Twenty-four hours later, Olga is deliciously awakening in bed at the Parus Hotel. She instructs Meela in the opium tea and drinks a cup before breakfast.
Stretching arms and arching back, she exults “Ah, glorious morn!”, enjoying a typical opium pleasure in muscle stretching.
Before kissing Boris off last night, he mentioned a date tonight at seven at Club Blue Moon,Khabarovsk Moscow
Stretching arms and arching back, she exults “Ah, glorious morn!”, enjoying a typical opium pleasure in muscle stretching.
Before kissing Boris off last night, he mentioned a date tonight at seven at Club Blue Moon,
Olga asks “What’s to laugh?”
“First they phone Stalin collect. Actually we have no collect call in Soviet Union but only Jews because of famous cheapness would have, as they say in Yiddish, “Chutzpah!” or colossal nerve to request Great Leader to pay for the call. Second, everybody expects the Jew never to do work but instead to wheel and deal to make a Russian orthodox his ox.
Then Olga laughs. “Bo you're a poet who don't know it.”
Then Olga laughs. “Bo you're a poet who don't know it.”
Boris goes on to explain his mother’s appreciation of being born Jewish. She was spared the corrupting influence of Jesus that children raised Christian are prey to. For her, Jesus is a creation by the early Hellenized Jewish Christian leaders, just another Jew who certainly had a navel. No danger of her deathbed conversion to Christianity.
Anyway, the Jewish influence allows a certain relaxation, lightness and joy – a freedom from puritan attitude. Thus Club Blue Moon whose Romantic name comes from American songwriters Rodgers & Hart's song is a surprise hit in Stalinist Russia.
Anyway, the Jewish influence allows a certain relaxation, lightness and joy – a freedom from puritan attitude. Thus Club Blue Moon whose Romantic name comes from American songwriters Rodgers & Hart's song is a surprise hit in Stalinist Russia.
Next she pulls-on white lace shift that comes to mid thigh and has no crotch making it into mini underskirt with unrestricted access. Women entertainers, courtesans and prostitutes favor it because of functionality: One can sit on bidet without having to drop drawers or one can do a sex quickie in cloakroom or on foyer couch or kitchen table or chair. And it makes crotch odor less likely by eliminating the moist smelly cloth.
Sitting at makeup she reflects on her flatness and puts on falsies that give the symmetrical outlines of small virginal uplift men like to make passes on by a squeeze. She stands and inspects front and profile in body mirror and, contemplating the svelte breasted figure in bra and short skirt, says “Tres chic, tres sexy!”
On back of bathroom door a sheer black evening gown hangs by shoulder straps. She takes it and, slipping it over head, wriggles into it before the mirror, pulling it down so it is taut over her and gives bare view of upper chest, back and shoulders. Then more dabs of the perfume to give shoulders sexy scent. Next she attends to gown outlines to be sure she has the tight ass men go crazy to violate. Her gown has ankle-length skirt of black sequin silk with slit in front to give curtain-opening effect.
“Mirror, mirror, tell me true, will this sexy body do?”
She makes a final inventory: Cleopatra hair-set, outlining small face with vermilion painted finely heart-shape lips, petite nose, exotic, black Ochi-chornii eyes. And the thin shoulder straps call attention to white bare skin of arms and shoulders while body outlines are sharply emphasized by the black gown closely applied to tight waist that tautly points attention to what a historically minded patron who read too much Henry Miller once called: “A brass ass on which the history of the middle ages could be writ.”
She pulls onto her left leg a black silk stocking, unrolls it and hitches the top edge to her underpants, using a red-ribbon garter that only high price clients get a chance to see and higher price asshole-artists, to dislocate. Finally she gets into black-strap high-heels and over shoulders she drapes a matching Spanish black silk shawl. To a well-read observer she might seem to have walked straight out of Poe's Cask of Amontillado.
“Satisfactory.” she tells Mirror-Mirror.
She pulls onto her left leg a black silk stocking, unrolls it and hitches the top edge to her underpants, using a red-ribbon garter that only high price clients get a chance to see and higher price asshole-artists, to dislocate. Finally she gets into black-strap high-heels and over shoulders she drapes a matching Spanish black silk shawl. To a well-read observer she might seem to have walked straight out of Poe's Cask of Amontillado.
