The tattooed fellow, limping, approached Vtorov. “Something splashed!” he said uncertainly. There were bags under the bulldog eyes. The upper lip began to tremble like a dog baring its teeth. “Splashed?!” “Already after the explosion,” Tattoo hurriedly added and drew with a finger from top to bottom, as if tracking someone’s path. Vtorov squinted. “Verify!” he ordered. Tattoo did not want to climb into the water. “Such a current there! Even if something fell, already carried away!” “Verify, you’re told!” The fellow went, uncomfortably looking around. It was heard how he yelled and demanded a boat. A motor began to clatter somewhere behind Gomorrah.

Vtorov coughed for bravery and turned on the microphone, “They dropped an attack marker on us… It passed. You can go, Guy! They won’t reach a new marker today!” said Vtorov into the microphone. “Sure?” “I guarantee it! The arbalesters think that they could bring it down.” “Stake your life on it?” a voice tinkled in the headset. The chief of security swallowed. His Adam’s apple rolled like a small apple and again emerged above the collar.

After about ten minutes, two automobiles crept out of the park, dodging along the twisting road. A massive SUV with blue flashing lights blinking silently, and immediately behind it, glued to its bumper, a long armoured Mercedes. Both cars easily broke the security chain and drove up to the gangway of Gomorrah. The doors of the SUV opened while still in motion. Four men with Chinese army-model crossbows with cartridges sprung out onto the asphalt. In some ways, they resembled wooden boxes and evoked a questioning smile, but only to those who had not seen them in action. Bolts with recessed plumage slid into the trench under their own weight. The crossbow was cocked with the movement of a lever. The arbalesters moved to the Mercedes and surrounded it. Two squatted down to their knees. Those who remained standing took aim at the sky. The other two aimed at the bushes. Vtorov, blue from diligence, courteously opened the rear door.

From the automobile, a sinewy, lithe man of medium height slipped more than walked out. He raised his hands above his head. He snapped his fingers. The jumping reflection of a blinker picked up his face at random from the semidarkness. It was similar to a deflated ball, having lain in a room at night. There were bags and bumps. It was swollen in one place and it sunk in unpredictably in another. The mouth was small, capricious, feminine. The lips were chubby. It seemed a teaspoon could not even push through, but with a smile, the mouth suddenly widened, extended. And it became clear, not only an apple but also a whole person could swallow dive in there and disappear without a trace. The teeth were bluish, close together. The hair was curly, to the shoulders. The eyes were not visible: dark glasses like round saucers. And this was Guy.

* * *

Gomorrah (formerly the triple-decker cruiser Dmitrii Ulyanov, retired by the Volga Steamship Line at the end of the last century) was eternally docked at one of the picturesque places of the Moscow River. Since then it had changed hands many times. It had been a casino, a nightclub, and a floating hotel, until the next owner with the last name Zhora opened a restaurant here. His business did not go badly, but then he became gloomy and nervous. Either he laughed for four hours straight so that they were afraid to visit him in the cabin, or sobbed, then before the very eyes of everybody cut his own veins and shouted for them to save him because he did not do this. It all ended when Zhora stumbled here on the deck, hit his head and died, they say, even before he fell into the river.

Soon after Zhora’s funeral (for some reason everyone was embarrassed to place a cross, and they also only briefly wrote “Zhora” on the headstone without a last name or dates), it turned out that Gomorrah had a new owner, who purchased it almost on the very day of the old owner’s death. The new owner was a man wearing scent, with a pleasant voice, wore tight suits, ridiculous ties, and was constantly smiling. His last name was in its own way more striking than Zhora – Nekalaev, with an “e”.⁷ He brought very beautiful chrysanthemums to Zhora’s grave and stood for a long time, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. Despite his never shouting at anyone and even extremely politely calling the mute seventeen-year-old maid Faride Ayazovna, waiters and cooks feared him to the point of trembling. At the same time, Gomorrah became Gomorrah. Prior to this, it was called something in Italian, with a hint of the southern sun and languid women in hats with a wide brim.

Waving off Nekalaev, who was about to climb up to him with a handshake, Guy quickly went to the elevator. Since its pseudo-Italian days, the inside of Gomorrah had been greatly overhauled. Now on the lower deck were a kitchen and two-three cabins for personnel and technical accommodations. On the second was the restaurant proper. The third, the upper deck, was re-equipped for holding VIP presentations and private parties. Guy made his way there, to the third. Nekalaev, not even allowed by the arbalesters into the elevator, remained outside. In the glazed doors of the closed elevator was reflected his polite smiling face, not getting tired for a second.

