Death and the Penguin (3 page)

At
2.45
the district militiaman arrived, taking off his boots inside the door. His appearance belied his surname. He was a broad-shouldered, fair-haired, blue-eyed chap, almost a head taller than Viktor. If he had not been a militiaman, he would have been an asset to any volleyball team.

“Well, where is he?” he asked.

“Misha!” Viktor called, and emerging from his hidey-hole behind the dark-green settee, the penguin came and looked the militiaman up and down.

“This, Misha -” began Viktor, and turning to the officer, said, “Sorry, would you tell me your name?”

“Sergey.”

“Strange. You don’t look at all Jewish.”

“Nor am I,” smiled the militiaman. “Stepanenko’s my real name.”

With a shrug Viktor turned to the penguin again.

“Misha, this is Sergey. Sergey’s going to feed you while I’m away.”

He then showed Sergey what was where, and gave him the spare keys to the flat.

“All will be well,” said the militiaman as he left. “Don’t you worry.”

Kharkov was freezing, and the moment Viktor stepped from the train, he realized he wasn’t dressed warmly enough for strolling round the city.

From his hotel, The Kharkov, he rang the
Capital News
correspondent and they agreed to meet that evening in a café beneath the Opera.

When evening came, he set off on foot along Sumy Street to the Opera, face rimed with frost, hands numb in the pockets of his short sheepskin coat.

The buildings loomed grey over the pavement. Everyone was
in a hurry, as if afraid of finding their block on the verge of collapsing or shedding its balconies – both occurrences being no longer uncommon.

It was another five minutes to the sub-Opera labyrinth of bars, shops and cafés. There he had to locate a café with a stage and seating on two levels, and sit at the front of the upper level, looking towards the stage. And yes, order orange juice and a can of beer, the latter to be left unopened.

Although they had allowed half an hour – from 6.30 till 7.00 - for making contact, he hurried along, spurred on by the cold.

He would get something to eat there, he decided, something hot and meaty …

At the Opera he spotted the way down to civilization
sub terra
, away from darkness feebly illuminated by the windows of a nocturnal city, to a blaze of window displays.

On the upper steps two old women and a blurry-faced young drunk stood begging.

Through well-lit corridors he made his way to the café. Inside the glass door sat a man in the uniform of the Special Task Militia, who looked up from his book as Viktor entered.

“And where are
you
going?” he demanded, with only a trace of military insistence.

“To eat.”

Special Task Militia waved him on.

He walked the length of a bar at which customers of criminal aspect were drinking beer. The bald-headed barman smiled wryly, catching his eye, as if to say,
Just keep going, don’t look back
!

Drawn by bright lights ahead, Viktor quickened his step, and came upon a small stage in a semi-circle of little tables on two levels, one half a metre higher than the other.

He ordered orange juice and a can of beer at the bar.

“That all?” asked the plump, peroxide-blonde barmaid.

“Anything with meat?”

“Cured fish fillet, fried eggs …” came the monotone reply.

“All for the moment, then,” he said softly.

He paid and took himself to a table on the upper level, facing the stage. One sip of the orange juice made him hungrier than ever. Right, he decided, they would eat at the hotel where there was a restaurant. He consulted his watch: 6.20.

It was quiet. At the next table two Azerbaijanis were drinking beer in silence. Turning to take in the rest of the café, Viktor was momentarily blinded by a flash of light, and when he regained his sight, saw a man with a camera heading for the corridor. He turned to see who had been photographed, but apart from him and the Azerbaijanis, there was no one.

So it was them, he decided, sipping his watery orange.

Time passed. No more than a sip remained in his tall glass. He eyed the unopened can, toying with the idea of getting another, which he would open.

A girl appeared at his table wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Wound tightly about her head was a Rocker scarf, a chestnut ponytail trailing from the knot.

Sitting beside him, she quizzed him through her mascara.

“Waiting for me?” she smiled.

He struggled with embarrassment.

No, the correspondent was a man, was his first fevered thought. Though he might have sent her in his stead …

He looked to see if she had a carrier or briefcase such as might have contained the necessary papers, but she had nothing but a vanity bag, too small for even a bottle of beer.

