Читать книгу Virtuoso - Yelena Valer'evna Moskovich - Страница 13

Like I said, I knew your friend

Jana held her purse to her pelvis as she waited outside the International Meetings Lounge.

*

“You must be Ms K—,” the man in the gray suit said.

Jana extended her hand. He wrapped his around hers and shook it while opening up a mindful smile.

“Mr Doubek,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Roman Doubek.”

*

Roman Doubek looked too small for his suit somehow—his shoulders were inordinately narrow, or else his head, balding and shiny on top, was too wide at his jaw, or else his potbelly was too apologetic, like a stolen grocery store item tucked into a coat. On top of his bulbous nose was a pair of light silver-rimmed glasses.

*

“Here I was on my way to Paris and here you were living in Paris. Here I was seeking an interpreter, and here you are working as one,” Mr Doubek said. “Like I said, I knew your friend—the Little Narcissus.”

“How so?” Jana enquired, maintaining her disinterest.

“I had considered it a nightmare, and then—I went online, Ms K—. I’m delighted you were available, in the end, for this meeting,” he replied. His face formulated back into a smile and he said no more.

*

Jana was burning to say her name, Zorka, you knew Zorka, is that it? But to say her name now, out loud, after so many years of it remaining purposefully unsaid, would be as freakish as this man’s nightmare claim.

Besides, Jana had no patience for riddling when it came to men. There was always a condition to the suspense, and the anticipation was as finely nauseating as a string of saliva being drawn out slowly from the mouth, and the reveal usually revealed nothing more than men’s inherent privilege to withhold information. Even if he did know Zorka, it no longer concerned her—this knowledge, her existence, the man’s betting chips clattering in the palm of his wording. Did he think he’d make a little girl out of her by mentioning the Malá Narcis? She wanted to tell him that she had never been a little girl in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now.

Jana cleared her throat and informed Mr Doubek that she would be using the toilet before the meeting.

In her cubicle, Jana closed the door and pulled up her skirt. She wasn’t sure if she actually had to urinate. She pulled down her underwear and ran her palm over her pubic hair, incrementally against the grain. Zorka, she whispered out loud, and the stream came all on its own.

*

“As I’m sure you’ve observed.” Mr Doubek sat beside Jana, across from the two French clients. “Linet has been dynamically developing. Since our beginning in 1990 in Želevčice u Slaného, we have expanded our production to reach hospitals, retirement homes, and long-term care facilities worldwide, exporting to over 100 countries and growing.”

He spoke assuredly and evenly, sliding rehearsed coins that Jana flipped routinely into French for the clients.

“Our main plant in Želevčice manufactures 40,000 beds a year.”

The shorter client, with a mole on his cheek, asked, “Tell me more about the Eleganza 3 bed?”

“The Eleganza 3 bed is for intensive care units,” Jana translated.

“… sold greatly in the United Arab Emirates after being exhibited at the Dubai convention.”

“Very innovative,” the second client added, nodding his dark head full of brushed hair, his cleft chin pointing at the table.

“Anti-pressure ulcer mattresses …”

“Can we just go back to the CliniCare 20+ mattress?”

“… made of cold polyurethane foam, which is also covered with a layer of thermoelastic foam … with transport handles on the side, of course, for easy transfer.”

“Oh no, the EffectaCare 20+ has a greater foam density.”

“… in collaboration with top healthcare professionals and experts in the scientific fields!”

“Listen, we’re not only on top of the newest equipment in the area of medical care, we set the trend. So, let’s get to why we are really here, gentlemen.”

“Yes, let’s,” the man with the mole agreed.

Mr Doubek pulled out a glossy brochure from his folder and slid it across the table to his clients.

The Virtuoso Mattress, the front page read, when care is critical, each fiber counts.

“There is no mattress system for high-risk patients like this in the world.”

The clients opened the brochure to the second page and Mr Doubek reached over and pointed to the diagram of the multi-layered mattress with information bubbles around the design.

“The three-cell technology holds the body of the patient in ‘zero pressure.’ Allow me to further explain what this means, gentlemen. Zero pressure, let’s just say these patients, on the verge of complete organ failure, for example, on the precipice of expiration, in addition to the stellar care that the best medical facility can provide, they require a sort of organic reunion with their own gravity, a homecoming to the distribution of their mass, a realignment comparable with the original state of symbiosis within their mother’s womb—so to speak.

“But let’s discuss more concretely. Here,” Mr Doubek turned the page for the clients as Jana spoke, “the system of connected air cells between the two-layered mattresses creates the therapeutic effect that has been proven to accelerate wound healing.

“And as you can see,” the page was turned again and Mr Doubek’s finger pointed to a photo of a nozzle-like apparatus adjoined to the side of the beige bed frame, “the Virtuoso mattress system is also equipped with a one-hand-operated CPR system.”

The French clients began nodding in sync, then flipped backward in the brochure.

“Very impressive,” the cleft-chin client said, “but it is also quite an investment, you would agree.”

“The investment is on a par with the service, gentlemen,” Jana said calmly. “This is state-of-the-art medical care. This one-of-a-kind mattress, this complete bed system,” Jana continued as Mr Doubek held down the brochure with the fleshy side of his fingertip, “this is the human sleep wherein science can reach its hand the farthest it has ever reached to intervene.”

*

Mr Doubek gestured, letting the clients leave first. After they’d left the meeting room, Jana stood up, and Mr Doubek followed suit. She took a couple of steps toward the door, but Mr Doubek slid around her into the doorway and turned to face her.

“The meeting went very well,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jana replied and waited for Mr Doubek to step out of her way. But he just stood there, looking at Jana.

“Can I get you a coffee … and a pastry …?” Mr Doubek asked.

“No, thank you,” Jana replied, looking beyond his shoulder.

Mr Doubek maintained his gaze on Jana, continuing to speak in a weighted tone.

“I know I am intruding, Ms K—. I was under the impression you might want to hear more about your friend …”

Mr Doubek reached his left hand inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an inky-colored business card and gave it to Jana. On the card, the letters were embossed.

She angled it toward the light and read:

THE BLUE ANGEL

Underneath, Bar à vin.

Then the address. A street named “Prague,” in the 12th arrondissement.

“We could get a drink there,” Mr Doubek said. “At 9 pm …”

Jana’s eyes were going over the contours of the card, dropping into the grooves of each letter.

“I hope you like sad music, Ms K—…”