Here is Vasilisa. She owns a magic doll. When, as a child, an earlier Vasilisa was sent by her wicked stepmother to the house of Baba Yaga, the witch who ate children, who lived in the heart of the heart of the forest, it was the magic doll who helped her escape so that she could begin her search for her Tsar. So the story goes. But there are those who tell it differently, saying that Baba Yaga did eat Vasilisa, gobbled her up the way she gobbled up everyone, and when she did, the ugly old witch acquired all the young girl’s beauty—that she became, outwardly, the spitting image of Vasilisa the Fair, though she remained sharp-toothed Baba Yaga on the inside.
This is Vasilisa in Miami. She is blond now. She is about to meet her Tsar.
In the winter of 2010, a few days before Christmas, the four Golden men, alerted by menacing weather forecasts and accompanied by Fuss and Blather, Nero’s two trusted assistants, and me, flew south from Teterboro Airport aboard what I did not know until Apu told me was known to regular users of such aircraft as a P.J., and so we escaped the great blizzard. In the city we left behind, everyone would soon be complaining about the slowness of the snowplows and there would be allegations of a deliberate slowdown to protest Mayor Bloomberg’s budget cuts. Twenty inches of snow fell in Central Park, thirty-six inches in parts of New Jersey, and even in Miami it was the coldest December ever recorded, but that only meant it was sixty-one degrees, mean temperature, which wasn’t really that cold. The old man had rented a group of apartments in a large mansion on a private island off the tip of Miami Beach, and we were warm enough most of the time. Petya liked the island; its only point of contact with the mainland was a single ferry port and no outsiders were allowed to set foot on the charmed soil unless spoken for by residents. Peacocks, both bird and human, strutted here without fear of being observed by inappropriate eyes. The wealthy exposed their knees and their secrets and nobody ever told. So Petya was able to persuade himself that the island was an enclosed space and his fear of the outdoors retreated growling into the shadows.
—Oh, you don’t know what a P.J. is either? Private Jet, darling. You’re welcome.
Apu—sociable Apu, not my dark-clouded contemporary, D—had invited me to come with them, and “Go,” my mother told me, even though I’d be away from home for the holidays, “enjoy this, why not?” I didn’t then know that I would not be able to welcome the fictional baby Jesus or the actual new year with my parents ever again. I couldn’t have guessed what would happen, but I feel bitter regret.
Apu was in his element, schmoozing with the island’s rich salad of Russian billionaires and seducing their wives into having their portraits painted, preferably scantily clad. I padded along after him like his faithful dog. The billionaires’ wives did not notice my presence. That was fine; invisibility was a condition to which I was accustomed, and which, most of the time, I preferred.
And D Golden: he had brought Riya with him and the two of them were wrapped up in each other and kept themselves largely to themselves. And the servitors served—the entourage entouraged—Ms. Fuss fussed and her younger sidekick Ms. Blather blathered—and the Goldens’ stay went smoothly enough. I, their tame Tintin, was happy enough also. And on New Year’s Eve the island threw a well-heeled party for its well-heeled residents, the usual expensive fireworks, top-of-the-line lobsters and high-maintenance dancing, and Nero Golden announced his intention to take the floor.
The old man was quite the dancer, I discovered. “You should have seen him a few years back on his seventieth birthday,” Apu told me. “All the pretty girls lining up to take their turns, and he waltzing, tangoing, polkaing, jiving, dipping and twirling them all. Joined-up dancing, not the disco-jigging, strap-hanging and pogo-ing of our degraded time.” Now that I know the family secrets, I can in my mind’s eye set him down on the great terrace above the sea of the family home in Walkeshwar Colony, and envision the elite beauties of Bombay society happy in his arms. While his put-upon wallflower wife—“Poppaea Sabina,” I’ll continue to call her, going along with the family’s Julio-Claudian preferences—watched disapproving but silent from the sidelines. He was older now, past seventy-four, but he had lost neither his balance nor his skill. Once again there were young women waiting to be twirled and dipped. One of them was Vasilisa Arsenyeva, whose motto in life was taken from Jesus Christ, the gospel according to Saint Matthew, chapter four, verse nineteen. “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.” She had excellent timing. As the new year struck, in the midnight or witching hour, she cast her fateful hook. And once she started dancing with him, nobody else could do so. She was the end of the line.
This is Vasilisa. She is dancing with her Tsar. She has her arm around him and this is what her face is saying: I’m never letting go. Taller than he is, she bends down slightly so that her mouth is close to his ear. His ear leans into her mouth, to understand what it is telling him. This is Vasilisa. She puts her tongue in his ear. It speaks a wordless language all men can understand.
The Vanderbilt House is the heart of the island. Rewind: here is William Kissam Vanderbilt II on his two-hundred-and-fifty-foot yacht, making a swap deal with the developer Carl Fisher. The yacht in exchange for the island. Shake hands on that. Here is Bebe Rebozo, accused at the time of Watergate of being “Nixon’s bagman,” joining a group that bought the island from the guy who bought the island from the guy who bought the island from Vanderbilt. The island has a history. It has an observatory. It has, as previously stated, peacocks. It has discretion. It has golf. It has class.
