THE PRIVATE PARTY

37

She stands and flushes the toilet. You hook the tubular device inside her bra. You can smell her booze-sweet breath.

"There. The microphone is facing outwards so don't move it around. On is here. Off is just, switch it back. It can record for about four hours, so just leave it on. Ready?"

"Enough time, ladies," bellows the thug in the corridor.

Vania nods, gives you a quick, tight hug. Then you clatter back along the catwalks to the lounge.

Where the officers and generals were, a bouncer now waits for you. "Gentlemen in private room invite you for cocktail," he says.

"Which gentlemen?" you say.

He just shrugs and is already walking away, back to the corridor but in the other direction now, lighting the way with a tiny flashlight pointed at the metal floors and the odd stairs and turns. You are moving away from the booming beats of the dance floor. A couple more bouncers are standing in front of an iron door with a big handle on it, like the door to a walk-in fridge or a container.

"I guess we just have to get some hotdogs out of the freezer first," you say to no one, "before we go to the party?"

Vania laughs but the men don't. The pull on the lever and the door swings open. The lounge inside is the most luxurious so far: chandeliers of black jet with real candles in them hang over the sofas and chairs. The floors are covered with Persian rugs in swirling brick red and orange patterns. The music is moody, melancholy,with no beats in it. The first thing you notice about the crowd is the waitresses, who are hardly dressed at all, or rather dressed like villains in animé, in black leather harnesses and thongs, or shiny PVC catsuits like Catwoman. They wear staggeringly spiky black pumps. Some have leather collars with locks on them. One has her breasts bare except for a cross of black tape on each.They are dressed for a fetsih club.

The men are not. They are in dull navy and grey suits. They are sitting or standing in small groups. But it is clear who is at the centre, whose table one wants to be in.

You know the fat man at that centre table, with five or six guys lounging around him, some with girls on their laps, all staring at the fat man, smiling, laughing, smacking their knees at his jokes. The fat man is having a great time: his face is red, his tie loosened. He is telling a long funny story. He stops to laugh at his own story every few words.

You have seen this man on the tv. It is the mayor.

The bouncer is leading you towards this table. Sitting right next to the mayor is the Owner. He is smiling, nodding at the story. He looks perfectly relaxed. He glances at you as you approach but his expression does not flicker. He has a perfect poker face.

Vania is walking in front of you. She hesitates, then stops. You almost bump into her from behind. She is trembling.

You put a hand around her waist. "What is it."

"I can't. I can't sit there. He'll recognize me. I'm always on tv talking about him."

"He won't. Trust me. You are invisible. You have a uniform on. Like the mailman. If a mailman walked in here and delivered a letter, he would take the letter and not notice the mailman's face. He would say there was a mailman here, that's all."

"What are you talking about?"

"I read a story about his. Come on."

"Ladies," says the bouncer, "this way please."