Tusovka Corporate, or Open Air (Part Two)

44100hz publishes the following excerpt from Sergei Chetverukhin's book "Tysoвка Corporate, or Open air". The club scene, advanced geniuses creating techno hits with the help of an expanded consciousness, tenacious socialite lionesses eyeing up rich and famous husbands or patrons on the dancefloor, mafia money laundered through music projects, and much more of interest...
Read and enjoy!

Boom-Ts! Boom-Ts! Boom-Boom-Ts!
Boom-Ts! Boom-Ts! Boom-Boom-Ts!
Tee-oo! Tee-oo! Tee-oo! Tee-ee-ee-oo!
The southern night is blown apart by the shrieks of roasted starlings from beneath the needles of molten turntables.
— Phew! It's so cool here at your place! — Anya and Petya clamber up onto the admiral's bridge.
— And we've already been swimming... Naked! — Anya giggles and hides behind Petya.
Petya is a burly guy with a small bald patch on his huge head. He could star in an ad for jackhammers. Something like: "with this simple little gadget I'll knock off any plaster - and any urge to hit on my girl!". He looks about thirty, and he's a well-known Moscow photographer. Word has it he moonlights as a paparazzo, under a pseudonym, of course. In Moscow there's no such profession as paparazzo and no tradition of paparazzi. In Moscow there's no one to chase through tunnels, no one to stake out for days on end lying in ambush, irritating your own backside on a patch of nettles. In Moscow everyone is in plain view, no one hides; on the contrary, everyone poses. The main thing is not to fall out with anyone. Getting a "sharp" shot is no problem. The problem is, once you publish it, not to spoil your relationships. In Moscow no one wants to quarrel with anyone. Everyone knows everyone and everyone somehow supports everyone else. No one fears the courts or physical reprisal. In Moscow they fear only ostracism. That's why Petya shoots everything indiscriminately, he's welcome in any circle. Then the decent shots he gives to glossy magazines to print under his own name, while the indecent ones he cautiously publishes in the tabloids under a pseudonym. They said that once one of his shots seriously damaged the career of a promising young politician. At an economic forum in London this politician was denouncing the activities of the oligarch Berezovsky. And Petya caught him after his speech, at Berezovsky's country house, tie off, having a drink with the disgraced oligarch. Anya is his fragile muse - and, truth be told, devilishly cute. She could star in an ad for dental services aimed at people who feel panic-stricken at the phrase "getting your teeth treated". Something like: "Be as scared as you like, but be shy in front of me. I'm right here, watching you, hero!". They flew in from Moscow on the same flight as David Sventon. Anya handed Che a flyer-postcard with a spotted St. Bernard and a small bottle of black vodka "Blavod". "It's from Katya", she whispered with a conspiratorial squint. Che instantly melted with happiness. "We're only here for the weekend", Petya warned, "there's a lot to do in Moscow. We'll have a swim, dance a bit at your place, and - back we go. But if we like it, we'll come back!"
— Oh! And is that grandpa a raver too? — Anya, laughing, points a finger toward the dancefloor.
— The old boy's really letting loose! — Petya throws up a thumbs-up.
— Don't be alarmed! That mighty old man is the owner of the beach we've settled on! — Che watches with pleasure as sixty-year-old Panko, in snow-white shorts, twirls a samba with the ladies from his accounts department. Truly, on the dancefloor all are equal! The dancefloor is the pinnacle of democracy!
— Anya, your voice is so familiar to me! Have we met before?
— Unlikely... I'd have remembered... — she glances at him slyly.
— You listen to her every day, — Petya winks.
— No way! Are you a singer? A radio announcer?
— Better than that!
— Do you work as my inner voice? Are you my conscience?
— Even better! She works as the voice for a mobile phone operator... She's the one who keeps telling you: "this number is not available now. Please, call back later..."
— No way?! Really? Sign my T-shirt!

