Death and the Penguin (8 page)

Viktor had already bought Sonya’s New Year present and hidden it in a cupboard. It was a Barbie doll. Together they selected a little fir tree with a base, took it back to the flat and decorated it with ribbons and old toys found in the attic.

“Do you believe in Grandfather Frost?” he asked once.

“Yes,” she said in surprise, “don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Viktor.

“Wait for New Year – he’s bound to bring you something,” she promised.

Leaving Sonya at the flat, Viktor shopped at the food store, and travelled out to Pidpaly’s.

Again it was a blue-tracksuited Pidpaly who came to the door, and he was barefoot.

“All for me?” he asked, delightedly examining Viktor’s edible gifts. “You really shouldn’t have.”

At the bottom of the bag, under all the purchases, was the penguinologist’s file, which Viktor handed back with thanks.

“Any use to you?”

“A great help.”

“Sit down. I’ll make some tea,” said Pidpaly, bustling about.

It turned out to be green. Pidpaly passed it to him in a bowl, setting down a little box of chipped sugar of heaven alone knew what provenance, such as Viktor had seen only in old films.

Snapping off a piece, he washed it down with the tea, and took a sly look at the little box.

“Doesn’t spoil, you see,” said Pidpaly, following the direction of his gaze. “Ages back I bought three loaves, and I’ve still got some … Time was, there was more shape, more taste to things. Remember Capital Meat Loaf?”

Viktor shook his head.

“Missed out on the time of abundance, you have,” said the old man regretfully. “Every century there’s five years of abundance, after which everything goes to pot … You won’t see the next five, I’m afraid – I certainly won’t. But I did at least come in for one lot. How’s the penguin?”

“Fine,” said Viktor. “You remember you mentioned penguin psychology.”

“I do indeed.”

“Just how much do they understand?”

“They’re quick to distinguish mood – in people and other animals, of course. Apart from that, they’re very unforgiving. They’ve also a good memory for anything good. But their psychology, you understand, is far more complex than, say, a dog or a cat’s. They’re more intelligent, more secretive; capable of concealing feelings and affections.”

Having drunk his tea, Viktor jotted down his telephone number on a piece of paper.

“If you want anything, ring,” he said, handing it to the penguinologist.

“Thank you, thank you. And you ring, too, and come and see me.”

As the old man got up, Viktor again noticed that his feet were bare.

“Won’t you catch cold?” he asked.

“No,” Pidpaly assured him. “I do yoga. I’ve a book with photographs – all Indian yogis go barefoot.”

“Only because India has no winter, and shoes are expensive,” Viktor said, letting himself out. “Goodbye.”

“Happy New Year!” called Pidpaly after his departing visitor.

Waking very early a few days before New Year, Viktor noticed three large brightly wrapped parcels under the tree in the living room. He looked in at Sonya. She was still asleep.

Who had put them there? Sonya or Grandfather Frost?

He washed, went to the kitchen, and there on the table was an envelope.

This, on top of an uneasy night’s sleep, was the limit.

He remembered dreaming he had been hiding from someone at dead of night in a strange flat, listening tensely to a silence occasionally broken by faint footsteps and the squeaking of doors. The envelope was sealed. He cut off one end with scissors, and clearly written in block-capitals, read:

Viktor looked around, bewildered, as if expecting to see who had brought it.

He went and tried the door. It was, as usual, double-locked on the inside.

Shrugging, he returned to the kitchen. What had occurred was as inexplicable as it was blatant, and left him totally perplexed. His locks no longer protected him, whether sleeping or awake, and in case of danger would be useless.

He was not so much alarmed as amazed.

Outside, cottony snow was gliding down at an angle to the wind.

When Sonya woke, she was delighted to find presents under the tree.

“You see!” she said. “Grandfather Frost! He could come again.”

Viktor gave a knowing smile.

After breakfast Sonya wanted to open her presents, but he stopped her.

“Mine’s there too,” he said, squatting down in front of her, “but it’s only the 29th! Two more days to go!”

Reluctantly she agreed to wait.