“Satisfactory.” she tells Mirror-Mirror.
Meela shouts from downstairs. Boris is arrived.
36. Club Blue Moon
In car with Boris, Olga is mildly surprised to hear him say “Olenka, I hope you will not mind singing at Club Blue Moon?”
As professional chanteuse she is already considering what songs these communist hicks might like.
As professional chanteuse she is already considering what songs these communist hicks might like.
Club Blue Moon is ranch style. Boris parks car at curb and they stroll toward entrance where TONIGHT ONLY – DIRECT FROM TOKYO
“Hildegarde step aside!” exclaims Olga. Even more interesting is a familiar publicity photo of Olga in performance at Club Lorelei in Tokyo
“Olenka, I take liberty to donate the publicity picture. You won’t be angered?”
Olga turns to her husband and on tiptoe plants a kiss right on his lips then steps back and looks admiringly as if for first time at the big blond, boffo, tuxedo Bo. “What a beautiful hunk! Remind me to congratulate me for marrying you.”
“Olenka, I take liberty to donate the publicity picture. You won’t be angered?”
Olga turns to her husband and on tiptoe plants a kiss right on his lips then steps back and looks admiringly as if for first time at the big blond, boffo, tuxedo Bo. “What a beautiful hunk! Remind me to congratulate me for marrying you.”
A middle-aged man with Salvador
Boris introduces her to Senyore Delgado communist Spanish Civil War veteran who had managed nightclubs inMadrid
Inside is like typical Tokyo Trocadero: a vestibule with hat & coat girl, here a Chinese cutie, and the inevitable purple-padded swinging door bringing one into a semi-circular room fronted by small bandstand with piano and stand-up microphone and the room mainly occupied with round, glass-top 2- or 4-seat tables radiating from the bandstand. Presently guests are seated at every table except the empty one in front.
Boris introduces her to Senyore Delgado communist Spanish Civil War veteran who had managed nightclubs in
Inside is like typical Tokyo Trocadero: a vestibule with hat & coat girl, here a Chinese cutie, and the inevitable purple-padded swinging door bringing one into a semi-circular room fronted by small bandstand with piano and stand-up microphone and the room mainly occupied with round, glass-top 2- or 4-seat tables radiating from the bandstand. Presently guests are seated at every table except the empty one in front.
The room breaks into applause recognizing Delgado and seeing Olga as the expected star of the night.
“Shall you eet or perform first?” asks Delgado seating them.
“Shall you eet or perform first?” asks Delgado seating them.
“I never keep an audience waiting.” She follows Delgado onto stand.
“Ladeeze an’gen’lemen! Komraden! I geeve you Madam Olga!” Stepping to microphone she smiles as Delgado adjusts it to her height. He says, "I weel accompany on piano. I can play by ear ehneezing you say." He sits at piano.
“Gentlemen and ladies, thank you. My first number shall be As Time Goes By. She does the ballad made famous by the American crooner singer Rudy Vallee in 1931 speaking the front leader-lyric smoothly then launching into main song:
You must remember this
A kiss is still a kiss
A sigh is still a sigh
The fundamental things apply, …
Singing automatically her mind shifts to moment in bed last night against Boris, held like frail doll in hug of powerful bear, spitted on his pole, lost in orgasmic opium fog. And as “Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate/Woman needs man and man must have his mate” echoes down the aural corridor of her mind, she experiences physically, her own Bo, having her. Recalling her survival from Boris's final crunch she is undone.
(To hear the original As Time Goes By, click the white pointer on the following YouTube)
(Return to text)
Applause, with “Bravo!” and “Bis!”, interrupts her romantic recall and recalls her to the performance. “What should next number be?” She sees her beloved Bo's face at table immediately facing, notes his look of love, and recalls her Sweet Heartache.
“Thank you comraden all. My next song you may not know but for me who has suffered La maladie d’Amour its lyric explains itself. With a gesture to Delgado she sits at piano and accompanies self on it.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HluXSYQjr0E
(Return to text)
Applause, with “Bravo!” and “Bis!”, interrupts her romantic recall and recalls her to the performance. “What should next number be?” She sees her beloved Bo's face at table immediately facing, notes his look of love, and recalls her Sweet Heartache.
