Penguin Lost (7 page)

For a moment there was the strange confused sensation of finding himself lowered, in special diving suit and protective submersible, into the past. And if he felt frightened, he had only to pull on an invisible air line leading up to reality and they would pull him up, remove his helmet, let him get his breath back and make up his mind whether he really did want to go down into the past.

They drew up right outside the block. It was not the first time Pasha had been here.

“I’ll wait by the transformer hut,” he said.

*

Holding his two keys but eyeing the bell, he hesitated. If he rang, Sonya or Nina would open, and though the place was his, let him in like a visitor.

So he both opened and rang. The first thing he saw was a saucer of milk for the cat that scratched.

Sonya, wearing a denim tunic dress embroidered with roses, looked out into the corridor.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“Alone?”

“No.”

He took his shoes off, looked into the sitting room, and was
brought up short by the unfamiliarity of pink wallpaper, green tapestry throws over the armchairs and couch, and a pink crochet-edged tablecloth. He raised the cloth a little and was relieved to see the old polished surface smiling up at him.

“Don’t you like it?” asked Sonya from the door.

“No.”

“Doesn’t like the improvements, Nina,” Sonya called, opening the door of the bedroom.

Nina, in towelling dressing gown, was sitting moist-eyed and miserable on a double bed where the single had been. Biting her lip, she nodded a response to his “Hello”.

“You’re like two cats!” Sonya said suddenly.

“Go and play with your cat,” said Viktor.

“She’s out.”

“Well, go anyway.”

She went, leaving the door wide open. Viktor pulled it to.

“How is it?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

“ ‘How is it?’ ” she repeated tearfully. Everything I’ve got together, all my happiness, destroyed in 30 minutes, trampled on!”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t pretend! You organized it. I know. People warned me, but like a fool I didn’t believe them.”

The cord fastening her dressing gown emphasized that she had put on weight. He had no wish to argue or talk, and seeing him suddenly sad and distant, Nina fell silent.

“No, I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have said that,” she said after a while. “But I was so frightened when they came yesterday. And as I said then, I accept – there’s nothing here I lay claim to or want.”

“All right, but could you make some tea.”

Nina went off to the kitchen, and he looked down from the window at the wasteland with its rubbish collection point and dovecotes.
Way over on the left he could just see a bit of the fence of the kindergarten where, as a little boy, he had buried his first hamster. It was cold. It would be another month before the heating came on and made its way laboriously up to the 4th floor. The door opened. He turned.

“Tea’s ready, Auntie Nina says.”

The kitchen, thank God, was unchanged, almost.

“Where’s Sergey?”

“Who?”

He nodded to where the urn with the ashes of his militiaman friend had stood.

“On the balcony. It was in the way.”

“Bring it back.”

She brought it in, wiped it clean with a dishcloth, placed it on the windowsill near the stove, then sat on the little stool once reserved for Misha’s food bowl.

“You should go through the flat, and anything of Kolya’s put into a bag,” Viktor said. “If it’s wrapped, leave it wrapped – it might be dangerous.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “I’d no idea.”

“Sonya will help – won’t you, Sonya?”

“Of course I will.”

“How about money?”

“Not a lot left,” said Nina nervously. “What with decorating, buying furniture, and the dacha …”

“Dacha?”

“At Osokorki on the Dnieper. You’ll like it.”

He said nothing, got up, and in so doing kicked against something made of glass. Looking under the table, he saw any number of empty champagne and vodka bottles.

“Get rid of them,” he snapped, making for the door. “I’ll ring
this evening.”

Before joining Pasha, he collected his bag from Old Tonya’s.

“Your tenant got carted off by the militia,” she said. “What had he been up to?”

“Militia? In uniform?”

“The special sort of militia. He was just on his way in when they swooped. They had him down flat on his face like on TV.”

“You saw the whole thing?”

“Not much I miss living up here right opposite. They’d turned up in two cars an hour earlier and waited. You could tell something was up.”

