Death and the Penguin (17 page)

As before, Nina kept Sonya amused during the day, sometimes at home, sometimes out and about, leaving Viktor on his own. But at night they were reunited, and knowing that neither
love nor passion came into it, he still found arms and body anticipating that time with eagerness. Embracing, caressing Nina, making love, he became oblivious of himself. The warmth of her body seemed to be that very spring he so looked forward to. And then, in the small hours, with Nina asleep and breathing gently, he lay open-eyed, with the curiously comfortable sensation of leading an ordered, normal life – for which the essential requisites: wife, child, pet penguin, were present; and obviously artificial as this foursome was, Viktor shut his eyes to this fact for the sake of his feeling of comfort and a temporary illusion of happiness. But who could say? Maybe his happiness was not as illusory as the sober thoughts of morning suggested. But what, at night, were the thoughts of the morning? The very alternation of nocturnal happiness with morning common sense, and the constancy of it, seemed to prove that he was, at one and the same time, both happy and clear-thinking. So that all was well and life worth living.

Just as he was fetching Misha’s breakfast from the freezer, the phone rang. He threw the slices of fish into the bowl and went and picked up the receiver in the living room.

“Greetings!” came a familiar voice. “How’s life?”

“Fine.”

“I’m back in Kiev,” said the voice, now clearly the Chief’s. “You can consider your holiday at an end.”

“Shall I come and see you?”

“Why waste time? I’ll send a courier. Give him the finished work, he’ll give you the new. Will you be in?”

“Yes.”

“Splendid! Incidentally, it’s a paid holiday you’ve just had, although not a union member. Bye!”

Viktor made coffee, rejoicing in the peace of the flat – Nina and Sonya having gone to Pushcha-Voditsa to look for snowdrops. A peace which enabled him to sit down with a cup of coffee and calmly think it all over. A peace which made it possible to sit without thinking even, just drinking coffee, dwelling on its flavour, keeping at arm’s length thoughts capable of disturbing equanimity.

But sitting sipping strong coffee, he felt suddenly on edge, and as Misha dropped a piece of fish, he gave a start and swung round to look.

The flavour of coffee became of secondary importance. His edginess increased. Disquieting thoughts prompted an onslaught of questions.

What now? Back to obelisks? Back to red-underlined biographical facts of people unaware that their obituaries were already in hand? Occasional coffee-drinking sessions in the Chief’s sanctum? The Chief’s kindly attitude, the shaky roundness of his handwriting? His laconic brevity, his attachment to that one word processed, entered repeatedly, neatly, painstakingly on the originals of
obelisks
which had already informed readers of the terminated life of whoever was next to merit an extensive obituary?

This new genre, his invention, lived. Unlike so many of its subjects. But no longer did he yearn for recognition or feel an urge to shout
I wrote that
! The anonymity of
A Group of Friends
suited him completely. The Group, he sensed, was not just him alone. The Chief was one of the Friends, too. And there was another, the Principal Friend perhaps, that someone whose bold, sweeping signature approved Viktor’s
obelisks
. Though whether it was the text he approved or the subject, was now not at all clear. And then there were the dates, obviously determining the day
of publication, but clearly predetermined during the subject’s lifetime! Death as
planned economy
!

No, it was not the quality of his text, his philosophical digressions, or felicitous presentation of U-turns in the lives of his notables that this someone was approving, but the notables themselves – determining how long they had left to live. And the Chief’s role in all this was a surprisingly minor one – a peculiar cross between courier and ticket inspector. And although his duties certainly included publishing
obelisks
on schedule, even that did not now seem particularly significant – any more than his own role, which Viktor still did not completely understand.

Out of the blue, and contrary to this logical line of thought, he remembered something that diverted him from it and made his blood run cold. And just as he seemed about to grasp what was going on, he was back where he started, with his attempt to solve an equation having two knowns and one unknown frustrated. What he had remembered was how the Chief had responded to his probing on the night when the car had been waiting to take him to the airport: The full story is what you
get
told only if and when your work, and with it your existence, are no longer required.

