Death and the Penguin (2 page)

“What about payment?”

“You’d start at $300. Hours up to you. But keeping me informed, of course, who we’ve got carded. So we don’t get caught with our pants down by some car crash out of the blue! Oh, and one other condition: you’ll need a pseudonym. In your own interest as much as anything.”

“But what?” said Viktor, half to himself.

“Think of one. But if you can’t, make it
A Group of Friends
for the time being.”

Viktor nodded.

Before bed, he drank tea, and gave not over-serious thought to the subject of death. His mood was of the best, a mood more for vodka than tea. Except that there wasn’t any vodka.

What an offer! And though still in the dark concerning his new duties, he had a foretaste of something new and unusual. But
roaming the dark corridor, banging every so often against the closed kitchen door, was Misha the penguin. Overcome at last with a feeling of guilt, Viktor let him in. Misha paused at the table, using his almost one metre of height to see what was on it. He looked at the cup of tea, then shifting his gaze to Viktor, considered him with the heartfelt sincerity of a worldly-wise Party functionary. Thinking he would like to give Misha a treat, Viktor went and turned on the cold tap in the bathroom. At the sound of running water Misha came plip-plopping and, without waiting for the bath to fill, leaned over and tumbled in.

The next morning, Viktor looked in at
Capital News
for some practical tips from the Editor-in-Chief.

“How,” he asked, “do we select our notables?”

“Nothing easier! See who the papers write about and take your pick. Not all our country’s notables are known to it, you see. Many prefer it like that …”

That evening Viktor bought all the papers, went home and settled down at the kitchen table.

The very first he looked at gave him food for thought, and the VIP names he underlined he then copied into a notebook
for
action. He would not be short of work – there were 60 or so names from the first few papers alone!

Then tea, and fresh thought, this time concerning the
obe
lisk proper. Already he thought he saw how it might be
vitalized
, and at the same time, sentimentalized, so that even the simple collective farmer, never having known the late whoever-it-was he was reading about, would brush away a tear. By next morning Viktor had earmarked a possible first
obelisk
. It only remained to get the Chief’s blessing.

At 9.30 next morning, having got the Chief’s blessing, drunk coffee, and been solemnly presented with his Press card, Viktor bought a bottle of
Finlandia
at a kiosk, and set off for the office of sometime author, now State Duma Deputy, Aleksandr Yakornitsky.

Hearing that a correspondent of
Capital News
wished to see him, the State Deputy was delighted, and immediately told his secretary to cancel all his remaining appointments and admit no one else.

Comfortably ensconced, Viktor put on the table the bottle of Finnish vodka and a dictaphone. Equally promptly, the State Deputy produced two small crystal glasses, placing one either side of the bottle.

He talked freely, without waiting for questions – of his work, his childhood, his time as Komsomol organizer of his university year. As they finished the bottle, he was boasting of his trips to Chernobyl. These, it appeared, had the added bonus of enhancing his potency – as, in case of any doubt, his private-school teacher wife and National Opera diva mistress would testify.

Taking leave of each other, they embraced. Viktor was left with the impression of an author-State-Deputy of great and, for obituary purposes, perhaps undue, vitality. But that was it! Inasmuch as the departed had lately been alive, an obituary should retain their passing warmth – not be all hopeless gloom!

Back at his flat, Viktor wrote the obituary, swiftly
obelisking
the State Deputy in a warm, two-page account of the vital and the sinful, and without recourse to the dictaphone, so fresh was his memory.

“Wonderful job!” Igor Lvovich enthused the next morning.
“Provided singer’s hubby keeps his mouth shut … 
Many women may be mourning him today, but with them in mind, it is to his wife that we shall extend our sympathy; and to one other lady, whose voice, heard by all soaring to the dome of the National Opera, was
for
him
. Beautiful! Keep it up! On with the good work!”

“Igor Lvovich,” began Viktor, growing bolder, “I’m a bit short on facts, and to go interviewing everyone will take time. Have we no carded information?”

The Chief smiled.

“Of course, I was going to suggest it – in
Crime
. I’ll tell Fyodor to give you access.”

