Penguin Lost (24 page)

It was strange being asked to write for a newspaper again, and straight journalism at that, with the sense and feel of the event as fresh in his memory as the joyous laughter of the children. And before he knew it, he was typing away, and in half an hour the article was finished. It was short, just four sides, about doing good and the need there was for it, a context in which Andrey Pavlovich was the more easily and sincerely portrayed, and his donation of a billiard table and artificial limbs lightly alluded to. Viktor read it through, and was just putting the typewriter back under the table when Sonya came in, sat on her stool and gazed at him intently.

“What’s wrong? Want a drink?”

She shook her head. “What’s that you’ve written?”

“About where we’ve been. For a newspaper.”

“So you’re back to being a journalist.”

“No.”

“Maybe I’ll be a journalist when I’m big. And sit up in the kitchen when everyone’s asleep.”

“You mustn’t – you wouldn’t want to be a soldier and go to war.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“You’d have to, as a journalist. You’d be taken on by some paper, given a pen instead of a gun, and told, ‘There’s the enemy, you go and write nasty things about him’. And you would, until you got killed or hurt.”

“Are nasty things what you’ve been writing?”

“No. I’ve written about the orphans we visited today.”

“And you can do that without having to be a journalist?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Sonya, “I’m going back to bed.”

*

Early next morning, well before breakfast, he dressed, and without rereading it, rolled his article into a cylinder and slipped it into an inner pocket of his jacket.

It was snowing lightly, and with their little globes of light colouring the flakes yellow, the street lamps looked like dandelions. People were emerging from their blocks into the wintery dark and hurrying to work. There was something strange and unusual about these shadows bound for the bus stop, something of the Soviet past with its work discipline, punishments for lateness, and Heroes of Socialist Labour. Life had somehow re-established a daily rhythm. Factories were back in operation. Earth was again revolving, and all
upon it astir and flourishing. Only clearly a different, parallel life – not his or even impinging on his. Daily rhythm was the refuge of all who neither noticed, nor cared to notice, what they didn’t like, convinced that what they read in papers or saw on TV couldn’t be true. Or more precisely, were glad not likely themselves to be murdered, being, not in business or seriously in debt, disinclined to fall victim to the new reality. And there they were, getting up, going to work, just as another, parallel world was going to bed.

At Independence Square, he popped into McDonald’s for a coffee and a doughnut, watched the world go by, then went on to Goloseyevo.

Arriving at 9.30, he found Andrey Pavlovich up and about in his tiger-pattern towelling dressing gown. Pasha not being in evidence, Andrey Pavlovich made coffee, which they drank in the kitchen.

“Odd sense of humour you’ve got, Viktor!
Group of Friends?
What sort of a signature’s that?

“Force of habit, it’s the pen name I wrote under.”

“Well, cross it out and be yourself.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Then think of a different pen name.”

For
Group of Friends
, he substituted
Sergey Stepanenko
.

Viktor sat late at night in the kitchen before a bachelor still life of vodka, jar of gherkins, sliced sausage and a newspaper open at an article, complete with photo, describing the charitable activities of State Deputy Andrey Pavlovich Loza. He read it through, and finding it exactly as written, he turned back to the front page, noted the
patriotic yellow of Ukrainian and blue of
Courier
, sighed, and poured himself vodka.

Getting to his feet, he clinked his glass against Sergey’s urn.

“Your first publication – congratulations!” he whispered.

Pouring another vodka, he kept an eye on the door, expecting at any minute to see Misha standing there. Tonight, though, he seemed in no hurry to appear, as if reluctant to intrude on Viktor’s thoughts.

And certainly the paper and his article under the by-line of
de facto
deceased Sergey, both published by
de jure
deceased Igor Lvovich, his former Chief, provided food for thought. There was material there for something – a drunken theory, or a short story.

He mused, as he drank, on the fact that every week was losing him more of his freedom, or what remained of it. He was losing space in his own flat, and in process of losing himself, if he hadn’t done that already. Still, it wasn’t all gloom. He had Misha and Sonya, and was alive,
de jure
and
de facto
, and more validly vital than Igor Lvovich with his photograph-adorned grave already at the cemetery. The vodka, instead of making him drunk, was inspiring a desperate sense of loneliness. There was an air of menace in the silence of the flat, as if an ambush or trap were about to be sprung. His eyes returned to the door, and with a sudden urge to see what it concealed, he opened it, went out into the corridor and listened. Silence.

He looked into the sitting room. Lyosha was asleep and snoring gently.

“You awake?” he whispered foolishly.

“What’s up?”

“Come and have a drink.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’ve had an article published. Come and celebrate.” Viktor carried him through to the kitchen and sat him at the table. Misha came plip-plopping after them to make it a threesome.

“This isn’t like you,” Lyosha said, clearly concerned.

“I’m out of sorts. Not happy.”