“Thank you comraden all. My next song you may not know but for me who has suffered La maladie d’Amour its lyric explains itself. With a gesture to Delgado she sits at piano and accompanies self on it.
Sweet heartache!
An ache without any pain!
I’m glad you’re back, sweet heartache,
And I’m in love again.
Sweet kisses!
From lips as eager as mine!
Will add to my sweet heartache,
And make it more divine
Why is it, every time I look at you I shake and tremble?
I resemble,
A ship in a gale, without any sail?
Sweet heartache!
You’re sent from heaven above!
I’ll gladly stand this heartache.
It means that I’ve found love.
Lilting, warm, romantic and sentimental, with fine nuance and ending on the long note “love,” the effect on the audience is of being alive and young and in love; and as she sings, Olga sees herself in forest running then tripping and sprawled provocatively on her face in high grass and being caught up from behind by powerful cruel Mr. Man and crushed to him, and then being brought to poundingly passionate climax, and as dreamlike state fades, only an echoing “sweet heartache” remains and she returns from her autopilot to an audience overwhelmed by the romanticism of her vocal style.
The audience cheers for more but Olga quietly declines, bowing off and returning to Boris at table, whispering in his ear “I learn long ago, Bo, never to encore unless I get paid.”
He replies “Olga you are superb – truly incomparable. Well, I just wanted to show the people what a gem I married; now they know, it is enough.”
Food follows preceded by the special cocktail, Moscow mule, made of vodka, vermouth and soda water; then Georgian grapefruit – collective farm Soviet Georgia – sliced and red fleshed and covered with honey; and, after that, shrimp from Sea of Okhotsk as cocktail with sharp red sauce and lettuce shreds followed by red borscht soup that Olga slurps up gorgeously. The piece de resistance is Amur goose, fried in peanut oil and garlic, with Birobidjian spice and, on the side, baked potato under sour cream and, alongside, cooked string beans and honeyed carrot slices. Accompanying is lots of Russian black-bread and side dishes of black caviar, chopped liver, pickled herring, and chicken fats fried dripping, also with matzo and gefilte fish from whitefish in Amur galore. Then there are green vegetables and fresh fruits – all you want to eat in separate bowls with big chopsticks for delivery onto one's plate. Finally out of a golden samovar, strong Russian lemon tea and side dessert of chocolate covered halvah slices.
“Oh Bo!” Olga exclaims. “I can't believe I ate it all! Wow! Take me home and king-kong me tonight, all night, on that big bed in the room at the Parus, the bed that the Louis loved Pompadour on but not half as well as you me, I guess.”
He replies “Olga you are superb – truly incomparable. Well, I just wanted to show the people what a gem I married; now they know, it is enough.”
Food follows preceded by the special cocktail, Moscow mule, made of vodka, vermouth and soda water; then Georgian grapefruit – collective farm Soviet Georgia – sliced and red fleshed and covered with honey; and, after that, shrimp from Sea of Okhotsk as cocktail with sharp red sauce and lettuce shreds followed by red borscht soup that Olga slurps up gorgeously. The piece de resistance is Amur goose, fried in peanut oil and garlic, with Birobidjian spice and, on the side, baked potato under sour cream and, alongside, cooked string beans and honeyed carrot slices. Accompanying is lots of Russian black-bread and side dishes of black caviar, chopped liver, pickled herring, and chicken fats fried dripping, also with matzo and gefilte fish from whitefish in Amur galore. Then there are green vegetables and fresh fruits – all you want to eat in separate bowls with big chopsticks for delivery onto one's plate. Finally out of a golden samovar, strong Russian lemon tea and side dessert of chocolate covered halvah slices.
“Oh Bo!” Olga exclaims. “I can't believe I ate it all! Wow! Take me home and king-kong me tonight, all night, on that big bed in the room at the Parus, the bed that the Louis loved Pompadour on but not half as well as you me, I guess.”
There is more but Olga and Boris deserve a little privacy now.
Several days later they are on the same 3-engine Soviet plane to Japan they came on; then on to Tokyo
End of Slim Novel #4
Rejoin Kimi & Tommy, Olga & Boris, Ali & Kimura and Harumi in Tokyo
5.(0-1) Slim Novel 5 Start/Chap. 1 - New Decade, ...
5.(0-1) Slim Novel 5 Start/Chap. 1 - New Decade, ...
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