“Well, love, how about it? Or haven’t you got time?” she asked, reasserting her presence, and the obvious dawned.

“Sorry,” said Viktor, “but you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not often,” she said sweetly, rising from the table. “But there’s always a first time.”

Relieved to be alone again, he took another look at the unopened can, then consulted his watch: 7.15. He should have appeared by now.

But the correspondent did not appear. At 7.30 Viktor drank the beer and left. He ate in the hotel, and returning to his room, again rang the correspondent, but got only long beeps, until he replaced the receiver.

The warmth of the room was relaxing and conducive to sleep. His eyes refused to stay open. He would try again in the morning. That decided, he lay on his bed and slept.

In Kiev it was drizzling again. District Militiaman Sergey Fischbein-Stepanenko let himself into Viktor’s flat. Removing his boots, he proceeded in knitted green socks to the kitchen, took a large piece of salmon from the freezer, and breaking it across his knee, put half in Misha’s bowl on the low, nursery bedside table.

“Misha!” he called, and listened.

Without waiting for a response, he looked into the living room, then into the bedroom, and there found Misha standing, sleepy or sad, between the settee and the wall.

“Grub up!” he cajoled. “Come on!”

Misha stared.

“Come on!” he pleaded. “Master back soon! Of course, you miss him! But come on.”

Slowly, followed attentively by Sergey, the penguin dragged himself to the kitchen. Sergey watched him to his bowl, saw him start eating, and returning, conscience clear, to the corridor, put boots and coat back on, and went forth into the Kiev drizzle.

Heaven send a day without call-outs, he thought, seeing the low, louring sky.

Woken next morning by a confusion of shots, Viktor yawned, got out of bed and looked at his watch: 8.00. He went over to the window. Parked below, were a militia jeep and an ambulance.

The sky, when he looked up, was blue, and from behind grey Stalin baroque a pale yellow sun had appeared, promising fine weather.

Seated at the telephone table, he dialled the correspondent.

“Who do you want?” a female voice enquired.

“Is Nikolay Aleksandrovich there?”

“Who’s calling?”

He sensed tension in the woman’s voice. “His paper … 
Capital News
 …”

“You are?”

It wasn’t right. With a trembling hand he replaced the receiver.

Coffee, must have coffee, he thought, dressing, splashing his
face with handfuls of cold water, and going down to the hotel bar where he ordered a large one.

“You sit. I’ll bring it,” said the barman.

Sitting on a broad soft velour pouffe at a glass-topped table in a corner of the bar, he reached for the heavy glass ashtray, also of cast glass, and twisted it thoughtfully this way and that. The bar was quiet. The barman came with his coffee.

“Anything else?”

He shook his head, then looking squarely at the barman asked, “What was that shooting this morning?”

The barman shrugged.

“Some foreign-currency whore got murdered … Must have got up someone’s nose.”

The coffee, though bitter, proved immediately restorative. His fingers stopped trembling, the throbbing in his head eased. Calm once more, he took stock.

It wasn’t the end of the world, he found himself thinking, and with an assurance dismissive of any doubt. That was life. As per usual. Just a question of calling the Chief and asking what to do.

When he had finished his coffee and paid, he went to his room and rang Kiev.

“You’ve got your return ticket for today,” the Chief said calmly. “So back you come. Carry on with Kiev. The provinces can hang fire for a bit.”

Taking his seat on the night train, Viktor opened the
Evening Kharkov
he had bought at the station. As he turned the pages, he came to a
Criminal Chronicle setting forth, in small print, all the most recent crimes, and under Murders
, read:

With a sick feeling, he lowered the paper to his knees. The train gave a sudden jolt and the paper slid to the floor.

On the way up to his flat the next morning, Viktor met the district militiaman.

“Good day to you!” said Sergey Fischbein-Stepanenko gaily. “You’re looking a bit pale, though.”

“How is he?” asked Viktor anxiously.

“In fine shape!” said the militiaman with a smile. “Missing his master, of course. And your freezer’s out of fish.”

