Two months ago, I was at my father's brothel on Trudovaya Street. Not for the girls, although I’m not above paying for sex. In fact, it’s my preference since I don’t do relationships. There’s too much at stake for me to bring a woman into the mix. The women I choose to fuck are high class escorts, not the bottom of the barrel whores at the brothel.
No, that day I was there as a favor to one of my men. He’d left his wallet behind and didn’t want to risk going back to get it, being married and all. It was supposed to be a quick in and out. Not a big deal.
Except it wasn’t.
On my way out, I passed two of the girls in the hallway. They didn't see me. They were too focused on each other, talking in low, urgent voices. There was something about the way they sounded, so damn scared, it made me slow my pace.
"I told you not to go down there,” one of them hissed. “You know the rules. You’re lucky Belova didn’t kick you out."
"I know, I know, but I heard something. I thought someone was hurt and I wanted to check.” "And? Did you see anything?”
"I saw her. The girl that’s down there. It was just for asecond, before Belova started screaming at me to get away from the door."
"Who did you see?"
"The girl. You know, the one they say is in the basement. She’s young, looked younger than us and she’s black."
Her voice went even lower. I had to strain to hear her.
"She was thin and looked terrified. She froze when she saw me.”
"Are you sure? Did you get a good look?”
"Barely. It was quick. Belova went insane and started threatening me. Said if I ever mention it again—if I even think about going down there again, I’ll have to deal with Grigori Ivanov.”
"But he would?—”
"You think I don’t know?”
Belova’s scared too. I heard her mumbling as I walked away. She kept saying Ivanov would kill her. That nobody can go down there. She kept mumbling over and over like she’d lost her mind.”
The hallway went quiet.
I was still standing there, wondering what the hell I’d just heard, when the other girl whispered, so low I barely heard.
“The Pakhan's witch.”
"What?”
"I heard about her before. I didn’t think it was true. I heard some girls talking about it a couple of years ago. They thought nobody was listening.”
The girl hesitated.
“That’s what they call her. They say the Pakhan keeps her down there. That’s why we can’t work Tuesday evenings. She tells him things he shouldn't know."
"That’s just gossip. It can’t be real.”
"Maybe. But she wasn’t supposed to be real either. And you saw her.”
I kept walking, not giving any sign I’d heard a word. But the conversation stayed in my mind. It stuck. For days after, it was all I could hear.
The Pakhan's witch.
A girl locked in a basement under a whorehouse, who tells him things. A girl he visits every Tuesday evening. I found that hard to believe. My father doesn't believe in superstition, he believes in information, leverage and violence.
And yet…
He wears the same watch he had on when he survived a shooting twenty-three years ago. He has specific ways things have to be done, or he cancels an event entirely. Hell, there’s an entire district in Moscow he pretends doesn’t exist because his father died there.