The evening was spent discussing Viktor’s plan with the image makers. Slava took to the whole thing immediately, but Zhora kept spinning things out, either because his professional pride was hurt at the idea’s not being his, or because something else was bothering him. But Andrey Pavlovich stood firm as a rock, and rather than risk overdoing it, Zhora finally capitulated, then proceeded to explain to Slava that morphing and printing would take longer than he thought. Andrey Pavlovich and Viktor could see his game, but kept their thoughts to themselves until, at nearly midnight, Zhora and the twins set off by taxi for a night club, leaving bespectacled Slava to strain his eyes further.

“Can you do it by morning?” Andrey Pavlovich asked, looking closely at the familiar portrait now scanned to screen.

“I can try,” he said dully.

“By, say, four or five?” Andrey Pavlovich asked, placing a $100
bill on the keyboard.

“Maybe sooner,” said Slava, pocketing the note.

“Let’s play billiards,” said Andrey Pavlovich, turning to Viktor. “You see,” he added when they were out of earshot, “the dollar, timely invested in technology, becomes the engine of progress!”

*

Their play was soon interrupted by Pasha’s gravely announcing that Potapych was on the phone and would like to speak to Andrey Pavlovich.

“We’re going to hear a tape,” said Andrey Pavlovich when he returned, and a few minutes later they were driving away on what proved quite a journey.

The streets being empty, and assuming a nil response to a Mercedes 4 × 4 proceeding at speed, Pasha drove accordingly – Artyoma Street, Frunze Street, then, somewhere beyond Spartak Stadium, off left into a private estate. They stopped in front of tall iron gates.

“Flash your lights,” said Andrey Pavlovich.

A light went on in the courtyard, the gates opened, and they drove in.

A man in camouflage fatigues conducted them into the house, where a robust sixty-year-old in jeans and dark blue sweater showed them into a mahogany-furnished lounge.

“Masha, lay the table,” he ordered, then turning to Viktor and Pasha, “you warriors can wait here, while we confer.”

Masha wheeled in a trolley of eats, Pasha helped lay the table, and a bottle of brandy, two of vodka and glasses were produced from the bar.

Ten minutes later Andrey Pavlovich returned grim-faced and weary, followed shortly after by their still-smiling host. Inviting them to table, he set about pouring cognac.

“Not for me till after the election,” said Andrey Pavlovich, and was given mineral water.

It was not exactly a cheerful occasion. Pasha looked questioningly at his master before accepting a second cognac. Viktor stuck at one, as did their host.

*

On the way back to Goloseyevo, Viktor fell asleep. Roused by Pasha on arrival, he got out, yawning, his one aim being to get back to sleep in his little attic room, only to be jollied into action by a “Make coffee all round”, from Andrey Pavlovich.

“No sleep for us tonight,” he declared, and went for a cold shower.

Pasha went up to the nursery to see how Slava was getting on, and returned with the news that he’d nearly finished. It was then 2.30 by the kitchen wall clock.

Andrey Pavlovich entered, now in a dressing gown, and carrying a radio cassette player.

“Right,” he said dryly, “I declare the present night sitting of the revolutionary committee to be in session. All got coffee?”

He switched on the tape recorder.

 … Incriminating
stuff’s what we’re after, really incriminating, OK?

Yeah, but how? With not one bloody computer and staff all doggily devoted?

Doggy devotion comes dearer, that’s all. You pick your man, bring him to the sauna, and we talk … “Is there anything about his nibs his opponent shouldn’t know?” isn’t a bad line to start with
. “To
beat your enemy, you must know his weapons.” – Lenin. And you’ve got just two more days, after which …

But …

But nothing, Zhora. That arsehole who doesn’t comb his hair, he’s the one to go for
.

“I’ll buy you a comb,” said Andrey Pavlovich, seeing Viktor’s look of concern.

No joy there – he’s dead from the neck up
.

Switching off, Andrey Pavlovich turned to his coffee.

“Nice turn of phrase they have, our image makers.”

“Bastards to a man!” cried Pasha, and receiving a quizzical look, modified it to, “Well, bloody swine, then!”

“Cost me an arm and a leg, that tape,” said Andrey Pavlovich, “but we’ll save on image management.”

He turned to Pasha.

“Ring Tolik to help lift that lot from the nightclub, deprive them of sleep and deliver at the Dump for me and Viktor to interview tomorrow. Search their kit, and bring in a good computer buff for tomorrow evening.”

