Jade [antikvár]

PROLOGUEOnly in Manhattan would it seem perfectly normal to have a gymnasium in a penthouse. Of course, Ivan Igor's was not a run-of-the-mill gymnasium. The hideous odor of sweat socks would never permeate the dressing rooms here. From the moment one stepped off the super-high-speed elevator that whisked patrons to the tower suite, one was acutely aware of having entered a rarefied atmosphere.The first sight that greeted each patron was a huge, antique-silver samovar, gleaming like a lustful eye and ever full of fragrant hot coffee to be sipped while awaiting a class to begin. Classes at Ivan Igor's were never larger than six peoplemore often just two or threeand were generally composed of socialites, celebrities, or career women who wanted to keep their already slim and graceful bodies "in shape." It was a far cry from the health spas where middle-class, middle-aged matrons went in the hope that the machines that whirred and pummeled would whir and pummel their gone-to-flab bodies back into some semblance of acceptability.At Ivan Igor's, the decor was plush but the class