Death and the Penguin (19 page)

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked, happily drunk. “Must get your sleep. What if we have got to shoot off to the cemetery again tomorrow?”

A week had now passed with Viktor hammering away at his typewriter and rejoicing in spring and sunshine. And life seemed easy and carefree, despite painful moments and less frequent scruples over his own part in an ugly business. But what, in an ugly world, was ugly? No more than a tiny part of an unknown evil existing generally, but not personally touching him and his Iittle world. And not to be fully aware of his part in that ugly something was clearly a guarantee of the indestructibility of his world, and of its tranquillity.

Turning again to the window, he let the sun fall on his face.

Maybe he really should buy a little dacha, sit in summer at
a table in the garden, writing in the fresh air. With Sonya, who would like growing things, pottering in flower beds and vegetable plots, and Nina content …

He thought back to their New Year dacha, to Sergey, and how they had sat before the fire. How long ago that had been! How long, though not much time had passed since then!

On Sunday the sun continued to shine, and although in the morning there had been a thin haze of cloud, by eleven it had dispersed, revealing a sky of springtime blue.

After breakfast Viktor, Nina and Sonya set off for Kreshchatik Street, leaving Misha on the balcony with a bowl of lunch, and the door ajar so that he could, if he wished, go back inside.

He took them first to
Café Passazh
, where they sat on the terrace. For Sonya and Nina he ordered ice-cream, and coffee for himself.

Sonya having chosen to sit facing the sun, now screwed up her eyes, shielding them with the palm of her hand, playing peekaboo, watched by a smiling Nina.

Sipping his coffee, Viktor spotted an open newspaper kiosk, and saying he wouldn’t be a minute, left the table.

Returning with
Capital News
, he quickly ran an eye over the headlines and finding, to his joy, neither menace nor a single obelisk, went calmly back to page one, taking another sip of coffee.

Remarkable that on so fine a spring day the news should seem so amazingly peaceful. No shooting, no scandals. Quite the reverse, as if the paper was commanding its readers to be happy with life, with headlines inspiring gladness and hope.

“Would you like to go to Italy, Sonya?” he asked jokingly.

Licking the little plastic spoon, she shook her head.

“No – I want to go on a swing,” she said.

Nina wiped the ice-cream from Sonya’s mouth with a napkin.

As they walked through the park above the Dnieper, they came to a play area, sat Sonya on a swing and swung her, laughing, high above the ground.

“No more! No more!” she cried after a few minutes.

And again they walked through the park, Sonya between them, holding their hands.

“I was thinking, Nina,” he said as they walked, “we could buy a dacha.”

She smiled and became thoughtful.

“That’d be nice,” she said a minute later, having evidently pictured the dacha she would like.

At lunch-time they went back to the flat and ate there.

Sonya joined Misha on the balcony. Nina and Viktor sat in front of the TV.

A Ukrainian version of
Cine-Travelogue
Club was on. A pretty blonde in a bright yellow bathing costume stood on the deck of a motor vessel, telling of exotic islands, then appeared on the beach of just such an island, exchanging smiles with sun-bronzed natives. Every so often captions ran across the bottom of the screen, with the telephone numbers of travel agents.

“Why were you asking Sonya about Italy?” she asked with sudden interest.

“They’ve done away with the visa requirement.”

“Could we go one day?” she asked dreamily.

The pretty blonde was back again, now dressed more warmly in tight knitted skirt and dark-blue jacket.

For the past year
, she announced, a Ukrainian scientific research station has been operating in the Antarctic. In an earlier programme we appealed for contributions towards sending our scientists a planeload of supplies. Many of you have responded, but unfortunately more is still needed than the amount so
far
received. I appeal to private entrepreneurs and others with funds – on you depends whether our scientists will be able to continue their work in the Antarctic. Have pencil and paper ready for the account number to which sponsor donations can be made, and a telephone number on which you can hear details
of what
your money will be spent on.

Darting to the kitchen, Viktor seized a pen and a sheet of paper, and returned in time to write down the numbers from the screen.

“What’s that for?” Nina asked in surprise.