As he attuned himself to the task, Viktor’s life regulated itself accordingly. He applied himself with a vengeance … Fyodor from Crime proved a godsend, sharing all that he had, which was plenty – from VIPs’ lovers, male and female, to VIPs’ lapses from virtue and other life events. In short, from him Viktor gleaned precisely those extra-CV details which, like fine Indian spices, transform an
obelisk
of sad, established fact into a gourmet dish. And each new batch he put regularly before the Chief.

Everything in the garden was lovely. He had money in his pocket – not a lot, but more than enough for his modest requirements. His one occasional anxiety was his lack of recognition, even under a pseudonym, so tenacious of life were his
obelisked
notables. Out of more than 100 written-up VIPs, not only had none of them died, but not one had so much as fallen ill. Such
reflections, however, did not affect the rhythm of his work. Assiduously he leafed through the papers, noting names, worming his way into lives.
Our country must know
who
its notables are
, he kept telling himself.

One rainy November evening, when Misha the penguin was taking a cold bath and Viktor was pondering his subjects’ tenacity of life, the phone rang.

“I was put on to you by Igor Lvovich,” wheezed a man’s voice. “Something I’d like a word about.”

At the name of the Editor-in-Chief, Viktor said he would be glad to see him, and half an hour later was welcoming a smartly dressed man of about 45. He had brought a bottle of whisky, and they sat down straight away at the kitchen table.

“I’m Misha,” he said, to the amused embarrassment of Viktor.

“Sorry,” he explained, “but so’s my penguin.”

“I’ve got an old friend who’s seriously ill,” began the visitor. “Same age as me. Known each other since we were kids. Sergey Chekalin. I’d like to order an obituary … Will you do it?”

“Of course,” said Viktor. “But I’ll need some facts, preferably personal ones.”

“No problem,” said Misha. “I know all there is to know and can tell you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Son of a fitter and a nursery governess. His dream, as a child, was to have a motorbike, and when he left school, he bought himself a Minsk, though it meant a bit of thieving to do so … Deeply ashamed now of his past. Not that his present’s any better. We’re colleagues, he and I. We set up and we wind up trusts. I’m good at it, he isn’t. Wife left him recently. Been alone since. Not even had a lover.”

“Wife’s name?”

“Lena … All in all, he’s had a rough time of it. Healthwise, too.”

“In what way?”

“Suspected stomach cancer, chronic prostate.”

“What did he most want out of life?”

“What he’ll never have, now: a silver
Lincoln
.”

The effect of their cocktail of words and whisky was to render Sergey Chekalin – failure, deserted by wife, ailing, alone and in poor health, dreaming the unrealizable dream of a silver
Lincoln
– a real presence at the table with them.

“When do I come for it?” asked Misha finally.

“Tomorrow, if you like.”

He left, and hearing a car start, Viktor looked out and saw a long, pretentious silver
Lincoln
draw away.

He fed Misha freshly frozen plaice, topped up his bath, then returned to the kitchen and set to work on the obituary order. Through the tiny window between bathroom and kitchen he could hear splashing, and as he drafted the obelisk, he smiled, thinking of his penguin’s love of clean, cold water.

Autumn, season of dying nature, of melancholy, of seeking the past, was best for writing obituaries. Winter, joyous in itself -bracing frost, snow sparkling in the sun – was good for living. But till winter came, there were still a few weeks in which to accumulate an
obelisk
surplus for the coming year. There was a lot to do.

When Misha-non-penguin came it was raining again. He read his order, was delighted, and producing his wallet, asked “How much?”

Accustomed so far to monthly payment, Viktor shrugged.

“Look,” said Misha, “work well done should be work well paid.”

Unable to disagree, Viktor nodded.

Misha thought for a bit.

“Double at least what the priciest whore charges … $500 do you?”

Liking the amount, if not the basis of calculation, Viktor nodded, and was handed five $100 bills.

“Can send more clients, if you like,” said Misha.

Viktor was all for it.

Misha-non-penguin left. The grey, rainy morning dragged on. The door opened, and there stood Penguin Misha. After a moment he came over and snuggled against his master’s knee. Dear creature, thought Viktor, stroking him.