Before setting off, Pasha splashed his face with cold water.

It was 8.00 before Viktor got to bed. He slept late, heavily and headachily at first, but towards midday he was on the Dnieper, alone, walking anxiously around a pool of unfrozen water edged with footprints, waiting vainly not just for Misha to surface but militiaman friend Sergey as well. As if to spite him, there were no fishermen, just the dark patches of their iced-over holes.

He woke, still tired, and surprised to hear not a sound. He remembered promising to ring Sonya and Nina, but his watch said it was time for a late lunch.

In the empty kitchen he helped himself to sausage, cheese and butter from the fridge, and made tea instead of coffee.

On the table in the lounge he found the new portrait of Andrey Pavlovich’s opponent.

read the glaring caption. Heartened, he toyed, as he ate, with ideas for Andrey Pavlovich’s campaign. The President’s lady ran an aid-the-children fund, which prompted thoughts of another possibility – not terribly original, but original was not what voters went for. What appealed was the instantly recognizable. Like charitable concern. That said more about the character of candidate or deputy than any political process or activity. “Charitable” hinted at a possibility of hand-outs, whether deserved or not.

Some proposal for Andrey Pavlovich was what he needed. He could then buy press space for it and win popularity.

His thoughts turned to Tatar Street, Café Afghan, and the young disabled – too young to have fought in Afghanistan – who gathered there. True he’d seen only three of them, Lyosha who had lost his legs here, in Kiev, being one. Still, to be disabled young was both bad and honourable enough to have public appeal.

Andrey Pavlovich returned shortly before five, clearly not having slept, but cheerful, unstressed, unyawning and back stiff as a ramrod. The image makers had given some account of themselves. Zhora and the twins ran a lottery swindle in Zhitomir; Slava, the computer buff, was a simple lad from Kursk. They had decided to cash in on the election, make a handsome profit on the side. Amongst their effects were a silenced automatic, cocaine, and a mobile phone capable of being used as a bug.

“What will you do with them?”

“Slava I’ve let go. The others will suffer. How I’ve yet to decide. We’ll go and visit tomorrow.”

Judging his moment, Viktor ventured a suggestion he had in
mind.

Andrey Pavlovich showed interest.

“How many disabled? What do limbs cost?”

“I’ll find out how many. Maybe Pasha could look into cost.”

Andrey Pavlovich nodded. Charitable concern – he was all in favour of. And instructing Pasha to wake him in two hours, went to put his head down.

In Central Universal Stores, Kreshchatik Street, he treated himself to a cheap Chinese umbrella against the drizzle. The cheerful bustle of the place provided a pleasant distraction from the little-relished prospect of visiting Lyosha at Café Afghan. He had a sudden urge to find Svetlana and go again to the kindergarten at night. But reality, or more accurately his sense of it, won the day, and opening his umbrella, he made for a pedestrian underpass, hitched a lift, and fifteen minutes later mounted the ramp to the café, which this time was busier.

“Fetch yourself a chair, so I don’t get neck-ache looking up,” Lyosha said. “Like a coffee?”

“I would.”

“Hey, Whiskers, how about my cappuccino?” a voice complained.

“On its way.”

Viktor’s idea was coldly received.

“I’ll ask around,” Lyosha said dully. “But what does he get out of us, this candidate of yours? Our vote?”

“No more than that there should be a journalist and a photographer there when the limbs are handed over, if it gets that far. So the electorate becomes aware.”

“Never thought
you
would worm yourself into politics.”

“Other way round. Trapped in a bog of them, and soon to get out.”

“Really?” Lyosha sounded doubtful. “Still, hang on, I’ll see what the boss man says. It’s a good thing he’s here.”

He returned five minutes later.

“In principle,” he said, “the boss man’s pro, but he’d like something from your man in return. Artificial limbs are like evening dress, not something we wear every day. Get us a low-level billiard table, and he can hand over as many artificial limbs as he likes, so long as we don’t have to wear the damned things.”

Viktor laughed.

“You could be on, he’s keen on billiards.”

“Try him, and let me know. Have this card – my number’s changed – and it’s got my mobile. Give me a ring. We’ll have to meet, with your boss and mine there. It’s not long to polling day. Like a cognac?