More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
She loves to describe the revenge that she’s visited on those who have underestimated her
When she looked in the mirror, she saw not a chic young socialite, but a dark angel, a bringer of death. She was addicted as much to the secrecy as to the killing itself.
I’m not the person I was. The events of the last week have shown me the shadow self I’ve always denied,
Ahead of us, vanishing into the shadows, stand serried ranks of industrial garment rails, all holding wedding dresses. It looks like an army of ghostly brides.
She’d have tortured me a lot if you hadn’t turned up.” “She was just doing her job. Why is it that when a woman is assertive in the workplace she’s always seen as a bitch?” “Huge question.” “I’ll tell you. It’s because we expect men to torture and kill people, but when women do it it’s seen as violating gender stereotypes. It’s ridiculous.” “I know, sweetie, life’s unfair.” “It really is. And just for your information”—she kicks bathwater in my face—“I’d appreciate a thank-you for rescuing you this morning.” “Thank you to my protective, feminist girlfriend.
She’s like a cat, yawning and stretching and purring, all lean muscle and sheathed claws. When we sleep, she faces outwards and I fold into her. She snores.
I believed that I could somehow finesse her affectless nature, and in the cold light of day I see this to be impossible. St. Petersburg winter days are short, however, and the nights are long. In our shared bed, wrapped in darkness and dreams and the warm smell of her body, I find myself believing it again.
I can’t imagine how lonely it must be to have your nose forever pressed against the glass separating you from other people. To be eternally out in the cold, trying to look in.
Women are very poorly represented in the field of Russian organized crime. Dasha told me the statistics and they’re horrifying.”
Sometimes I look at her and she’s there with me, fully present; sometimes she’s blank-eyed, in a dimension all her own.
“So what is it that excites you about killing that nasty old fucker? I mean, it was pretty disgusting.” “This hamburger’s pretty disgusting, pupsik, but sometimes that’s exactly what you want.
Konstantin always used to say: ‘You’re an instrument of destiny.’ And I loved that. I love that I’ve changed history, and that if it wasn’t for me the world would be a different place. Because in the end, that’s what we all dream of doing, isn’t it? Making a difference?”
“It’s Russia,” he replies. “A theater where the play is rewritten every day. And the cast change roles mid-performance.”
And was it really so ridiculous, Richard’s talk of destruction and rebirth? Hadn’t I done the same thing myself? Destroyed my old life to make way for my truer, darker self?
Is he, as he appears to be, a dedicated servant of the Russian state, and if so, what does that actually entail? Unquestioning obedience to the diktats of the Kremlin, or the playing of longer, more ambiguous games?
Loving her is a kind of death.
Every kill I’ve carried out has left the world a better place.” “That’s not what it’s about, though, is it? I mean, you’re not really interested in making the world a better place.” “Mmm… no. Maybe not.”
Richard smiles. “You know what they say. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. That’s the KGB all over.”
I remember, so clearly, the sensation of riding away with her on the volcano-gray Ducati. Of fitting myself to her back, of holding her tight as we flew into the night.
Is this my future? Moving from place to place, never settling, never resting, never forgetting?