It had seemed then that he and the Chief were parting for ever. And Viktor had naturally thought that his work was now at an end, although the mystery unearthed in the Chief’s safe continued to disquiet him. But by the next day it was as if time had relegated that to the distant past. And the time distance created in imagination between past mystery and a Viktor now entering upon a new stage of existence, blunted interest in the former, regardless of his own obvious involvement. Better, he thought, not to know, yet still be alive – especially as it was now all over and done with.

And now it turned out that far from over and done with, it
was still going on, with him still working, still paying especial attention to underlinings in red.

Was it worth trying to discover
what
was going on? Worth risking comfort – curious though it might be – and peace of mind? He would still have to write
obelisks
, still have to be needed in order to stay alive.

Again the Chief’s parting shot came to mind.

To hell with it, Viktor decided. Easier all round not to give it a thought.

Picking up the long-completed batch of military
obelisks
from the window ledge, he ran through the names and what he had written.

What difference did it make to him what happened to these generals? Or for what date some unknown person had planned their deaths and subsequent obituaries, the latter suggestive of their richly deserving to die?

If then his life was that dependent on his work, let that work continue. In which case it might be best simply to distance himself from what was going on. Not do anything foolish, like trying to disappear or lose himself in some other city – but, more simply: realize Nina’s dream – buy a little house in the country, move and live happily there, all four of them together, he writing his obelisks and sending them off to the city, as one might to another land where not all was as it should be.

Out of which thoughts he was jolted by Misha laying his head upon his knee, and looking down at the penguin, he stroked him.

“How about a move to the country?” he asked Misha, smiling wrily at the apparent unreality of his dreams.

As if to confirm yesterday as indeed the end of his holiday, Viktor sat now at his typewriter, sipping hot coffee and contemplating the new
obelisk
laboriously taking shape. The other half of the kitchen table was occupied by Sonya with her pencils and felt-tipped pens, Nina having gone somewhere that morning, leaving no note. But he wasn’t worried – she wouldn’t be long.

In the folder of new material brought by courier the evening before, as well as files on a number of representatives of the Ministry of Health, he had found an envelope of
holiday pay
. At least, those were the words typed on the slip of paper accompanying the $500. Money which gave a little lift to his creative spirit. Even so, progress was terribly slow. Words refused to deploy in battle formation, sentences scattered, only to be slaughtered by irritable x’s and reformed.

“Is it like him?” Sonya asked suddenly, showing her drawing.

He looked closely. “What’s it supposed to be?”

“Misha!”

He shook his head.

“It looks,” he said thoughtfully, “more like a chicken.”

Sonya frowned, looked at the drawing, and threw it on the floor.

“No good being cross,” he coaxed. “Learn drawing from life is what you’ve got to do.”

“How?”

“Just sit down in front of Misha, look at him, and draw. That’ll make it like him.”

Pleased with this idea, she gathered up pencils and felt tips,
got a few more sheets of paper from Viktor, and set off in search of Misha.

Viktor went back to work. He managed, in the end, to get through the first
obelisk
, and having done so, massaged his temples. Clearly he was rusty.

A door banged.

Nina, he thought. The alarm clock on the window ledge showed just short of noon.

A minute later she looked into the kitchen.

“Hi!” She was all smiles.

His response was on the cold side.

“Notice anything?”

He looked. Same jeans, familiar sweater. No change.

He shrugged, looked at her, puzzled at first, then more closely.

“Well?” she urged, still smiling.

“Your teeth!” he exclaimed, astonished.

And it was – beautifully white, no trace of yellow. Hers was now the smile of the dentifrice advert.

He too smiled.

“At last!” She kissed him resoundingly on the cheek. “I had to wait a whole month. $400, and I could have had it done without waiting. I got it for $80 …”

Sonya came running in with a sheet of paper. “Nina, look! I’ve drawn Misha!”

