7 - One girl, six rabbits!

Alexei is sitting at the open expanse of his desk in his palatial but sparsely furnished office. This is a room designed to intimidate. There is nothing decorative upon which to fix the eye or pass comment, just the enormous desk and three chairs. Alexei’s chair is perched at just the right height for him to loom over the empty prairie that is his desk, whereas the two on the other side are low, reducing anyone sitting in them to the position of supplicant.

Unfortunately, Alexei is not having a very good day. He’s on the telephone, remonstrating, so angry that his voice occasionally becomes high-pitched and girlish, something he has to consciously correct.
‘No, no, no! One girl, six rabbits! You understand? It isn’t complicated!’
There’s a knock on the door and Boris enters the room, padding heavily across the floor like a mourner at a funeral.
‘I have to go,’ says Alexei hurriedly. ‘Just do it. Get it right.’

Alexei looks expectantly at Boris who pulls one of the small chairs away and to the side of the desk. Boris sits in the chair, acting almost as if Alexei isn’t in the room. Alexei, for his own benefit only, makes a look of being bemused, as if in the presence of some eccentric old uncle. And given that Boris has always been there, he is more or less an uncle, albeit an unwilling one when it comes to Alexei.

Boris leans back in the chair, relaxed, and even though he’s somewhat lower than Alexei, he manages somehow to create the impression that he’s looking down on the younger man.
‘It seems we must hire a new waiter for the club.’
‘Boris, please don’t start.’ Alexei realizes that this is the wrong tone to take and tries to get Boris back on side by saying, ‘He was selling information to those appalling rich list people.’
‘Who is Sasaki?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Alexei already feels cornered.
‘Sasaki! Who is Sasaki? We have no business with Japan.’
‘Exactly,’ says Alexei, seeing a way out. ‘Sasaki. He’s a flake, a crazy stalker kind of guy.’
Boris nods, giving him the benefit of the doubt, and says, ‘He says he’s coming to London. You want I take care of him?’
Alexei wishes Boris would drop dead right now. ‘No, thank you, Boris, I think I can take care of a stalker on my own, and personnel should be able to arrange a new waiter, so why don’t you just go and have fun. Find some Russian social club you can join.’

Is this what it’s come to, thinks Boris, that this boy jokes about his own heritage and makes fun of his elders, people who spilt blood to put him where he is.
He stands slowly and walks around the desk. He bends down as if about to whisper something but slaps Alexei hard around the face.
Alexei is stung, his cheek immediately smarting red, but he’s not about to retaliate, and looks more like a child who can’t understand why he’s being punished. It takes all his self-control not to cry.

Boris stands up straight and says, ‘I thank God your mother isn’t alive to see this.’
He lumbers away, but Alexei, desperate now and seeing all the potential ramifications, calls after him, ‘Boris! Boris!’ Boris stops and turns. ‘Don’t tell my father. I won’t kill any more waiters, I promise, and I’ll deal with the stalker.’
Boris thinks about it, then shrugs and says, ‘Waiters are easy to replace. Take care of the Japanese man.’

Boris leaves and a wounded Alexei sits for a moment or two rubbing his cheek. He’s interrupted by the phone ringing and picks it up. ‘Shakirov.’ He listens for a moment, his free hand clawing into the desk. He’s so incensed, he’s forgotten the pained cheek and the injured pride. ‘How difficult can it be to get rabbits? People can’t get rid of rabbits fast enough! They’re everywhere!’
He listens again but then holds the phone at arm’s length and stares into it incredulously, almost as if he’s offended by the equipment itself. Without putting it back to his ear, he screams into it, ‘No! Guinea pigs won’t do! It’s a whole different aesthetic. Get! Me! Rabbits!’
Alexei slams the phone down so hard that it breaks. That weakness offends him even further and he swipes the broken phone off his desk, launching it across the room – fortunately there is nothing else for it to hit.
He takes a few deep breaths, tries to calm down, and finally validates his rage by telling himself with some degree of certainty, ‘There is nothing erotic about guinea pigs.’