While Sonya busied herself telling Misha a fairy story in the bedroom, Viktor made coffee, then sat, cup in hand, at the table facing the window.

The year that was ending had brought much that was strange into his life. And it was ending strangely, engendering mixed feelings and thoughts. Loneliness had given way to a kind of semi-loneliness, a kind of semi-dependence. His own sluggish life force had borne him as on a wave to a strange island, where suddenly he had acquired responsibilities and money to discharge them. Remaining, in the process, remote from events and even from life itself, he had made no effort to grasp what was taking place around him. Until recently, with the arrival of Sonya. And even now, life around him was still dangerously unfathomable, as if he had missed the actual moment when the nature of events might have been fathomed.

His world was now him, Penguin Misha and Sonya, but so vulnerable did it seem, this little world, that should anything happen, it would be beyond his power to protect it. Not for lack
of a weapon or karate skills, but simply because, containing no genuine attachment, no sense of unity, no woman, it was too ready to crumble. Sonya was someone else’s little girl temporarily in his care, his penguin was sickly and sad, and under no obligation to show gratitude doggy-fashion, wagging his tail after fresh-frozen fish.

His reflections interrupted by the phone, he went back to the living room to answer it.

It was the Chief.

“Coming round for half an hour. All right?”

“Fine,” said Viktor.

He peeped into the bedroom. Sonya and the penguin were standing facing each other.

“Have you understood what I’ve said?” she was asking, and her tone was insistent.

They were, he now saw, much the same height.

“Very well,” said Sonya, “and then I’ll make you a new suit in quite a different colour …”

Smiling, he tiptoed away. An hour later the Chief arrived, and spent a long time shaking snow from his long overcoat before finally coming in.

“Happy New Year!” he said, putting down a heavy carrier bag.

They went through into the kitchen, where Igor Lvovich pulled from his bag a bottle of champagne, a lemon, a couple of tins and several packages.

He called for a cutting board and knives, and together they sliced sausage, cheese and baguette. After which Viktor fetched glasses.

“Got a cat, have you?” the Chief asked, noting the fish head in the bowl on the little bedside table by the stove.

“No, a penguin.”

He laughed. “You’re joking!”

“I’m not. Come and see.”

Viktor took him to the bedroom.

“And who’s this then?” asked the Chief, seeing the little girl. “Didn’t you say you weren’t married?”

“It’s Sonya!” she said, eyeing the strange uncle. “And this,” she said, pointing at the penguin, “is Misha.”

“Daughter of a friend,” murmured Viktor so that Sonya shouldn’t hear.

The Chief inclined his head.

“Pity I didn’t know about the penguin,” he said, back in the kitchen. “My youngest has only seen them in books.”

“Bring him another time.”

“Another time?” the Chief repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, of course. This year he’s been with my wife in Italy. It’s quieter there.”

Head back, gaze directed at the ceiling, the Chief restrained the cork from flying there, and poured champagne.

“Happy New Year!” he said.

Viktor raised his glass. “Happy New Year!”

“Where are you seeing it in?” the Chief asked after a gulp of champagne.

“Here.”

Prodding his fork into the salami, the Chief nodded, shooting Viktor another of his looks, this time one of concern.

“You see,” he said, “I’ve got some rather unseasonable news for you … But it’s the way it’s turned out.”

Viktor looked at him intently.

“They’re on to you. They’re pumping people in my office as
to who our
obelisk
writer is. It’s good that no one knows, apart from Fyodor and me.”

“What are they on to me for?” Viktor asked, putting down his champagne half drunk.

“The fact is,” the Chief said hesitantly, carefully choosing his words, “that you, Viktor, have done us proud … Getting in all my underlinings, I mean. In actual fact, each obituary, apart from mentioning the late lamented’s sins, has hinted where those advantaged by his death are to be looked for. Evidently someone’s guessed what the game is – that they’re simply being set on collision courses. Still, we’ve achieved quite a lot. And we’ll do better. We’ll just have to change tactics.”

“
We
? The paper, you mean?” asked Viktor, utterly dismayed, trying to remember where he had heard about
collision courses
before.