She showed Nina, who squatted down, studied the drawing, and patted her on the back.

“Well done!” she said. “We’ll frame it and hang it on the wall.”

“Can we?” Sonya was delighted.

“Of course! So everyone can see it.”

Viktor also had a look. Her drawing had caught something of the penguin.

“Right!” said Nina standing up. “I think we all deserve a good lunch today, so clear the kitchen!”

Sonya took her drawing to the living room, and Viktor followed.

Nina was already behaving like the lady of the house, he thought, but he was not the least bit angry. On the contrary, he was even cheered by the thought.

The first drizzle of spring was falling. The snow in the courtyard had almost all melted, and only under bushes were doomed remnants of winter still to be seen in the shape of frozen lumps. Another few days and fresh green blades of grass would peep from the warm soil.

Viktor was sitting at the kitchen table, chair turned to the window, a cup of tea forgotten and growing cold beside him, staring down at the courtyard. He was looking forward to the warmth of spring. And although it was hardly likely to change his life, a certain vague, in no way justified feeling of hope brought a smile of pleasure to his face, as he saw the sunlight shafting through a light mix of bright and dark cloud.

The latest batch of
obelisks
lay ready in their folder on the table. He could ring the Chief and say the job was done, or he could wait another day, putting off work on the next batch for a bit.

Shifting his thoughts from the rain, he wondered who the
next lot of
obelisk
notables would be. Cosmonauts? Submariners?

He had become accustomed to the files he received bringing together people already linked by interests or professions -military, health officials, State Deputies – and it no longer struck him as strange. The notebook he had opened when he started had lain forgotten since the Chief had called a halt to personal initiative in the choice of notables. After that, Viktor had given up reading papers in search of VIPs. He now worked exclusively on semi-finished material, in the form of detailed files. This was both easier and more suspicious. The more he worked, the more his suspicions grew, until they became the absolute certainty that this whole
obelisk
business was part of a patently criminal operation. The realization of this in no way influenced his daily life and work. And although he could not help thinking about it, he found it easier to do so every day, having recognized the complete impossibility of ever changing his life. Harnessed as he was, it was a question of hauling his load until he dropped. So he hauled.

The sitting-room phone rang, and the next moment Nina poked her head round the kitchen door.

“For you, Vik.”

He went and picked up the receiver.

“That you, Vik?” an unknown man’s voice enquired.

“Yes.”

“It’s me, Lyosha, remember? Gave you a lift from the cemetery.”

“Ah, hello.”

“Something rather important. I’ll be outside your place in 20 minutes. Come down when you see me.”

“Who was that?” Nina asked, seeing Viktor standing perplexed, still holding the receiver.

“Someone I know.”

“Sonya and I are learning to read, aren’t we, Sonya?”

“Yes,” the little girl confirmed, sitting on the settee with a book.

Hearing a car draw up outside, Viktor put on his jacket and went down.

“Get in,” said Lyosha.

The door banged shut. It was cold in the car.

“How’s the animal?” Lyosha asked amiably, stroking his beard.

“All right.”

“It’s like this,” his face grew serious. “I’d like to invite you and said animal to a certain occasion … Not exactly a jolly one, but there’ll be money in it.”

“What sort of occasion?” Viktor asked drily, becoming interested.

“The boss of some friends of mine has died. Funeral’s tomorrow. A big affair, as you can imagine. Bronze-handled coffin -cost a packet. I’d told them about your penguin, and now they’ve remembered … You and he are invited.”

“What for?” Viktor stared amazed.

“How shall I put it …” hesitant drawing in of lower lip. “A touch of style’s called for … And to have a penguin there would supply it, they thought. With a vengeance. Naturally suited, isn’t he, being black and white? … Get the idea?”

He did, though it all seemed like a stupid joke.

“Are you serious?” he asked, looking sharply at Lyosha and meeting an expression that was gravity itself.

“I’d call $1,000 for hire of a penguin serious,” he replied, forcing a smile.