippled when I was in the army, with no children, and now I can’t get it up any more. What good would it do to deprive my wife, just because I can’t get it up? If she wants sex, then why do it free of charge? She may as well do it for money if the demand’s there and there are plenty of buyers – it’s a win-win situation. The punter gets relief from his distress and my wife still has some money to put aside for her old age. Otherwise she sits here at home by herself, with idiotic thoughts troubling her…”