It was Valentine's Day, 2002—which was as good a day as any to break off the most ill-conceived engagement since Johnny Depp and Winona Ryder. In fact, why not end it right here at dinner? We were sitting at a table for two at the American Hotel in Sag Harbor. It was a classy establishment, and, most important, it was the sort of establishment where someone as refined as KGB would think twice before she poured that glass of 1992 Louis Jadot Montrachet over my head. The sommelier, dressed in an immaculate black tuxedo and black patent-leather shoes, had just uncorked it for the bargain-basement price of $350.
KGB's fabulous blue eyes were staring at me with contempt from just a tiny table's width away. She was hanging on my every word, disgusted by each of them—already!—just fifteen minutes after we'd sat down. But I was only getting started; I mustn't rush it. This had to be more than one of our typical fights to instigate a Soviet bag-packing. From her communist-red lips, luscious as always, came the words:
“On polny mudak!”You little fucking testicle! “You think you win Cold War? Oh—please! It is all money with America! Money, money, money!” Contempt dripped off the word. “You spend my country into bankruptcy! Your Ronald Reagan call us Evil Empire and make Star Wars! And who save you in World War Two? We do! We lose twenty million people to defeat Nazis. How much you lose—ten people? Unbelievable! Fucking America… Pizda mudak!”Fucking pussies!
I shrugged, unimpressed with her latest anti-American tirade. “Well, if you hate this country so much, Yulia, then why don't you”—I started raising my voice—”get the fuck out and go back to your ownfucking country, or whatever's left of it!” Other couples began to stare. “But before you leaveus”—I reached down to the bread plate and lifted up a French baguette and offered it to her— “here, take a piece of bread with you so you don't have to wait in line when you get home.” I shook my head contemptuously. “Fucking Russia! What a mockery! Once a superpower, and look at you now! You can't even defeat Chechnya, and they're throwing fucking rocks at you!”
“Blyad!”she sputtered. “Who you think you are? You'll never get girl like me again! Look at you and look at me. You will be sorry.”
Alas, she had a point there. She definitely had me beat in the looks department. It was time to humor her. I looked her straight in her face and blew her a tender kiss.
She scrunched up her little model nose and muttered, “Mudilo!”You shrunken testicle! “Idi na khui!”Go suck your own penis!
“Yeah, well, looks aren't everything, Yulia.” I offered her a sarcastic smile. “And I want to thank you for teaching me that. See, my problem was that I got lucky with my first two wives, so I just assumed that beauty and personality came together as a package.” I shrugged innocently. “Now I know better.”
“Ha!” she snarled. “Go back to ex-wife who leave you on courthouse steps. Some woman this one is.”
In spite of everything, I still felt the need to defend the Duchess. I said, “My marriage to Nadine ended long before I got indicted; but that's neither here nor there. All that matters is what's going on with us—with ourrelationship. And it's not working.”
“Blyad!You do not have to tell methis. You are nightmare to live with. All you talk of is kids and mortgages; that is it. You big bore.” With that she looked away, muttering more Russkie curses under her breath.
I took a deep breath and said, “Listen, Yulia, I really don't want to fight anymore. You were very good to me at a time when I reallyneeded someone to be good to me.” I shrugged sadly. “But we're different people, you and I. And we're from different worlds, with different history books. It's not our fault that we don't see eye to eye on things. We couldn't even if we wanted to!” I shrugged again. “Besides, my heart's in California; that's where I need to be now, near my kids. There's no other way for me.” I shook my head and let out a few chuckles. “Trust me, you'll be better off without me. I still have to go to jail one day, and I have no idea for how long. I think you should move out this week. I'm leaving for California tomorrow, and I won't be back until Sunday.”
With great pride: “I already make plan to. Igor will come tomorrow and pack my things. You will never see me again.”
I nodded sadly. What she said was true: I would never see her again. Ours, after all, was not the sort of relationship where you remain friends afterward. (We hadn't been friends while we were together.) She would immerse herself back into the “scene,” and I would move out to California just as soon as possible and build a new life there. I would rent a house on the beach—just like I'd sworn to Alonso—and I would see my kids every day and make up for lost time.
I caught a glimpse of KGB's engagement ring—the Duchess's engagement ring. I stared at it for a moment, a flood of memories washing over me. That ring was one of my final possessions left over from the old days. Everything else was gone. Most of my furniture had been stolen from storage, and I'd hocked my gold watches just before I'd stumbled upon the refi boom. In fact, other than a few Gilberto suits, the only thing I still had left was my black four-door Mercedes. Everything else had been purchased with mortgage money, which is to say, with money I'd earned honestly.
Apparently KGB saw me staring at the ring, because she said, “Ohhh, so you want ring back now?”
I turned the corners of my mouth down and shook my head slowly. “No. You can keep it; sell it, hold it, wear it—I don't give a shit what you do with it. That ring's cursed, as far as I'm concerned. Maybe it'll bring you better luck than it brought me.”
We cut dinner short, and ten minutes later we were back in the Mercedes, on our way home. We were cruising down Noyack Road, a long, dark, winding country road that led from Sag Harbor to the village of Southampton. It was cold and damp outside; the roads were slick. I would keep it under forty.
KGB was staring out the front windshield. She wore a full-length Russian sable coat and a matching sable cap, the latter of which had an oversize brim and a long, fluffy tail dangling from the back. It was the sort of over-the-top fur ensemble that only a wealthy Russkie woman who had once been voted Miss Soviet Union could get away with without looking completely ridiculous. Her engagement ring was turned inward, the stone resting in the palm of her own balled-up fist, which was clenched as tight as a drum.
Apparently she wouldn't have given it up without a fight anyway.
I leaned forward and turned on the radio and hit the search button. A love song. Fucking Cupid! Whydoesn't someone just shoot that little bastard right in his diapered ass with one of his own arrows? I hit the search button again—another love song.
“Watch out!” screamed KGB. “There is animals on road!”
I looked up—fuck!Deer—three of them—twenty yards away and closing fast. A surge of adrenaline….I smashed on the antilock brakes and screamed: “Hold on!” I jerked the wheel to the right, trying to steer the car into the woods, but the Mercedes began to fishtail…. No!… Come on, you German bastards!… I smashed the horn— beeepppp!—but the deer just looked at the car, confused. I flashed the brights in desperation. The deer were less than ten yards away. I honked again. No effect, so I cut the wheel hard left… more fishtailing…. I smashed the brakes even harder…. I felt the antilock mechanism kick in…. The Krauts!… Come on, you Krauts!…My heart was beating a mile a minute….I was holding my breath… no… it's too late… gonna hit… Such helpless faces on the deer… a terrible waste….I locked my arms and braced for impact. “Hold on!” I screamed. “We're gonna hit…”