The third deck buzzed like a cluster of wasps. The motliest set of people filled it. Next to the outrageous suits from Sir Zalmon Batrushka and the evening gowns from Laura Bzykko were red jackets of road workers, lady’s lacy knitted jackets, sweaters smelling of tobacco…

In a corner far from the elevator, screened off from the rest of the hall by smart half-height walls with teeth, from which spouted illuminated streams of small fountains, rather strange people were crowding around. Some were pale with sunken cheeks, slowly dancing in one spot. They would raise and lower a hand, raise and lower. On their faces was frozen rubbery bliss. Others, on the contrary, were blotchily rosy, excited. These, however, were moving so swiftly that it was incomprehensible how a person could maintain such a pace. They were laughing, continuously touching each other, and heatedly talking about something. One fellow was laughing, laughing, and then at equal intervals suddenly started to yell briefly and terribly. On a sign from Dolbushin they led him away, firmly and adroitly holding him by the elbows.

Dolbushin himself walked with the umbrella, greeted some people, grinned at some in the simulation of a smile, and simply rewarded some with a flat look. Usually something is reflected in the eyes of a man as in a mirror. Dolbushin’s eyes reflected exactly nothing. They were like black holes. Light was pulled into them and disappeared somewhere. He only looked once in the direction of the “enclosure” and spoke through clenched teeth, “Herd mentality! They’ve no idea how to behave at all! Only why give them psyose?⁸ I don’t understand Guy!”

Anya was chattering non-stop. She enjoyed having the older friend beside her. She was sincerely proud of her friend like being proud of expensive accessories or friendship with a celebrity. Although her friend was not a celebrity and was dressed in things from Anya’s own wardrobe. At least here on Gomorrah, no one looked particularly at the clothing. Here they would even treat a naked person in a fire helmet calmly.

Anya knew little about her friend. Only that her name was Paulina and that Father had brought her home a while back. Thin, weak, complaining about a headache, with a burn on her right cheek. Paulina recovered slowly but behaved independently and simply. She managed to stay as herself in an environment where everyone wanted to look like someone else. Accustomed to solitude since childhood, home-schooled, and rarely seeing others of her own age, Anya was immediately drawn to her. Dolbushin was not too pleased about this, but he was hardly home after all.

“In my dad’s fort are solid eccentrics,” chattered Anya, pulling Paulina by the sleeve. “Look over there! Do you see that modestly dressed old man, who is shoving pastries into his pockets and thinking that no one sees this? The largest diamond in the world belongs to him!” “Really not to the English queen?” Paulina was astonished. “No, she has the second or the third. Papa says this old man has the largest. And Dad also says that he hasn’t seen his diamond for about fifteen years. He’s afraid they would shadow him. Interesting, where does he hide it?”

Paulina looked thoughtfully at the old man who soiled his pockets with cream and was now wiping his hand clean in a hurry. “But if he’s so rich, why is he so shabby?” she asked. “Who told you that he’s rich?” Anya was surprised. “He’s practically a pauper. He hangs around forever as a guest. Yes, he has the largest diamond, but he has no money.” “But if he can’t even see his diamond, why doesn’t he sell it? At least to your father?” Paulina did not understand. “Really so hard to understand? Then he wouldn’t have the largest diamond in the world!” Anya laughed, dragging Paulina further.

“And there, that uncle with the goblet…” Anya whispered, pushing Paulina to the side, “smells the smell of money. Roubles, dollars, Euros, any paper money rustling. He can distinguish the smell of a hundred from the smell of a thousand. A one-rouble coin from a two-rouble coin! And all this, mind you, through a concrete wall! But only money! He can’t distinguish a fish from a rose by the smell! Well, to him they have no smell!”

Paulina looked with interest at the man who could not distinguish the smell of a rose from a fish. He smiled at her and dashingly, like a hussar, drank up the champagne. His Adam’s apple rolled along his neck. The goblet was empty. “Two hundred and two roubles and four kopecks! One of the notes is slightly torn. Should be more careful, girl!” he shouted to Paulina, nodding towards her right pocket.

Anya laughed and dragged Paulina further. “And do you see that tall woman there?” she continued to chatter. “Ask her what will be the value of any stock for next Friday, and if she makes a mistake even down to a kopeck, I’ll give you my shoes with rhinestones. Well, the ones you called ‘Turkish slippers’.”

Manoeuvring among the guests, the friends by chance turned up by the “enclosure.” “Anya!!! How are you!!! Come to us!” someone shouted. A quite young girl with rosy patches on her cheeks jumped out of the “enclosure” and with happy exclamation threw herself at Dolbushin’s daughter. With a speed difficult to expect from a man so solid, Dolbushin cracked from the waist up, roughly caught the girl by the neck with the handle of the umbrella, and threw her back inside the enclosure. “Tries to sneak up to my daughter again, shoot her!” he ordered the bodyguard. That one, not surprised, thrust his hand under his coat and extracted a small, toy-like and not-scary-looking crossbow. Anya gripped her father’s hand. “Only try! What’s the matter, Dad? It’s Ella!” “Was