Gouzelle
From The Museum
Shortly
after I moved to Moscow in 2002, an ultra high-end cocktail bar and restaurant
opened called The Museum. The name was
apropos, as the place was like a museum in terms of the extreme beauty that could
be found there. It was usually stocked
with the most stunning, elegant, and sexy women you could ever imagine. It was also similar to a real museum in that
it was a great place to look, but you couldn’t make any contact, as all the
women there were with gangsters, mini-oligarchs, corrupt apparatchiks and
thugs. These people usually had security
teams/bodyguards with them and there was a clear border between them and their
ladies, and us. It was a strange and alluring
place. Back then, Moscow’s social scene
was still infantile and this was a fairly common package at the elite restaurants
and cafes. The babes followed the money
and the mega-riches were mostly in the hands of gangsters and the like. Most foreigners in Moscow didn’t frequent places
like Museum, as they were total rip-offs designed for the Russian elite to flaunt
their fortunes, power and women.
Being
an investment banker with a corporate credit card, I stumbled into Museum one
night and after seeing such a lineup of ladies, I brought clients there as often
as I could. Usually, we were the only foreigners
in the place. It was a great place to
show visiting clients how Russia’s top 0.1% lived. Clients were blown away by the scene and eye candy. Upon taking a seat, you could easily see in a
client’s face the shock and awe the extreme beauty these Russian bombshells with
their connected men inspired.
One
night, I went there after dinner with our chief equity strategist and a heavyweight
fund manager from London for a nightcap.
As we were sitting in the lounge area on these little couches with a
table between us discussing Russia’s investment case, one of the most beautiful
and exotic woman I have ever seen sauntered in and sat on the couch at the
table next to us. She was dressed to the
nines and as she passed with her heels clicking on the floor, her perfume flowed
into our space and captured us like the song of the Sirens. Our conversation hit the brakes as we all
took in this mesmerizing lady, but after a moment, my strategist found a way to
break the spell and continued gabbing on about Russia’s economic growth. I was sitting across from her and couldn’t
help but steal glances her way as our discussion continued. We were speaking English, which was rare in Museum
and I could tell she was listening in.
After a short time, maybe twenty minutes or so, the London fund manager said
he was beat from his flight and wanted to go back to his hotel. As we waited for our bill, the angel on my
left was still alone. I couldn’t not say
anything, so I reverted to my old standby pick-up line:
“Hi.”
I said.
“Hello.”
“My
name is Michael. What’s yours?”
“Gouzelle.”
“Gouzelle? What a beautiful name. I’ve never heard it before. Where’s it from?”
“It
is Chechen. I am from Grozny, but I live
in Moscow now.”
“Wow.
Chechnya! You’re the first Chechen I’ve met since I
moved here…”
We
started talking a bit about very mundane things: how often she came to the bar,
how I was an American living in Moscow, how did she ever get such big and
beautiful eyes... You know, the usual stuff you say when you meet someone. As I was talking, my strategist picked up the
bill and he and the client went to get their jackets from the coat check. I had to wrap it up.
“Gouzelle,
it was really nice talking to you, but I have to go now. Would you want to go out for dinner sometime?”
“Ok,
that be nice.”
“Can
I have your number?”
“Um-hum.”
I
started pulling out my phone, which made her freeze in an evident panic.
“Please
do not take your phone.” She said flustered.
I left it in my pocket.
“You
want me to remember the number in my head?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Uh-Ok,
give it me.”
She
quietly told me her number. I repeated
it back to her. She confirmed it and we
said goodnight. As I got up, I kept
running the number through my head so that I wouldn’t forget it. I then noticed that there were a couple
bandits coming in. They saw Gouzelle and
bee-lined it straight over to her. Everything
then made sense. Her boyfriend (or
whatever he was) had arrived and I had managed to squeak out her number at the
latest possible moment.
Once
I hit the street, I pulled out my phone and entered the number into it. I earned big points with the fund manager for
this move and we kept talking about it as we walked to his hotel.
“…She
then told me the number verbally and wouldn’t let me take out my phone to enter
it. I then realized her boyfriend or
sponsor or whoever that guy was had just walked in. It was quite lucky timing actually or she
would’ve been busted.” I was saying.
My
strategist, who had been in Russia for many years jumped in, “Lucky? Picking up a Chechen mafia girl from a place
like that- are you crazy?!? I’m
surprised you didn’t get killed!”
We
all laughed. We dropped the client off
at his hotel and then the strategist and I went out for a few more drinks.
