7. Food is served at Wu's

Wu wore a red-and-green silk paisley jacket, more like a short robe de chambre, over a starched white cotton shirt and a black bow tie, black Alastair shoe’s from Church’s and black pleated trousers from Brook’s Brothers, I’m sure. He made showman gestures. Oh, Christ, did he make showman gestures! He crossed his hands over his paunch and, as choreographed, opened his arms like a big W and rotated his torso, to the left, to the right, as if addressing a vast audience from the stage. Everything perfectly timed ­– the same number of seconds to the right as to the left –, like a mechanical doll. He smiled. Boy, did he smile! I was transfixed for a moment on his gold tooth. On his black hair slicked back. On his manicured hands – his nails shone!

I downed the champagne and waved the glass for some more.

It was getting really hot in the room, but it seemed I was the only one to be suffering from it. I couldn’t pay any attention to what Wu was saying; it felt like tuning in into a TV Chinese talk-show with the sound off. He was rambling about his life in New York and some new show he was financing, somewhere in Brooklyn, I think. Or was it near Brooklyn bridge? There was something about Fulton and Nassau streets, but I didn't manage to discern what. Klipspringer seemed entertained by Mrs. Wu, although I couldn’t make out why or what the two were talking about. Mrs. Wu had this plastic smile on her face and her eyes seemed to be looking at everyone and at nothing, while Klipspringer guffawed and laughed at things she said – must’ve said, because I couldn’t see her lips move at any time. From time to time, Klipspringer diverted his look towards Wu in a docile, canine way, as if looking for any signs of disapproval for his lack of countenance. Or a biscuit.

New candles were brought in to replace the old ones, half‑burnt by now. They were deep pink, almost purple and Mrs. Wu said something about lavender aromatherapy.

“It was difficult to bring the dog in the train”, Anna said to Lyubova in a casual way, but her faced glowed dimly with a sadness I could not relate to. I immediately focussed on Lyubova, waiting for her answer; I was curious to hear her voice again, intrigued by her; not so much by what she might say, but how she would say it ­– intrigued by how her voice would sound in this hot room. She must’ve sensed my curiosity and smiled back at my expectant face. But she replied in Russian and then, leaning slightly towards me, translated, rather vacantly “I had trouble with my luggage.”

“Lyubova is in the show”, Wu said. “In fact, she is the main attraction of the show. It cost me no small fortune and quite a few phone calls to the ‘right people’ to get all her stuff over. You really must go and see the show – her show, isn’t it my dear?” And Wu raised his glass to her in a toast, in which he was immediately followed, with enthusiasm, by Klipspringer. Reluctantly, I mocked a toast too, with a smile that enquired more about her naked body and the shape and feel of her tits than to her role in Wu’s sponsored show. Mrs. Wu, a tribute to hairspray, which gave her black hair a snowy haze when the light hit it, clapped her hands, inaudibly.

The toast, however, allowed me to refill my glass, the Filipino promptly guessing my wishes again.

An annoying buzz started whirring in my head. Probably the effect of mixing whisky with champagne. And the temperature in the room, which was now broiling.

The first dish was served. By Dahlia, this Chinese girl, barefooted and in full black. Nice, clean cut features; nice pale skin whose texture beckoned ­– it just beckoned ­– to be touched, caressed. Dahlia. Dahlia – what’s that for a name? Where the fuck was I? Wu and Dahlia, and Wu’s fat wife. If you picture one of those 1930’s ads for a magician’s act at the circus, there you’d get it: Wu and Dahlia, and Wu’s fat wife! The "girl-in-the-box-se-sawn-in-the-middle" show; Dahlia, unruffled in the box, and Mrs. Wu handing her husband, the magician-showman, the saw - that's how you should picture it.

Salmon demi‑cuit with capers in a bed of white truffles, chopped shiitake and steamed courgettes, in a beurre noir sauce. I couldn’t taste a thing, but I suspect the truffles were over the top – too much effort put into impressing the guests. The image of the Chinese import-export con flashed again in my brain. Anyhow, the salmon could well be holy wafers, I really couldn’t taste a thing.

I asked for some more champagne, but I couldn’t taste it, either. My senses must’ve been getting numb.

Wu decided to move to a Pessac-Léognan. Good choice, actually. Anna barely touched her flute; Lyubova was washing down her hors d’oeuvres in abundant champagne. The fact that she seemed to be drinking as much as me only spiked my interest in her more.

Yet, I wasn’t able to sense the taste of the wine, a 2000 Château Laville Haut-Brion. And this time I made an effort to. I wasn’t bothered (quite on the contrary) for not smelling the lavender smoke from the candles, nor from not noticing the taste of the whisky and the champagne – this was simply the alcoholic prelude. But the Pessac-Léognan was a good wine and I had all intention of enjoying it.

Discreetly – well, as discreetly as possible – I took the wine glass and inhaled deeply, searching for its aroma, hoping my smelling senses would trigger my palate. I sensed Lyuobova’s glance and pretended not to notice. In fact, I was taken aback: the wine was odourless. The wine, the food – odourless, tasteless.