He shrugged. “Thought I might send them $20,” he said uncertainly. “In memory of Pidpaly. I told you about him, remember? I’ve got a cutting about the station somewhere.”

Nina shot him a look of disapproval.

“Waste of money,” she said. “It’ll only get stolen. Remember how they collected for a hospital for the Chernobyl children?”

Viktor said nothing, folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

What business was it of hers where he sent his money?

Towards the end of March rain set in.

With the disappearance of the sun Viktor’s spirits slumped. He worked away at his typewriter as before, but painfully slowly and with little inspiration. Even so,
obelisk
quality remained unimpaired, and reading over what he had written, he was invariably satisfied. No longer was his professionalism dependent on his mood.

Nina and Sonya kept to the flat for days on end.

Sometimes, when Nina went to the shops, Sonya, evidently weary of Misha’s company, came into the kitchen to distract Viktor. With great forbearance he answered her questions, breathing a sigh of relief when he heard Nina return. Sonya then ran to her and he got back to work.

When Lyosha rang to say there was a funeral the next day, his spirits hit rock bottom. He spent ten minutes attempting to convey that it was too raw, too wet, that he was feeling low, as well as worried lest Misha catch a chill. Lyosha heard him out, then said that he, Viktor, was not all that essential. The animal was the main requirement. “You stay at home,” he said finally, “I’ll take Misha and bring him back afterwards. I’ll keep an umbrella over him at the cemetery, so he doesn’t catch cold.”

A solution, a partial victory, Viktor decided, glad to give the funeral a miss.

And while he felt sorry for Misha there was nothing he could do about it. The possible consequences of a sudden refusal to release him for graveside attendance were all too obvious.

Viktor’s firmness paid off handsomely. The next time Lyosha
did not expect him to participate. It was agreed that in future Lyosha would collect Misha and bring him back, and surprisingly this change of arrangement was not reflected in the amount of his honorarium. Each time it was the same $1,000, only now more easily come by, without any standing at gravesides or obligatory wakes. Misha was now earning on his own account, and the whole thing savoured of penguin hire.

Viktor was irked, of course, to think what Misha received for a single appearance, against his wage of $300. And though both lots of money came to him, the underlying inequality remained. There was nothing for it but to bow yet again to the inevitable. None of which in any way affected his attachment to Misha.

Ought he, he wondered, to ask the Chief for a rise, but immediately he sensed it wouldn’t be worth the effort. He was, after all, fairly relaxed in his work. No one breathed down his neck or chased him for his
obelisks
. He was his own master. Batch completed, he rang up and swapped it with the courier for another. He had money enough, and so no cause for complaint.

No, all was as it should be, and God grant it stayed that way. And when the rainy spell was over, he could start looking for a dacha!

And as he visualized a little house surrounded by a garden, a hammock stretched between two sturdy trees, and himself kindling a fire for kebabs, his mood brightened.

All would be well, said the persuasive voice of his imagination, all beauty and bright sun.

And Viktor believed it.

But the rain and the task of
obelisk
-writing continued. And funerals involving Misha became more frequent, regardless of the rain, as if there had been a rise in the death-rate among those
whose friends and relatives could not imagine a funeral without a penguin.

The day after one such funeral, as Viktor was studying a fresh batch of files, Sonya dashed in in great alarm.

“Uncle Vik, Misha’s sneezing!”

Viktor went to the bedroom, and for the first time ever saw
Misha lying on his side
on his camel-hair blanket, trembling and wheezing.

Viktor stood paralysed with fear, at a loss what to do.

“Nina!” he shouted.

“She’s at Sergey’s mum’s,” said Sonya.

“Hold on, Misha, hold on,” he said in a voice charged with emotion, gently stroking him. “We’ll think of something.”

Going to the living room, he turned, not very hopefully, to V in the telephone book, and to his amazement found no fewer than ten vets listed. But what experience would any of them have of treating penguins? Dogs and cats would be more in their line.

In spite of these doubts, he rang the first number.

“Is Nikolay Ivanovich there?” he asked the woman who answered, having checked he had got his names right.

“Hold on.”