“Not just us,” the Chief said gently. “And not so much us as a paper even, but as a body of people endeavouring to clean this country up a bit … Don’t worry, though – our security’s on to whoever’s on to you. But to give time for our boys to cope, you’ll need to lie low for a while.”

“When?” Viktor asked, flabbergasted.

“The sooner the better,” came the calm reply.

Viktor sat at the table, a picture of dejection.

“Nothing to be afraid of. Fear’s dangerous,” said Igor Lvovich. “Best be thinking where to lie low … And don’t tell me. Just give the odd ring. OK?”

Viktor nodded mechanically.

“And now let’s drink to all going well at my end,” said the Chief topping up their glasses. “If it does,
you
won’t be the loser, I promise.”

Reluctantly Viktor raised his glass.

“Drink up!” urged the Chief “There’s no escaping fate. Drink while the champagne lasts!”

Viktor took a gulp, and almost choked as bubbles of gas prickled his nose.

“I wouldn’t be here now, if I didn’t value you highly,” Igor Lvovich said, preparing to leave and donning his long dark-green overcoat. “Ring in a week or so. No work for the time being, so you find some nice secluded spot and lie low.”

The door banged. The Chief’s footsteps died away, leaving Viktor to an uneasy silence and musings much inhibited by the champagne he had drunk. He stood staring at the closed door, trying again to solve the riddle of the nocturnal Grandfather Frost who had brought news and presents from Misha-non-penguin.

“Uncle Vik!” called Sonya from the living room. “Uncle Vik! He knocked me over!”

Returning to the present, he quickly went to her.

“What happened?” he asked, looking down at her lying on the floor.

“Nothing,” she said, with a guilty smile.

Beside her stood Misha,
regardant
.

“I was trying to see what your present was, and he knocked me over,” she confessed at last. “I wasn’t looking at mine. Just taking a peep at yours.”

“Up you get,” said Viktor, giving her his hand.

Sonya got to her feet.

“Can I go for a walk?”

“No,” he snapped.

“Just a teeny-weeny one.”

But why not? There were plenty of children around.

“All right, but not for long, and don’t go away from the block.”

Having put her into her fur coat and muffled her up to her eyes in her scarf, he let Sonya go, settled himself at the kitchen table, and became lost in thought. With every day bringing far from pleasant surprises, he had plenty to ponder.

He was seized with sudden panic. He was still sitting at the table, the champagne finished, the sausage eaten, the slight feeling of intoxication gone. His head was clear, his legs steady.

He looked out of the window. The snow had eased enough for him to see, down below, several children from the block busy building a snow castle.

Standing on the little bedside table, he stuck his head out of the small vent and shouted, “Sonya! Home! Quick!”

The children looked up from building their castle, but they all stayed standing where they were.

Hard as he stared, he couldn’t see Sonya among them. Quickly putting on his sheepskin coat and fur hat, he dashed from the flat. Spotting some other children a short distance from the block, he ran towards them, but there was no Sonya.

Hearing an engine start up behind him, he swung round. An old Mercedes was moving off from the block opposite. Something prompted him to give chase. Managing by some miracle not to fall, he caught it up at the turning before the exit to the road, but here, feet skidding beneath him, he fell forward onto the boot, to the consternation of the driver, the sole occupant of
the car. Picking himself up, Viktor walked back to the block.

He had been foolish to let her go out, after what the Chief had said.

At the top of the stairs, he found her leaning against the door of the flat.

“Where have you been?” he shouted.

“At Anya’s, on the ground floor,” she said guiltily. “She was showing me her Sindy doll.”

He ought to punish her in some way, he thought, but gradually he grew calmer.

“Like something to eat?” he asked.

“Has Misha eaten?”

“No.”

“Then we can eat together,” she said happily.

After supper Viktor rang Sergey Fischbein-Stepanenko, asking him to come as soon as he could. He did, and they shut themselves in the kitchen, leaving Sonya and Misha in the living room.

Viktor thought first of inventing some cover story for Sergey’s benefit, but in the end saw the stupidity of doing so. Why, when needing help, bring in deceit? The account he gave, if lacking in coherence, found Sergey quick on the uptake.