The Last Hiccup by Christopher Meades Page B

door.”
    â€œAgain, I’m sorry,” she said.
    â€œCall Afin and have him start the car.”
    â€œYes, Doctor.”
    â€œAnd please knock next time.”
    â€œYes, Doctor.”
    â€œAnd if you would have these sewn for me . . .” He tossed his pajamas in the direction of the mortified girl.
    Tatiana caught the pajamas on her head, begged forgiveness, then sped a hasty retreat from the room. Alone again in his bedroom and completely nude, Sergei smiled in the corner of his mouth. He put on his suit and fashioned himself in front of the mirror. Tonight would have an upward turn after all.
    Sergei — doctor, divorcer and man-about-town — was going out for the evening.

    Sergei stepped out of his vehicle and straight into a muddy puddle of slush. His driver, Afin, an elderly Polish man with fading eyesight, a cheerful disposition and the profile of a swollen warthog, had failed him again by parking too far from the curb. At the last function Sergei attended, his driver had made a scene when he referred to the ambassador’s daughter as a “treat for the eyes.” Two functions before that, Afin had inadvertently driven home the wrong couple, infuriating Sergei’s then-wife and launching her into a hysterical tirade aimed not only at Sergei’s virility but also at the ethnicity of their hosts that evening. It had taken Sergei an hour to calm his wife down, just enough time for Afin to return and pile them into the car alongside the couple he’d mistakenly driven.
    This Afin was a curious sort. Clumsy, absent-minded and often confused, the man had revealed nothing to Sergei about his past. Five years earlier, Sergei hired Afin on the recommendation of an acquaintance without troubling to ask for further references or even insisting the old man have his vision tested. Sergei felt vaguely sorry for him. In his more befuddled moments, Afin would stumble about like a silent-movie star, unintentionally exaggerating his movements, his arms gesticulating wildly as he struggled to regain his footing after slipping on the wet stone driveway. Sergei wasn’t aware of his driver’s more contemplative moments, when Afin would sit alone in a dark and quiet room — disconnected from his affable civility and bumbling demeanor — and struggle to come to terms with the life he had led.
    Years ago while working for the state, Afin had put 249 men to their death. Some were hanged. Others were beheaded. Occasionally, the two went hand in hand as the head of a hanged man popped right off his body and landed with a bloody thud at Afin’s feet. Now long retired, Afin routinely fluctuated his perspective on his role in the executions. Some days he would bury his face in his hands, mystified as to how a sweet little Polish boy could have grown into a monster. Other days he wouldn’t give the 249 souls a second thought. It was only a job. The state killed those men, after all. His hands were simply the instruments of their concentrated minds. Afin never intended any malice. He was much happier now, he decided, driving Sergei back and forth from work and occasionally straining his murky vision to give Tatiana a wayward glance.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” Afin said as he helped Sergei step over the slush.
    â€œNot to worry.” Sergei shook the water from his best pair of shoes. “Wait here, please. I’ll be right out.” Sergei walked up to the grand entrance of the Isirk Ballroom. A national treasure that through sheer luck and good fortune had escaped the destruction of the Bolshevik War, its looming arches, high ceilings and majestic artwork made the ballroom the central meeting place for Moscow’s most affluent citizens. Sergei ignored the splendor and stormed straight through the front doors on a mission to find Alexander. He was stopped at the ice sculpture in the main lobby by a maître d’ and two doormen.
    â€œMay I see your