And this cold holiday season at the Vanderbilt House, after the New Year’s Eve dance on the fine parquet outdoor dance floor laid down amid trees festooned with strings of lights, and burning braziers, and live music, and women in their jewels and security guards guarding the jewels and the men who bought the jewels admiring their property, the island also has a much-talked-about winter-and-spring, November-and-April love affair. My money for your beauty. Shake hands on that.
New Year’s is for dancing and when the music stops she commands Nero, go home and sleep, I want you rested for me when we really begin. And he obediently walks back to his bed like a good boy, with his sons looking on in astonishment. This is not really happening, their looks say. He’s not really falling for this. But such is his authority that not one of them speaks. The next night he empties the apartment he has rented for himself and his two assistants, banishing employees and family to the other three rented accommodations, where there are plenty of spare bedrooms. He is alone on the seventh floor looking down at the tops of the palm trees, the small half-moon of beach, and the bright water beyond. Dinner—shrimp cocktails, cold cuts, avocado and kale salads, a fruit basket, tiramisu for dessert—has been delivered by motor launch from a fine dining establishment on the south side of the Miami River and has been set out on the dining table. There is ice and caviar and vodka and wine. At precisely the appointed time, not a minute earlier or later, she comes to his door, gift wrapped in gold, with a bow at the back of her dress so that he can easily unwrap her.
They agree that they do not want to eat.
Here is Vasilisa the Fair giving herself to her Tsar.
The first night and the second night, the first two nights of the new year, she demonstrates her wares, lets him see the quality of what’s on offer, not only physically but emotionally. She…and here I rear back and halt myself, ashamed, prufrocked into a sudden pudeur, for, after all, how should I presume? Shall I say, I have known them all, I have seen her like a yellow fog rubbing her back against, rubbing her muzzle upon, shall I say, licking her tongue into the corners of his evening? Do I dare, and do I dare? And who am I, after all? I am not the prince. An attendant lord, deferential, glad to be of use. Almost, at times, the Fool…But, setting aside poetry, I’m too deeply in to stop now. I am imagining her already. Perhaps kneeling beside him on the bed. Yes, kneeling, I think. Asking, is this what you meant? Or this? Is this what you meant at all?
He is the King. He knows what he wants. And: ev
erything you want, she says, when you want it, it’s yours. And on the third night she discusses business. This is not a shock to him. This makes things easier. Business is his comfort zone. She produces a printed card, the size of a postcard, with boxes to tick. Let’s go through the details, she says.
Obviously I should not stay in the house on Macdougal. That is your family home, for yourself and your sons. And I am not your wife, so I am not your family. So you can choose (a) a residence in the West Village, for convenience, for ease of access, or (b) on the Upper East Side, for a little distance, a little more discretion. Very well, (b), this is also my preference. So, the size of the apartment, two bedrooms minimum, no?, and maybe one more as art studio space?, good! And will I own it or is it a rental, and if so for how many years? Okay, think about it. We proceed to the car, and I leave this to you completely, (a) Mercedes convertible, (b) BMW 6 series, (c) Lexus SUV. Oh, (a), so nice, I love you. The question arises of where I will have accounts, (a) Bergdorf, (b) Barneys, (c) both of the above. Fendigucciprada, this goes without saying. Equinox, Soho House Every House, you see the checklist. The subject of a monthly allowance. I must comport myself in a manner that befits you. You see the categories are ten, fifteen, twenty. I recommend generosity. Yes, in thousands of dollars, darling. Perfect. You will not regret. I will be perfect for you. I speak English, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Mandarin and Russian. I ski, water-ski, surf, run, and swim. The flexibility of my gymnastic youth, this I retain. In the coming days I will know better how to satisfy you than you know yourself and if equipment is needed to assist this, if a room must be constructed, a room for us, let us call it a playroom, I will make sure it is done immaculately and with the greatest discretion. I will never look at another man. No other man will touch me nor will I tolerate any inappropriate advances or remarks. You deserve and must have exclusivity and it is yours, I swear to you. This is all for now, but there is one more matter for later.
This is the matter of marriage, she says, lowering her voice to its huskiest and most alluring level. As your wife I will have honor and standing. Only as your wife will I truly and fully have this. Until then, yes, I am happy, I am the most loyal of women, but my honor is important to me. You understand. Of course. You are the most understanding man I have ever met.
I repeat: in too deep to stop now. I must go on imagining, must continue the peep show, put another nickel in / in the nickelodeon. Yes: in my imagination it’s now a movie. Wide screen, black and white.
The three sons of Nero Golden, PETYA, APU, and D, two of them considerably older than their father’s new love and the third just four years younger, are collectively at a loss. In spite of all their differences, this is a vital family matter, and they come together to discuss it, but do not find it easy to formulate a strategy. They meet away from the rented apartments, standing in a tight group on the island’s small beach, which is empty on account of the unseasonal cold weather, the low temperature, the high wind, the racing clouds, the threat, soon realized, of driving, freezing rain. They wear hats, coats and mufflers and look like a conspiracy of Czech intellectuals standing on a seacoast in Bohemia, closely observed, like trains. In spite of the frowns of the two older men, RIYA Z is there with D, clinging to him tightly as if she thought she might otherwise blow away. RIYA is the same age as Vasilisa. D has worked this out but does not mention it.