Sleeping lightly that night, Viktor heard an insomniac Misha roaming the flat, leaving doors open, occasionally stopping and heaving a deep sigh, like an old man weary of both life and himself.

Next morning Igor Lvovich rang asking him to call in.

Over coffee they discussed the
obelisk
index. On the whole, the Chief was happy.

“One drawback,” he said, “is that our future departed all come from Kiev. Being the capital, it does, of course, vacuum up all the more or less notable, but other cities have their quota too.”

Viktor listened attentively, now and then nodding.

“We have our own correspondents everywhere, collecting the necessary info,” the Chief went on. “It’s merely a question of gathering it in. The post’s dodgy. Even fax isn’t entirely reliable. So what I’d like is for you to come in on it.”

“Doing what?”

“Visiting a city or two and collecting. Kharkov, for a start, then, if you wouldn’t mind, Odessa. At our expense, naturally …”

“I’d be glad to.”

Again it was drizzling. On his way home, he dropped into a café, and to get warm, ordered cognac and a large coffee.

The café was empty and quiet – an ambience suitable for dreaming or, conversely, for recalling the past.

He sipped his cognac, his nose prickled by the familiar bouquet, happy in the enjoyment of a drop of the real stuff.

This agreeable café interlude, this stop-off between past and future, over cognac and coffee, induced a mood of romance. No longer did he feel lonely or unhappy. He was a valued customer, satisfying a modest demand for inner warmth. A glass of good cognac and already a flow of warmth in contrary directions: up into his head, down into his legs, and a slowing of thought processes.

He had dreamt once of writing novels, but had not achieved so much as a novella, in spite of all the unfinished manuscripts lying around in folders. But unfinished they were fated to remain, he having been unlucky with his muses, they, for some reason, having never tarried long enough in his two-room flat to see him
through a short story. Hence his literary failure. They had been amazingly fickle, his muses. Or he had been at fault for picking such unreliable ones. But now, alone with his penguin, here he was, churning out little pieces regardless, and getting well paid.

Warm at last, he left the café. It was still drizzling. Still a grey, wet day.

Before returning to his flat, he dropped into a shop and bought a kilo of frozen salmon – for Misha.

A problem to solve before Kharkov was who to leave Misha with. The odds were that he would happily put up with three days alone, but Viktor was uneasy. Having no friends, he ran through everyone he knew, but they were all people he had little in common with and wasn’t keen to approach. Scratching his head, he went over to the window.

It was drizzling. By the entrance, a militiaman was chatting with an old lady from the block. Remembering the joke about the militiaman and the penguin, he smiled, then went over to the phone on the bedside table and looked up the number of the district militiaman.

“Junior Lieutenant Fischbein,” came a clipped male voice at the other end of the line.

“Sorry to trouble you,” said Viktor hesitantly, searching for words. “There’s something I’d like to ask … Being resident in your district …”

“Trouble?” interrupted the officer.

“No. And don’t, please, think I’m trying to be funny. The fact is, I’m going away for three days in connection with work, and I’ve no one to leave my penguin with.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” replied the officer in a calm, steady voice, “but living with Mother in a hostel, I’ve nowhere to keep him …”

“You’ve got me wrong,” said Viktor, growing flustered. “What I wondered was whether you could just pop in a couple of times and feed him … I’d leave you the keys.”

“I could. Name and address, and I’ll come round. Will you be in about three?”

“Yes.”

He sank into his armchair.

Here, on the broad arm beside him, was where, just over a year ago, petite blonde Olya, of attractive little snub nose and perpetually reproachful expression, was wont to perch. Sometimes she would rest her head on his shoulder and fall asleep, plunging into dreams in which he, very likely, had no place. Only in reality was he allowed to be present. Though even there, he rarely felt needed. Silent and thoughtful – that was her. What, since her pushing off without a word, had altered? Standing beside him now was Misha the penguin. He was silent, but was he thoughtful too? What did being thoughtful amount to? Just a word describing the way one looked, perhaps?

He leant forward, searching the penguin’s tiny eyes for signs of thoughtfulness, but saw only sadness.