Obviously the driver picked up the spare keys and saw my dollars and computers. The rest was a routine. They took Vasya to the club and came back to my apartment and cleaned it out.
After I called Vasya, I saw a number in my phone. It was Alyona's, the girl I met in McCoy. I've heard a lot about kofelinschiki (which means a girl or two whom you easily pick up in bar or a club, and who secretly puts clonidine in your drink when you take them home). You finish the drink and then sleep deeply for the next 12 hours. If they put a little more clonidine than necessary, your sleep is eternal. Meanwhile, they steal everything they see from your apartment.
Immediately, I decided that the khachiki and Alyona could be working the same gang. So I called her to check things up. She sounded nice and I suggested seeing each other for a drink or something.
When she arrived in a Porsche Cayenne I realized she's not the type who robs apartments. Either that or she's really, really good at it. Alyona turned out to be a rather skanky (to use an eXile term) blonde in her late thirties whose stomach seemed to be leading her around. That wasn't how she looked the night before, but Jack Daniels and tequila can improve a lot of people's looks.
It turned out that Alyona owns three clothing stores and a beauty salon. She said that yesterday was a bad day because she lost her garage in her divorce with her husband. So she was cheering herself up by going to bars and making other people drink almost to death just to make her feel better.
When I told my sad story about the rest of the evening her eyes filled with concern and she paid for my dinner. Later, she took me to a "very serious club" to see the opening of a Gago Rushanyan painting exhibition called Nuances.
I always wondered where do old people go out. I had to pay for this new wisdom with my MacBook, PSP and two grand. But here it goes— RESTAVRATSIYA, a genuine place for Moscow's ageing intelligentsia. Old-timers have a lot to enjoy here: a cigar room, a fire place and the largest whiskey collection in town.
Gago's paintings mostly featured naked girls in aquarelles and I really liked them. The club was packed with late middle–age gentlemen with their fading-beauty wives, and some artsy-dressed dudes with strange moustaches, whom I figured were the artist types. Nimble girls were handing out price lists for the paintings to the rich dressed guests—but not to me.
I learned that this place features no DJs or go-go dancers. The program for March included jazz jam sessions, theater performances, Argentinean milonga dances, blues nights, French chanson, and so on. Once a month the club organizes an evening of introductions, which I considered an interesting opportunity.
In terms of girls you can meet here, I would grade this place very high. I seriously doubt you'll meet any klofelinschiky here. More likely you'll meet modestly-dressed daughters of Conservatory teachers or Tretyakov gallery advisors. Don't be deceived. Usually these types own five room apartments near Tverskaya, stuffed with antiques, expensive paintings and old books.
However, if you want to get into her bed (where her aunt probably died a few decades ago) you need to behave like a gentleman, the type who is desperate to practice and improve his Russian (and of course you will help her with her English). You can read books together. Definitely talk about literature and that sort of stuff, as if you really care.
Certainly, it was a different party than the ones I'm used to. I didn't understand why I felt like such a stranger here—either my trade school education instead of their snobby MGIMO degrees, or my depression because of losing my MacBook and money. I decided in the future to stick to places I like. So get ready for the report on SOHO ROOMS, a new flashy club for spoiled mundane crowd, which you can read about in the next issue.