A
few days later I gave Gouzelle a call and we arranged to meet for dinner. Considering that this was the most beautiful
girl I had ever seen, let alone gone out on a date with, I pulled out all the
stops and suggested another totally high-end cafe. (At this time in Moscow’s development, there
were only a handful of top calibre places, so the list to choose from was
pretty short.) The place I picked wasn’t
trendy and it was the most expensive place I knew of at the time. Being such, it was usually pretty empty. It was on Red Square overlooking the Lenin
Mausoleum, Stalin’s tomb and the Kremlin Wall, and they made a mean beef
stroganoff. I always found the view to
be impressive, romantic and it really put everything into a proper Russian context. Gouzelle knew it and we agreed to meet there
at 8pm a few days later.
I
arrived twenty minutes early. When I
walked in there were a few bodyguards by the door and they gave me a once over
as I went past them and to the coat check.
They were protecting the only occupied table in the place, which was
near the entrance and away from the windows that overlooked the square. The table had three bandits with dark skin at
it. They stopped talking and looked at
me as I passed. I went to the far corner
of the room and took a table at the windows across from Lenin. I ordered a gin and tonic and waited for The Gouze.
At
8:15 Gouzelle walked in. She was more
beautiful than I remembered, a real goddess.
As she removed her fur coat at the coat check, she revealed a sexy as
hell dress with a floral pattern underneath.
When she passed the gangsters, they started talking to her. She stopped and they had a conversation for a
few minutes. She then came over to my
table smiling. We hugged, I kissed both
of her cheeks, Russian style, and we sat down.
“Who
are those guys?” I said.
“Oh,
just some people I know.”
Jesus
this girl is really running with the sharks I thought to myself. She ordered a fruity cocktail that cost $30
and I ordered another gin and tonic. After
a couple minutes, she got a phone call and then excused herself to go to the
bathroom. As she was walking to the loo,
she again stopped at the mafia table. Minutes
went by. When the drinks were delivered,
she was still at their table talking. Ten
minutes passed and I was almost finished with my new cocktail when she finally
left their table and went to the bathroom.
I wasn’t digging her behavior. It
didn’t matter how insanely hot she was, I felt she was disrespecting me. What kind of game was she playing? I stewed and fumed for a couple more minutes;
then my phone rang. It was Gouzelicious.
“Hello?”
“Michael,
I am very sorry.”
“Why
are you calling me from the toilet?
What’s going on?”
“You
need to leave. I cannot come back to
you. I am very sorry but those men say
they will hurt you if I go back to your table.
They are dangerous.”
“What?
Hurt me? What’re you talking about?”
“They
will hurt you. They do not want me
talking to foreigner. I no want you
hurt. Please go.” She sounded very
scared.
I
was shocked, but the writing was on the wall, “This is ridiculous, but Ok,
goodbye.” I hung up.
I
called the waiter over and asked for the bill.
I slammed her drink, paid the bill and started walking out. As I passed the banditti, they looked at me
with sinister, violent eyes. What
assholes. I got my coat and left. All this time, Gouzelle was still hiding in
the bathroom.
I walked across the square kind of shell-shocked. My strategist was right. Living in the Wild East during these early post-Soviet
years bore with it crazy risks as well as amazing opportunities and one needed
to be constantly aware to their surroundings. You could hit the jackpot or get beaten to a
pulp (or worse) by a gangster over nothing…it was a fine line, like walking on
a razor’s edge, but I guess that made sense, as since the scale of opportunity was
off the charts, so had to be the danger to balance it. The old risk-reward ratio.
These
epiphanic moments that forced you to recalibrate your lifestyle and boundaries happened
regularly during these days, but not so often.
It was the price of entry to experience Yeltsinism and Russia’s cultural
revolution and everyone who chose to live there had to pay it or go home to the
mundane. I didn’t blame the lovely Gouzelle
for anything. She was sadly just as trapped
by the system as all of us. Her intense beauty
and origin (Chechnya) provided the company she kept, which in turn kept her at
their mercy. Despite a mutual interest,
she just wasn’t attainable to a common guy like myself. I had forgotten the cardinal rule of visiting
a museum- no matter how beautiful something is, you can look, but not touch.
###
Like these post-Soviet tales? Here is another one from Kiev when I went on a blind date and we went to the circus.
https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2017/12/another-day-at-circus.html
https://libertinereflections.blogspot.com/2017/12/another-day-at-circus.html
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