Zhenya was excited. “They’re launching a new expedition at Lake Brosno to find the monster. A casino is the sponsor.”

“Well, that sounds perfectly logical.” Didn’t the children’s shelter have any rules about late calls? Arkady wondered.

“If they find the monster they’ll capture it alive and put it in a giant tank in the casino. Is that fantastic?”

“That qualifies.”

“If we could be on the team that would be so neat. Have you been to the lake yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have one or two things to do here first.” He was at the apartment changing out of Rudi’s camos and into a jacket.

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to Tahiti.”

“Where’s that?”

“It turns out it’s in Tver.”

“Okay.” Zhenya’s interest returned to minimal.

Arkady asked, “Have they decided how to catch the monster?”

“I think they want to stun it.”

“With what, a torpedo?”

“Something, and then the monster will float to the surface.”

“What if he sinks?”

“I don’t know. How can anyone tell?”

“It’s a matter of buoyancy. The more fat the more buoyancy and mammals are fat and gassy animals. We float.”

“On the water.”

“Or under.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, there is a theory that in really deep lakes a body will sink only to a certain zone, at which point water pressure, temperature, weight and buoyancy balance out and the body hangs in the water.”

“There could be dozens of them down there just hanging around. The police could go there in a submarine and solve all sorts of crimes. That is so amazing. What do you call that zone?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a theory,” Arkady said, although he did have a name for it: Memory.

21

The mural in the bar of the Tahiti Club covered Gauguin’s Polynesian period, faithfully copying the artist’s paintings of phallic idols and natives in sarongs. Everyone wore knockoff Armani and shouted into cell phones, while on a wide television screen two heavyweights pounded each other like bell ringers.

Arkady followed a disco beat up the stairs, past the scrutiny of body builders in black tie and entered a cabaret where the speakers were so loud that the hovering layers of cigarette smoke seemed to shudder with the beat. He caught a glimpse of two pole dancers on stage before a waitress sized him up.

“You want a stool? A ringside stool down where the action is. The action, you know.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for much action.”

“A table?”

“A booth. I’m expecting friends.”

He ordered a beer and asked whether Zelensky or Petya were around. Isakov and Urman were probably at a Russian Patriot event, but word would get back to them that he hadn’t left Tver. He couldn’t provoke Isakov and Urman if all he did was hide.

The waitress asked, “You know Vlad Zelensky? Are you a film producer?”

“A critic,” Arkady said.

Spotlights made the dancers bright and blurry. They strutted up and down the stage in platform shoes and thongs, keeping in constant motion like fish in a tank while an audience of men hung in suspended animation. When a dancer paused and sprawled on the runway, ringside aficionados tucked money in the thong. Otherwise, as a sign said, No Touching.

Arkady settled into a leather booth the color of arterial blood. The table had two menus. A food menu featured tropical cocktails, egg rolls, and sushi. A “Crazy” menu offered a lap dance in the Sportsman’s Lounge, a personal chat with a naked woman, “an intimate hour with a lovely companion in the VIP Jacuzzi or an entire evening with an anything-goes beauty (or beauties!!!) in the luxurious Peter the Great Bedroom.” The price of a royal romp was a thousand euros, cut-rate compared to Moscow clubs.

The waitress brought his Baltika. “It really ought to be the Catherine the Great Bedroom. She built the palace here and she did a lot more fucking than Peter ever did. Food?”

“Just some black bread and cheese.”

“But you’ll be drinking?”

“Naturally.”

The “Crazy” text informed Arkady that “the women of Tver are legendary for their beauty. Today, some of Russia’s top models are daughters of Tver. Their fame has grown worldwide and bachelors from the United States, Germany, Britain, and Australia, to name but a few, travel to Tver seeking the aid of Cupid.”

Tanya and a peppy little dancer were up next. The first time he had seen Tanya she was in a white evening gown strumming the harp at the Metropol. In little more than the flesh she was even more in control, with a cool smile and long strides that prompted rhythmic clapping at ringside.

Across the room Arkady saw his waitress lead Wiley and Pacheco to an opposite booth. Pacheco adjusted his tie while Wiley tried hard not to look at Tanya. They couldn’t have found the Tahiti on their own, Arkady thought and, soon enough, Marat Urman joined them. His canary yellow jacket brought style to the scene; a Tatar could wear colors that made a Russian quail. Urman blew Tanya a kiss, but her eyes tracked Arkady as he changed booths.

“Look what the cat drug in.” Pacheco made room for Arkady.

Urman said, “You can’t be serious.”

“Tanya looks good,” Arkady said.

“She looks magnificent,” Pacheco corrected him. “Milky skin, a dancer’s body, fabulous tits.”

“Her nose looks good,” Arkady said.

The music started, a throbbing bass that made the room reverberate, and the dancers climbed the poles.

“R-E-S-P-E-C-T. I love this song,” Pacheco said.

Arkady said, “Somehow I think they missed the point.”

“It’s the beat that matters,” Pacheco said. “Got any good Mongolian love songs? Like to your favorite horse?”

Urman said, “You should take off your wedding ring.”

“Why?”

“It promotes impotence. It’s a Slavic tradition to wear a wedding ring no more than four hours a day for reasons of health. Ask Renko.”

“Is that true?” Wiley asked.

“Some men believe it. Some believe they shouldn’t wear a ring at all.”

“It’s scientific fact,” Urman said. “The ring is like a closed circuit and the finger is an electric conductor.”

Pacheco said, “Well, the Slavic dick is a more delicate instrument than I would have thought.”

“Where is Isakov?” Arkady asked.

Wiley said, “A visit to an erotic club is not an appropriate image for a candidate of reform.”

“Does he have momentum?” Arkady asked. “I understand that’s important.”

Wiley was happy to avert his gaze from the stage and take refuge in politics. “Momentum is all he’s got. He’s got no genuine party machine behind him, so one misstep and his campaign is over.”

“But he does have momentum,” Urman said.

“He was only chosen to steal votes from the opposition,” Wiley said. “Nobody expected his candidacy to come alive.”

“He has a chance,” Urman insisted.

“If he finishes with a bang.”

“In the States pole dancing is the new workout,” said Pacheco. “Honest.”

Tanya was sex wrapped around a pole, with a slow head-down slither that seemed to swallow brass. The other dancer swung around her pole like a dynamo, which seemed quaintly Soviet.

“Tanya had classical training for the ballet, but she grew too big for the men to catch.” Urman turned to Arkady. “Well, you’ve wrestled her, you know.”

Pacheco’s ears perked up. “Wrestled? That sounds interesting.”

“We had a special moment,” Arkady said.

“We need a bang.” Wiley concentrated on the table top. “A long-shot campaign has to end with a visceral, explosive climax.”

“Like what?” Arkady asked.

Wiley looked up. “There’s a statue of the Virgin Mary in Tver. The people here swear she cries. They sincerely believe they see it.”

“You’re going to have the Virgin appear at the dig?”

“Do you have Diet Coke?” Wiley asked the waitress.