“I can’t thank you enough.” His attempt at a grateful smile produced a sickly sour grimace. “I’m in your debt. How about raising a glass together some time?”

“Wouldn’t say no,” confirmed the militiaman. “Just ring -you’ve got my number. And if you need me again, don’t hesitate! I love animals. Real ones, I mean, not the sort I deal with every day …”

Misha, standing in the corridor, was delighted to see Viktor come in and turn on the light.

“Hello, old fellow.” Viktor squatted and looked at him.

He seemed to be smiling.

And as he took a lumbering step towards his master, he had a happy twinkle in his eye.

At least someone in this world’s glad to see me, thought Viktor.

Straightening up, he removed his jacket and went through to the living room, Misha plip-plopping behind him.

Next morning Viktor lay in bed with a headache and no inclination to get up.

The alarm clock showed 9.30.

Heaving himself over onto his other side, he became aware of Misha standing by his bed.

“Oh God!” he muttered, swinging his feet to the floor, “I’ve not fed him since yesterday!”

And in spite of his splitting head and buzzing temples, he washed and dressed.

The frosty air perked him up a little. Winter seemed to have followed him from Kharkov.

Must phone the Chief, he decided as he walked, say I’m unwell … Get the papers, and maybe do a bit of work …

At the fish counter of the food store he purchased two kilos of frozen plaice; then, after a moment’s hesitation, a kilo of live fish.

Back at his flat he ran a bath of cold water, released the three silver carp, and called Misha. Misha took one look at the fish swimming in the bath, turned away, and plip-plopped back to his room. Viktor shrugged. He was at a loss.

The doorbell rang.

Espying Misha-non-penguin through the peephole, he let him in.

“Hi,” said Misha. “Got a couple of obituary orders for you. You all right?”

Viktor gestured vaguely.

They went through to the kitchen, just as the penguin came plip-plopping that way.

“Hi, namesake!” grinned the visitor, then, looking at Viktor, asked, “Why so gloomy? You off colour or something?”

“Yes. Everything’s bloody …”

He felt like having a moan, although something inside him protested that he shouldn’t.

“Here I am, writing and writing, but nobody sees what I write,” he declared, more in anger than in a bid for sympathy. “Two hundred pages to date. And all for nothing.”

“What do you mean
for nothing
?” interrupted Misha-non-penguin. “You – like so many in the good old Soviet days – are writing
for the drawer
. With the difference that you, sooner or later,
are
going to be published … 
That
I guarantee.”

Unsmiling and unrelenting, Viktor acknowledged as much with a nod.

“Who do you reckon you’ve done best by?” Misha-non-penguin asked amiably.

“Yakornitsky,” said Viktor, recalling their lengthy, Finnish-vodka-assisted table talk.

“The author-State-Deputy?”

“That’s him.”

“Right,” said Misha. “And here’s something of interest for you. Have a look at that lot.”

Viktor glanced at the several pages: names he was unfamiliar with, biographical details, dates. Not what he felt like immersing himself in just then. With a nod of thanks he laid them aside.

“Ring when you’re ready,” Misha-non-penguin said, handing him his card.

The first snow was falling. Viktor was reading, over coffee, what Misha-non-penguin had brought a couple of days before: files on the Deputy Head of the Taxation Service and the
Manageress
of The
Carpathians
. The lives of this pair were garish enough to make quite exceptional
obelisks
. With characters like them – anti-heroes of the first water – a thriller would write itself! Except that novel-writing called for unlimited free time, which Viktor didn’t have. True, what he did have now was money, Penguin Misha, and three silver carp in the bathroom. But was he to regard all that as compensation for an unwritten novel?

Reminded of the carp, he fetched a piece of bread and went to the bathroom to feed them.

He had just crumbled the bread, when he heard breathing beside him. He turned and saw Misha gazing dolefully at the fish in the bath.

“Don’t care for freshwater fish, is that it?” he asked. “But of course!” he continued, supplying his own answer. “We creatures of Antarctic and of ocean …”

Going to the phone, he rang the militiaman and invited him to a fish supper.