Boom-Ts! Boom-Ts! Boom-Boom-Ts!
Boom-Ts! Boom-Ts! Boom-Boom-Ts!
The southern night is stifled in the vice-grip of the bass lines.
— Hey! Are you the DJ here? — a very young creature paddles up to Lyuty. Incredibly lovely. Huge cornflower-blue eyes blaze beneath a slanting bleached fringe. Her face breathes in bursts. Breathes passionately. Before, Lyuty had read in books: "her face breathed freshness" - and thought it was just a turn of phrase, invented specially for beauty's sake. But now he was seeing it right in front of him. In real life. A face that breathes... The beauty was almost a head taller than Lyuty and so slender...
— Well, sort of, — Lyuty puts on a bit of swagger. Out of nerves.
— You don't happen to know where a person can score a smoke around here?
— Off me. Here, — Lyuty holds out an opened pack of "Muratti".
— Nah... I meant a toke...
— How old are you, anyway?
— Fifteen. Why?
— Isn't it a bit early to be toking?
— Come on. You don't look like a hall monitor...
— My name's Lyuty.
— And I'm Nastya.
— Who are you here with?
— My brother. We came to Sochi for a week. The nights here are dreary; until we found out about you lot, we were just dying of boredom. There's basically nowhere to go. Everywhere it's the same thing: pop trash, chanson...
— And how do you find it at our place?
— Cool! A real Open Air! The proper kind!
— Will you be here much longer? In Sochi, I mean?
— Three more days.
— Then hang out with us. The Brits don't spoil us often, of course, but Moz and I play every night... Moz is a DJ too. I'll get you in for free.
— Don't sweat it... we're fine for money. The folks took care of it. And your entry price is humane. It's the security that's the problem, though.
— What's the matter?
— A guy - they threw him off the dancefloor right in front of me. For nothing at all. He was behaving fine, they just didn't like something about him...
— Seriously?
— Swear it. And then they let a whole crew through a hole in the fence. About fifteen people... For fifty apiece.
— How do you know about the fifty apiece?
— Well, one guy from that lot came onto me later on the dancefloor, wanted to get acquainted. So I quizzed him. He was so pleased, says: through the box office it's a hundred and fifty rubles, but we had a word with the security and they let us all in for fifty each. On the side. Learn, he says, how to save money!
— We-e-ell... Nastya... interesting things you're telling me...
— So, do you have a toke?
— Naah, I'm out. People usually treat us, we don't buy our own...
— Lucky you! Cool being a DJ! Okay, if I find some, should I grab you some?
— I won't say no, — Lyuty sees her off with a gesture that in forty-three countries is considered De Niro's trademark gesture from the film "Meet the Parents".
The lovely Nastya waves her hand cheerfully, laughs, showing big white teeth, and, dancing as she goes, runs off toward the settlement of Khosta. Lyuty climbs up onto the admiral's bridge. Petya, Anya and Demich have already come down. They're dancing. They've given themselves over to the undivided power of dictator Sventon. Che sits like Nelson before battle, gargling with Katya's gift - the black vodka "Blavod". The rest amuse themselves with a "Bolivian line". Agwa really hits the spot!
— Sventon really got you buzzing! You're gleaming like a brand-new euro-cent! — Che pours Lyuty half a glass.
— It's not Sventon. I met a magical girl.
— Fallen in love?
— Naah... She's quite little. But so beautiful...
— Then introduce her to Moz, he's our one for the underage...
— No chance! No fooling around with that.
— Er-er-er... looks like you, my friend, have fallen for her big time...
— She's the one who's caught fire - and hard! Two sparks, no less! In her eyes! (a pun: 'zapal' means both 'fell for' and 'a fuse/spark')
Che recalls a line from some Moscow poet: "and under her lashes - two embrasures...", but is in no hurry to quote it to Lyuty. Lyuty gulps down the Agwa, clears his throat:
— She's a peach, that cutie! Che, we've got problems!
— We had problems! — Che is in complete, in the deepest optimism. He slaps himself on the thighs and roars with laughter, as if a hulking fellow with a tousled beard, resembling the actor Jeff Bridges, had abruptly gone mad. — We had problems, but from today on everything with us is awesome! Look, people are coming! There's movement! That's the main thing! We're in clover!
— Che, we've got a little problem with the security. They're running riot. — Lyuty quickly recounts everything he learned from Nastya. Che darkens:
— My heart sensed it. There's no such thing as security in Sochi... By definition.
— What are we going to do?
— We're going to lock horns. Any other option is unacceptable.
— But they'll just deny it! They'll say it's all a load of nonsense, pure garbage from people sore about being turned away...
— We'll use live bait. Do you have any fans among the locals?
— That's a no-brainer.
— Go on, get someone ready. We're going to hook the bastards!
— I'll find someone right now and call you back.

