There were footsteps at that moment, and Fred Kolesnikov appeared. He was carrying a newspaper that had been in his mailbox. He looked calm, even indifferent.
“Terve,” he said to the Finns. “Hello.”
Then he turned to Rymar. “Boy, they look pissed. Have you been hitting on them?”
“Me?” said Rymar indignantly. “We were talking about Art! By the way, they speak Russian.”
“Wonderful,” said Fred. “Good evening, Madame Lenart; how are you, Mademoiselle Ilona?”
“All right, thanks.”
“Why did you hide the fact that you speak Russian?”
“No one asked.”
“We should have a drink first,” Rymar said.
He took a bottle of Cuban rum from the closet. The Finns drank with pleasure. Rymar poured another round. When the guests went to use the bathroom, he said, “All these Laplanders look alike.”
“Especially since they’re sisters,” Fred explained.
“Just as I thought… By the way, that mug of Mrs Lenart’s doesn’t inspire confidence in me.”
Fred yelled at Rymar, “And whose mug does inspire confidence in you, besides the mug of a police investigator?”
The Finns soon returned. Fred gave them a clean towel. They raised their glasses and smiled – the second time that day. They kept their shopping bags on their laps.
“Cheers!” Rymar said. “To victory over the Germans!”
We drank, and so did the Finns. A phonograph stood on the floor, and Fred turned it on with his foot. The black disc bobbed slightly.
“Who’s your favourite writer?” Rymar was bugging the Finns.
The women consulted each other. Then Ilona said, “Karjalainen, perhaps?”*
Rymar smiled condescendingly to indicate that he approved of the named candidate – but also that he himself had higher pretensions.
“I see,” he said. “What are your wares?”
“Socks,” Maria said.
“Nothing else?”
“What else would you like?”
“How much?” Fred inquired.
“Four hundred thirty-two roubles,” barked Ilona, the younger one.
“Mein Gott!” Rymar exclaimed. “The bared fangs of capitalism!”
“I want to know how much you brought. How many pairs?” Fred demanded.
“Seven hundred and twenty.”
“Nylon crêpe?” Rymar demanded.
“Synthetic,” Ilona replied. “Sixty copecks the pair. Total, four hundred thirty-two roubles.”
Here I have to make a small mathematical digression. Crêpe socks were in fashion then. Soviet industry did not manufacture them, so you could buy them only on the black market. A pair of Finnish socks cost six roubles. The Finns were offering them for one tenth that amount. Nine hundred per cent pure profit…
Fred took out his wallet and counted out the money.
“Here,” he said, “an extra twenty roubles. Leave the goods right in the shopping bags.”
“We have to drink to the peaceful resolution of the Suez crisis! To the annexation of Lotharingia!” said Rymar.
Ilona shifted the money to her left hand. She picked up her glass, which was filled to the brim.
“Let’s ball these Finns,” Rymar whispered, “in the name of international unity.”
Fred turned to me. “See what I have to work with?”
I felt anxious and scared. I wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
“Who’s your favourite artist?” Rymar asked Ilona.
And he put his hand on her back.
“Maybe Mantere,”* Ilona said, moving away.
Rymar lifted his brows in reproach, as if his aesthetic sense had been offended.
Fred said to me, “The women have to be seen off and the driver given seven roubles. I’d send Rymar, but he’ll filch part of the money.”
“Me?!” Rymar was incensed. “With my crystal-clear honesty?”
When I got back, there were coloured cellophane packages everywhere. Rymar looked slightly crazed.
“Piastres, krona, dollars,” he mumbled, “francs…”
Suddenly he calmed down and took out a notebook and felt-tip pen. He made some calculations and said, “Exactly seven hundred and twenty pairs. The Finns are an honest people. That’s what you get with an underdeveloped state.”
“Multiply by three,” Fred told him.
“Why by three?”
“The socks will go for three roubles if we sell them wholesale. Fifteen hundred plus of pure profit.”
Rymar immediately arrived at the precise figure. “One thousand seven hundred twenty-eight roubles.” Madness and practicality coexisted in him.
“Five hundred something for each of us,” Fred added.
“Five hundred seventy-six,” Rymar specified.
Later Fred and I were in a shashlik restaurant. The oilcloth on the table was sticky. The air was filled with a greasy fog. People floated past like fish in an aquarium.
Fred looked distracted and gloomy. I said, “That much money in five minutes!”
I had to say something.
“You still have to wait forty minutes to get some greasy pies cooked in margarine,” Fred replied.
Then I asked, “What do you need me for?”
“I don’t trust Rymar. Not because Rymar might cheat a client, though that’s not out of the question. And not because Rymar can stick a client with old certificates instead of money. And not even because he tends to put his hands on the clients. But because Rymar is stupid. What destroys fools? A longing for Art and Beauty, and Rymar has this longing. Despite his historical limitations, he wants a Japanese portable radio. Rymar goes to the hard-currency store and hands the cashier forty dollars. With his face! Even in the most ordinary grocery store, when he hands the cashier a rouble, the cashier is sure the rouble’s stolen. And here he has forty dollars! A clear violation of the hard-currency regulations. Sooner or later he’ll wind up in jail.”
“What about me?”
“You won’t. You’ll have other problems.”
I didn’t ask which ones.
Taking his leave, Fred added, “You’ll get your share on Thursday.”
I went home feeling a strange mixture of anxiety and elation. There must be some vile power in crazy money.
I didn’t tell Asya about my adventure. I wanted to amaze her. To turn suddenly into a rich and expansive man.
Meanwhile, things were growing worse with her. I kept asking her questions. Even when I was putting down her friends, I used the interrogative form: “Don’t you think that Arik Shulman is a jerk?” I wanted to compromise Shulman in Asya’s eyes and achieved just the opposite, of course.
I’ll tell you, running ahead of my story, that we broke up in the fall. For sooner or later a person who keeps asking questions is going to learn to give answers…
Fred called on Thursday. “A catastrophe!”
I thought Rymar had been arrested.
“Worse,” said Fred. “Go into the nearest clothing store.”
“Why?”
“All the stores are flooded with crêpe socks. Soviet crêpe socks. Eighty copecks a pair. Quality no worse than the Finnish ones. The same synthetic shit.”
“What can we do?”
“Nothing. What could we do? Who would have expected a low blow like this from a socialist economy? Who can I give Finnish socks to now? They won’t take them for a rouble now! I know our damned industry. First they screw around for twenty years and then – bam! And all the stores are filled with some crap or other. Once they get a production line going, that’s it. They’ll stamp out millions of those crêpe socks a minute.”
We divided up the socks. Each of us got two hundred forty pairs. Two hundred forty pairs of identical, ugly, pea-green-coloured socks. The only consolation was the “Made in Finland” label.
After that, many things happened. The operation with the Italian raincoats. The resale of six German stereos. A brawl in the Cosmos Hotel over a case of American cigarettes. Carrying a load of Japanese cameras and fleeing a police squad. And lots of other things.