The fat man suddenly came to life and began snapping his fingers, his upper body bobbing about to music only he could hear, chant-sing-talk-murmuring some kind of maddened song that sounded to Henry’s ears as though it were memorized word for word without the speaker understanding the language, the subject, the meaning, anything. The man kept up for a minute or two, then collapsed forward; his friend, the decorator, helped himself once more to the other’s drink with a scowl.
“The guy’s name is Kostya,” Arkady said quietly. “He is Gennady’s uncle. He is from Kyrgyzstan. He can get anything. He is the man who let us in. Speak only if he speaks to you. Then be nice. No fucking English.”
Silently grateful that Arkady appeared not to have taken any offense, Henry turned back and gingerly tipped his own vodka out onto the floor. Stop being such a fool. He watched his vodka soak away. Stop saying such stupid things. Of course of course of course Arkady had not left Russia: Arkady was fucking Russia.
The smell of spirits mingled with chemicals was overpowering. You had to be an addict or an alcoholic simply to breathe in here. Henry widened his nostrils a moment and then began patting his leg involuntarily.
Arkady stared with narrowing eyes at his finger.
Henry spoke again. “Do I hand over the money in here—at the bar?”
“No. And wait until we know the exact price. You have it in separate hundreds, yes? If we don’t have enough, then fuck it. No promises you cannot keep. It does not matter.”
“Okay. But it does matter. You need to go to London.”
Arkady said nothing.
A happy thought was occurring to Henry… He had started to wonder again whether he might be able to buy a hit. Try it out. It looked to be working for the fat man. (And, dear Lord, he needed one—cutting down was hard.) He shut his eyes a moment. Even thinking about his boy gave him strength. He leaned his head forward onto his fingertips and felt the bones of his skull. Then he faced Arkady directly, whispering.
“Is there anyone else who can do it, if—if Kostya says no?”
Arkady grinned his hollow-cheeked grin. “Leary.”
“No.”
“Yes, Leary can do it easy.”
“Not now.”
“Yes, now.”
“Not—”
“Yes, more now.” Arkady shook his head and kept his voice low. “You do not see the plans all the way, Henry. You do not see anything.”
“Why… why would Leary help us? So far he has sent Grisha to smash up the piano, stolen all my money, and left us with nothing but an arse-shaped hole in our wall.”
“Because he doesn’t give a fuck about me.” Arkady’s face was scornful. “Because he wants you to owe him. For the sake of Jesus. How many times? He does not do these things because you are a few days late to pay him. He does not give a piss about a few days late. He does everything to bring you to nothing. And if he thinks you are spending whatever you have left on a passport, then he is happy to help. The sooner you are desperate, the sooner you work for him.”
Henry patted at his knee. “I’m not—”
“Listen, Leary will buy you a brand-new suit if it helps. He’ll rent you a big apartment on the Nevsky. He’ll get you a fucking Russian passport. And if he is bored with waiting or you don’t do as you’re told, he can just tell the police about you. And then you are really in the big shit, my friend.”
“I’m quitting.” Even here, even now, Henry loved to talk about it: the subject warmed him, made him tingle, killed the remaining wheedle. They were leaning close together now. “I’m not a dealer, Arkady.”
“You will do anything when the time comes.”
“No. I told you, I’m going to stop.” He meant it. But the strange thing was, he could say it with any kind of strength or conviction only when he was thinking about his next hit. “When what’s left runs out, that’s the end. You will be gone by then.”
“So you hope.”
“I believe it.”
“Great. We hope and we believe. We are impossible to defeat.” Arkady curled his lip. “Here he comes. No English.”
Eyes red, nose streaming, face like a suppurating pumice stone, Kostya looked as if he had been at the baths all his life—beaten with the birch, then steamed, frozen, steamed, plunged, and steamed again. His gray-white overwashed Doors T-shirt was loose and clung damply here and there about his massive frame where the sweat slicked most copiously. He wore long, loose shorts and sandals, and the flesh on his feet, like the skin of his nose and ears, was cooked red and cracked.
They spoke in Russian.
“Kostya.”
“Piano.” He embraced Arkady and then took a seat.
“This is Henry.”
“Hello.” Henry nodded. No hand was offered. Kostya’s attention left him almost immediately and came to rest on Arkady’s finger.
“You fucked your finger.”
“Yes.”
“Bitch motherfucker bullshit.”
“I know.”
“What you going to do?”
“It’s okay. I can play most things with my cock.” Kostya laughed out loud. Gennady too, from where he was hovering behind the bar.
Arkady said, “We have money. We need a passport. How much?” The humor in Kostya’s face disappeared like water into volcanic ash.
“Good. I thought it might be about the shit.” He waved about his head, indicating his surroundings, his customers, his life. “And that would have made me sad. Where you going?” Kostya looked at Henry.
“Not him, me,” Arkady said. “London.”
“Do you have a passport already?”
“No.” Arkady shook his head. “Not an external one.”
“Okay. Well, you’re better off with a false identity anyway. Otherwise they can always check who you are. Better to be safe—be nice and rich so you are good to go.” He shook his head. “But it’s difficult these days, Arkasha. They have bar codes now. Computers are fucking everything up for everyone. It has to be right or you get yourself in a lot of shit. Only the…” He plucked at his T-shirt, separating it from his skin. “Only the networks get in and out easy.”
“Fuck.” Arkady ran his hand back and forth across the beginnings of his beard, keeping the bandaged finger extended out of the way. “Maybe it’s a stupid idea anyway.”
Henry cut in, speaking in Russian. “But can you do it?”
Kostya turned to face him.
Henry felt Arkady’s eyes on him too. Searing. Henry’s right hand was tapping rapidly over the knuckles of his left.
“We can pay now,” Henry said. “If you can do it.”
Kostya continued to scrutinize Henry for a long moment. Henry knew that the Kyrgyzstani would already have him down for a user, but he was counting on the fact that money counted. He knew that much about Russia.
Kostya turned his heavy head slowly away and addressed Arkady. “The honest truth is that I cannot do it myself anymore and be sure. Not with the computers and not to Britain. If it was for someone we did not give a shit about, to some butt-fuck country, then yes, maybe. But it’s you. So… I myself cannot do it.” He raised his finger and thumb to his red nose. “But if you are serious, then I know people who can do it—properly, I mean. But of course you have to pay their price—expensive.”
“How long will it take?” Henry interjected again. He wanted this done and no escaping from it; then he wanted to leave, to fly home to his ruined bedroom. His flesh was itching and crawling and cold.
“A few weeks.” Kostya only half turned this time. “My contact is coming here today—I can ask him to start immediately. Do you have the photographs with you?”