“Yes?” came a man’s voice almost immediately.

“Sorry, but I’ve got a problem – my penguin’s ill.”

“
Penguin
?” the voice repeated, and Viktor knew at once that he had got the wrong man. “Not my province, but I can tell you who to ring.”

“You can?” He sighed with relief. “I’ll get a pen.”

Viktor wrote the number – that of one David Yanovich – on the directory, and dialled without replacing the receiver.

“Well,” said David Yanovich, when he had heard him out,
“if you’ve got that sort of animal, you’ll have the money for treatment. Address?”

“Is the vet coming?” asked Sonya, as Viktor came back and sat down beside Misha on the floor.

“Yes.”

“Like Dr Dolittle?” she asked sadly.

He nodded.

Half an hour later David Yanovich arrived: short, rather bald, with a frozen smile and kind eyes.

“Where’s the patient then?” he asked, coming in and removing his shoes.

“In there.” Viktor indicated the door. “Like some slippers?”

“No thanks.” He quickly hung his mack on the hook, and briefcase in hand, made for the door, his socks leaving moist prints on the linoleum.

“Now then,” he said, squatting down beside Misha.

He felt Misha all over, peered into his eyes, then, producing a stethoscope, sounded him front and back, like a normal doctor. Returning the stethoscope to his briefcase, he gazed at him deep in thought.

“Well?”

David Yanovich scratched the back of his neck, and sighed. “Hard to say, but clearly not good. It all depends, I’m afraid, on how you’re placed financially. It’s not my fee I’m talking about. There’s not much I can do. He needs to go to a clinic.”

“And what will that cost?” Viktor asked cautiously.

David Yanovich gestured helplessly. “It won’t be cheap – that’s for sure. If you take my advice, the Theophania Clinic’s the place – $50 a day, but with the guarantee that they’ll do everything possible. There’s a hospital for scientists nearby, and their clinic
rents time on their x-ray – an added guarantee of correct diagnosis. And quite a few good doctors from the hospital earn a bit on the side working at the clinic.”

“Ordinary doctors?” Viktor asked in surprise.

David Yanovich shrugged. “Why not? You don’t imagine animals are any different internally, do you? Their illnesses, yes. So I’ll ring the Theophania from here if you like, and get a car sent.”

“Please do.”

Pocketing a mere $20 for attending, David Yanovich departed. An hour later another vet arrived who also examined Misha, sounding and feeling him all over.

“Right,” he said, “we’ll take him. And don’t worry, you won’t be conned. Three days diagnosis, and we’ll know. If we can cure him, we will, if not …” He shruggged. “We’ll bring him back, so as not to waste your money. Here,” he handed Viktor a card. “Not mine, Ilya Semyonovich’s – he’ll be treating your pet.”

The vet departed, leaving his card and taking Misha.

Sonya cried. The rain rained on. An unfinished
obelisk
protruded from the typewriter, but Viktor didn’t feel like work. Legs against the hot radiator, he stood at the bedroom window, tears welling, as if in chain reaction to Sonya’s, and through his tears, watched raindrops doing their best to cling to the glass. The wind set them quivering and away they shot finally, only to be replaced by fresh drops, and continue the senseless battle with the wind.

That night Viktor was unable to sleep. He could hear Sonya sobbing in the sitting room. The phosphorescent hands of the alarm clock showed that it was getting on for two. Only Nina was asleep, breathing heavily.

Naturally, she had been distressed at the news when she got back from Sergey’s mother’s. She had worn herself out vainly trying to comfort Sonya, and fallen asleep as soon as her head had touched the pillow.

Viktor felt strangely irritated that she should be sleeping peacefully. For an instant Nina seemed completely alien, utterly indifferent to him and Sonya, while Sonya seemed closer, and the two of them the more akin for their shared concern for Misha.

Looking at her, lying there with her back to him, he realized that it wasn’t her sleeping peacefully that had caused his momentary irritation, but more his own peace-denying wakefulness.

Endeavouring not to wake her, he got up, put on his dressing-gown, went to the sitting room, and bent over Sonya.

She was sleeping, but uneasily, and still sobbing.