Free An Object of Beauty: A Novel by Steve Martin Page A

sour-faced customs agent rubber-stamped their papers, they checked into the Grand Hotel in St. Petersburg on a rare hot day of the Russian summer. The hotel was built around an indoor courtyard that was now a mecca for the traveling businessman. In 1997, Russia was “between regimes,” and a Wild West lawlessness gripped the major cities. Danger marked the streets, and Lacey had been warned that evenings out could be trouble, and that the food in restaurants could not be trusted. It was wisest to eat only at the hotel and walk no farther than around the block. This made her job as tour guide and car arranger easier. Everything was done through the hotel desk.
    Before sundown, Lacey took a jet-lagged stroll in the permitted area. Magnificence surrounded her, but the city was tattered at the edges and had a run-down feeling that affected all the stately buildings, except for the busy churches. The government buildings were shabby and tired; she could imagine the hunched shoulders of weary Kafkaesque protagonists trudging up their unending staircases. Streetvendors sold assembly-line paintings only a few blocks away from the Hermitage, which made the junky pictures seem better by its beatific proximity.
    Cavernous government offices had been converted to gigantic marts with stalls that offered household cleanser next to plastic baby Jesuses, and the variety of products from stall to stall was so extreme as to be illogical. The streets were alive, though; the warm day brought everyone out as if to stockpile sunlight and warmth for the battering winter. The people seemed to be of two types only, sculpted beauties or squat beer kegs. Lacey’s flirtatious imagination made fantasy contact with a few of these Adonises, but she knew that if she was to sleep with anyone on this short trip, it might as well be one of her employers.
    The food plan for the day would be the same for every day: breakfast in, lunch in, cocktails in, dinner in. Tomorrow morning they would be given a private tour of the Hermitage, tomorrow afternoon they would meet with the director, and the next day they would fly home. So they would be three musketeers for the next few days, all for one and one for all, relying on, or perhaps stuck with, one another for camaraderie. When Lacey returned to the hotel, she saw Patrice Claire already in the bar, talking to a man in black. He saw her and signaled her over just as the man was leaving.
    “Are you passing secrets?” said Lacey.
    “Oh no, just making use of my time here for commerce. How about a drink?”
    “I’ll have a black Russian… oh, wait, you said drink. Scotch.” The joke didn’t make it through the language barrier, and Patrice ordered the Scotch.
    She slid onto a stool. “So, Patrice, what’s with the hair?”
    He looked at her, puzzled.
    She continued, “You know, what’s with the oily look?”
    “I am European. It’s what we do.”
    “Maybe forty years ago… but come on.”
    “Anything else you find objectionable?”
    “Just the gold chain. And the open shirt. Chest hair doesn’t have the same effect on American girls. Oh, and I’ll pay for your drink. It’s the least I could do.”
    “I should pay. I’m so grateful for the personal instruction.”
    “Just thoughts.”
    “If I don’t grease my hair, it’s like an Afro.”
    “No way. Euros don’t have Afros. Something matte would do it. Same effect, no shine.”
    “Now should I criticize your hair?”
    “You can’t. Unfortunately for you, I have perfect hair. I have hair that women sit in beauty parlors for hours to try and achieve. Natural streaks, natural highlights. I think my breasts are slightly low, so I’m vulnerable if you want to get even.”
    “Do you get a lot of complaints?”
    “No,” said Lacey, then flatly: “Oh, my God, it was a trick question.”
    “Tell you what,” said Patrice. “After dinner, come to my room. I’ll show you something.”
    Lacey went to change for dinner. Her “luxury” room,