The camera watches them in extreme close-ups until they speak, but cuts to wide shots when we hear their voices.
PETYA
(he expresses his concerns theoretically, as is his awkward, inexorable way)
The crux of a great person’s life is the choice between doing what is right and what he wants to do. Abraham Lincoln, who was a proficient wrestler and enjoyed a good bout, probably would have preferred spending his time on the mat to starting a war in which approximately two percent of the population died, roughly six hundred and twenty thousand people, but it was the right thing to do. No doubt Marie Curie would have preferred to spend time with her daughter instead of being killed by X-ray radiation, but guess what activity she chose. Or take the case of Mahatma Gandhi, who when young showed himself to be a sharp dresser in a British bespoke suit which was a whole lot nicer than some loincloth. However, the loincloth, politically speaking…
APU
(interrupts what might otherwise turn into a long catalog)
So obviously our father should know better than to run after some Russian, let me avoid a word here, some Russian gymnast.
Circling, tight shot, around and around them on the blowing sand, slightly higher than their heads, looking down like a surveillance drone.
D
He’s going to marry her. That’s her plan. She won’t let up and he can’t resist.
PETYA
In the event of a marriage a number of legal issues arise. Next-of-kin status will be problematized, also executorship of a living will, and the broader subject of inheritance. There is also the uncertainty about where they may marry to discuss, the variations between the laws of Florida and the State of New York.
APU
Our father is not a fool. He may be, at present, a fool for her, but in all essentials he is not a fool. He has been a deal-maker all his life. He will see the good sense of a cast-iron prenuptial agreement.
PETYA
(his voice rises to a wail, mirroring the rising sound of the wind)
Who will talk to him about it?
(pause)
I can’t.
(pause)
He won’t like it.
APU
We should all do it together.
D
(shrugs, gets ready to walk away)
I don’t give a damn about the money. Let the old man do what he wants.
He and RIYA turn to leave.
RIYA
(in ECU, to APU and PETYA)
Have you considered that she may make him happy, and actually find it in her heart to love him? But even if she is faking it, this can still be good. Things are good which reduce the amount of global misery, or the quantity of injustice, or both. So if she reduces his unhappiness even for a brief time, even fraudulently, then that counts as good.
I see the life he has made for you all. He is like a great roof and you shelter beneath it. Step away from him and you are caught in the storm, all of you, but right now he is there. He is there until he won’t be there. But he is not only a house in which you live. He is a man and has the needs of a man, to desire and to be desired. Why do you want to deny him? Do you imagine that just because of the calendar, it stops? Let me tell you. It doesn’t matter how old you are. It never stops.
PETYA
(repeats, shamefaced, skipping sadly as the rain comes down)
It never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops, it never stops….
The downpour begins in earnest. Water on the camera lens. Fade to white.
This is Vasilisa’s best friend, and her personal fitness trainer, and her name is, let’s say, Masha. Masha is petite, smaller than Vasilisa, but very strong, lesbian, and also, inevitably, blond. Masha wants to be a movie actress. When Nero Golden hears this he says, “Darling, with that ambition, you’re the right size, but you’re on the wrong coast.”
The old man has extended his stay on the island and the family and entourage are staying too but there has been a rearrangement of accommodations. Vasilisa is moving into the Nero apartment with her friend and personal fitness trainer and all other persons are to be relocated in the other spaces. Nobody is very pleased except for Nero, Vasilisa and Masha. Then on the night the ladies move in Nero takes them out for a meal. There are good places to eat on the island but Nero wants the best, and the best involves getting into his Bentley sports car with Vasilisa by his side and Masha curled up in the back and taking a ride over on t
he ferry to the famous Italian place from which he had ordered the uneaten food on the night of the first tryst. At the famous Italian place the ladies in their excitement drink too many vodka shots; Nero, the designated driver, restrains himself. By the time the three of them are back on the island the ladies are laughing loudly and behaving flirtatiously, which is just fine with Nero. Back in the apartment he does a couple of vodka shots himself. But then, a strange turn of events. The personal trainer leans in to Vasilisa the Fair and kisses her on the mouth. And Vasilisa responds. And then a silence in the room as the two ladies embrace and Nero Golden sits in his armchair, watching, not remotely aroused, shocked, feeling like a fool, even more so when the two ladies get up without acknowledging him, turn out the lights in the living room as if he wasn’t there, and go into his bedroom—his bedroom!—and shut the door behind them.
In their absence it is the carelessness about the extinguishing of the lights that first enrages him. In his house! While he is present! As if he were nothing and no one! His anger reveals to him his dreadful error. He sees himself as a deluded old man and now his pride rears up and demands that he come back into his true self, the man of power, the financial titan, the quondam construction and steel magnate, head of his family, the colossus standing in the great courtyard of the golden house, the once and future king. He stands up and leaves the two women in the bedroom to do as they please and walks steadily toward the apartment’s front door.