Boom-Ts! Boom-Ts! Boom-Boom-Ts!
Boom-Ts! Boom-Ts! Boom-Boom-Ts!
The southern night is choking on its own ecstasy.
Che tries to use the short breather for his lyrical musings. His laptop is always ready to do its master whatever service it can:
"My kind and attentive Ekaterina Mikhailovna! Thank you for the present that your lovely friends carefully passed on to me. I am immeasurably touched by the sympathy you have shown toward a simple seasonal worker. I'm sitting on the open second-floor terrace of the local bar. I'm drinking your mild but merry black water, smoking all sorts of rubbish and eavesdropping on other people's phone conversations. In Sochi it's full communism when it comes to mobile phones. A minute costs three kopecks! Just think: you chat with someone for ten minutes and pay only thirty kopecks for it! A third of a single Russian ruble! That's why everyone around is endlessly chattering on their phones. Everyone with a southern accent: voices of heightened humidity and sweating consonants! I eavesdrop and spin a new story out of it... After all, everyone knows from what rubbish [poetry grows]... Which story? I'll tell you as soon as I get the chance to see you. I very much wish for that! You remember me too. Yours, Che".
He finished just in time. Kolya and Galina Veniaminovna are climbing up onto the admiral's bridge. It's turning into some kind of open-house night. Kolya is sweating, but this isn't the sweat of labour feats. It's the drunk beer bursting to get out. Galina Veniaminovna is breathing heavily. But this isn't the result of irreversible diseases of the pulmonary system; it's just that a stout woman finds the climb to the second floor no easy matter.
— We need to have a serious talk with you, — begins Galina Veniaminovna, plopping down into a plastic chair and giving Che a stern look through the thick lenses of her glasses.
— Bugger talking to him with an oar, that's what! — Kolya paces nervously around the table, hands stuffed in his pockets.
— Kolya, calm down, — even Galina Veniaminovna is a little put off by Kolya's manners.
Che reacts calmly to the crude confrontation. He's used to Kolya swearing every other word. His words are utter garbage, but in practice Kolya is, for now, quite harmless. The dog barks, the wind carries it away.
— We know that you deal drugs! — she pronounced it as if announcing a diagnosis to him: AIDS!
So that's it. So that's who sent that guy in the skullcap. They've figured out a way to dig at me...
— And you don't know that I deal weapons, control all of Russian prostitution and eat virgins for breakfast? — Che tries to stay calm; he needs to understand what they've dug up and what they want.
— Don't clown around! — Galina Veniaminovna raps her fist sharply on the plastic table. The table jumps clumsily. She hasn't come far from Kolya in the art of negotiation.
— We know everything. First of all, you've been working here with your venue for three weeks now. You've spent a heap of money! And you had no crowd all this time...
— And you only just started charging for entry... before it was a total freebie, — Kolya chimes in.
— On what money, one asks, have you been keeping this whole mess of yours going? Paying everyone's wages? All this equipment? The DJs? Not a single person will believe that you were working at a loss!
— What, does the concept of investing in a promising business not exist in Sochi? — Che inquires cautiously.
— Don't you feed us your bullshit! The season's only two months! What investments? What prospects? — Kolya wheezes.
— Everything here of yours is loss-making, — Galina Veniaminovna narrows her eyes behind the thick lenses, — but if you're doing it, if you keep doing it, that means you get some kind of benefit out of it... You're not your own enemy...
— Drugs! Only drugs!
— It'll be clear to anyone that all of this can only be profitable if there's drug dealing going on here.
— Very curious fantasies, but I must disappoint you. I believe in this business and I'm investing money in it. For now. I'm sure that within the next month and a half the venue will start turning a profit for me. And all the costs will pay off. Is that everything from you? — Che is beginning to tire of their presence.
— No, not everything... Admit it honestly, are you dealing? Come on, don't lie to us! — Galina Veniaminovna leans very close to Che's face and confidentially lowers her voice. She's using the most vulgar interrogation trick. Pressure on the conscience in the spirit of the communist inquisitions of the Soviet past.
— That's it. I have no more time, — Che stands up, making it clear that they've thoroughly bored him, — fantasize as much as you like. I've never dealt drugs and I don't intend to. And until you've caught me red-handed, don't touch this subject again...
— But we've already caught you, — Kolya's tone turns menacingly gentle.
— Yes... We saw your people selling pills.
— What nonsense is this? What people? Who's selling?
— You know that better than we do. Our business is to report it to the proper place... But we decided to talk to you first... Your business is dear to you, isn't it? Since you've already invested, maybe it makes sense to invest a little bit more? — the stern squint of her eyes from under the thick lenses gave way to a sly gleam.
— Is this - extortion?
— No, no, if you wish, we'll leave you in peace and go share the information with Boris Ivanovich.
— What rubbish! Fine. Let's go to Boris Ivanovich. You'll tell him about your inventions, and I'll tell him about the kickbacks you get from the contractors supplying alcohol to the bar. About how the public is forced to drink all sorts of swill because you get paid for it!
— Why, you! Why, you...! — she gasps, at a loss for words. The vulnerability of her own vocabulary moves her so much that she begins slowly sinking to the floor, just in case, pressing a hand to her chest.
— Galina! Galochka! Are you feeling faint? — in Kolya's voice there's such tenderness as no one could ever have suspected in him. Kolya catches her, gently sits her down on the chair and lunges at Che with his fists: — You bastard! Driving a woman to this! I'll do you in right now!
— Careful, my security's here, and the night, by contract, is my time; I'll say the word and they'll toss your arse off the beach! In the daytime you're the boss here, but at night you're nobody!
These words act as a provocation. Kolya swings with all his might at the spot where a moment ago Che's head had been. Che shows agility. Kolya's fist punches through empty air. Che has no intention of using the opportunity that's presented itself for a return blow. Coming up the stairs are Lyuty together with a lad dressed in a ginger Prada fur coat straight over his bare torso.
— Afroman, — the thin, gangly party-goer introduces himself.
— A hero of the local scene, — Lyuty recommends him.
— A plagiarist, — Che comments.
— You and I will settle up, — Kolya says in parting, leading the crimson-faced Galina Veniaminovna downstairs, — you'll go blow a drunken Yakut!
— Junkies! Beasts! — Galina Veniaminovna shows signs of life.
— Careful. Don't fall, — Lyuty first shows concern for his elders, then turns to Che: — We're ready, shall we go and get them?

To be continued...