“I see, hence the vodka cure. Which I tried for being unhappy. Actually, if there’s anything other than vodka I’d rather have it.”

Moved, Viktor jumped to his feet, looked in the fridge, then in the wall cupboard, and returned with a bottle of cognac.

“How about this?”

“Fine.”

Viktor poured the vodka from Lyosha’s glass into his own. They drank, and ate sausage and gherkins.

“Fed up with me – that’s it, isn’t it?” Lyosha asked abruptly. “After saving me from drink and taking me in … And, yes, I do fancy your Nina … But don’t worry – I am not that sort of a shit.”

“Hold on! Why shouldn’t you fancy her?”

“Because you and she sleep together.”

“I one side of the bed, she the other. So let’s drop that one.”

Viktor replenished their glasses. “Know anything about arm wrestling?”

Lyosha nodded.

“Care to demonstrate?”

Lyosha did, leaving Viktor to nurse his right arm. “I thought chess was your thing,” he said. “Your health as better man!”

“You said something about finding me work,” said Lyosha, sipping his cognac.

“I believe I have. Give me a couple of days.”

Out of the blue next morning, Igor Lvovich telephoned, full of praise for Viktor’s article, but disappointed that Viktor had not read more of his
Ukrainian Courier
.

“You must – I value your opinion. Again, you see, our paths converge.”

While Nina was still showering, Lyosha viewing winter through a balcony door obligingly vacated by Misha, and Sonya applying mascara to her brows from Nina’s make-up set, Viktor prepared to breakfast alone. He cut bread, fried an omelette, and was about to eat when he saw Misha eyeing an empty bowl, and gave him the last piece of cod from the fridge.

He’d no sooner finished his omelette than Sonya in denim pinafore dress and white tights appeared, and making sure the bathroom shower was running, whispered in Viktor’s ear:

“It’s all right – they had a most terrible row yesterday, really shouting.”

“Who did?”

“Auntie Nina, Uncle Lyosha. So you’ve no need to worry.”

Viktor laughed, and Sonya looked hurt.

“Who shouted most?” he asked, concerned.

“First Auntie Nina, then Uncle Lyosha, then both together.”

“So all’s well.”

Again a hurt look and something approaching a glare.

“Look,” he said gently, “if Auntie Nina and Uncle Lyosha row, it’s because they mean something to each other. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t.”

“So they’re still keen on each other?”

Viktor shrugged.

“Oh, you’re impossible!”

“You still love me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, you’re my Uncle-Daddy.”

“So that’s all right, then.” He patted her on the head. “And if you like, today or tomorrow, we’ll go to a café and talk.”

“I’d like that.”

Enter Nina in Viktor’s dressing gown, hair in a towel.

“You off somewhere?”

“Work”

“The bath outlet’s leaking. We need a plumber.”

“Lyosha can ring Maintenance.”

She nodded. “Seen the cat?” she asked, as if reminded by the sight of Misha.

Viktor shook his head.

“She asked to go out last night, and isn’t back,” said Nina whisking off to the bedroom.

*

En route to Goloseyevo, Viktor checked at the café for e-mail and was pleased to find one from Mladen.

The yacht was the
Vesna
, and he was to bring light but warm clothing, and over and above his contribution, spending money in dollars. Any last minute purchases could be made in Split before sailing.

This he acknowledged, then, consulting the Split website, noted that while Great Britain, Rumania, the USA, Holland and other Western countries were competing for the European Arm Wrestling Championship, the old Soviet Union was not.

From the Internet café he walked freshly fallen snow to the Old Kiev Cellar, bought a coffee and sat down to think. His head, even after a night’s drinking, was clear and bursting with ideas.

Coffee forgotten, he got to his feet, thumbed a lift, and 20 minutes later, arrived at Andrey Pavlovich’s.

Sipping coffee and looking perplexed, Andrey Pavlovich was so slow to cotton on that Viktor almost lost hope of gaining his interest.

“Look,” he said, “what I take on, must be big – football club, basketball club, something like that …”

“But they’ve all been bought and are damned expensive to run. This is cheap, cheerful, and benevolent – support for the sporting disabled!”

“How many to a team?”

“Five or six including the captain, plus trainer.”

“Trainer? Do they need any training?”

“Of course, and he sees they keep fit and don’t get drunk.”

“Let’s have another look at that sheet of yours.”

*

Viktor gave him the computer print-out.

“I’ll think about it, test the water,” said Andrey Pavlovich. “You go about your business. I’ll get back to you on your mobile.”

Viktor was in a café on P. Sagaydachny Street when Andrey Pavlovich rang.

“Where are you?”

“Podol.”

“Where in Podol?”

And when told, he said, “Stay put,” and 30 minutes later turned up in an ankle-length sheepskin and a deerskin cap.

“You’re dead right,” he declared, ordering coffee and cognac from the waitress. “I spoke to a friend. ‘You’re a brain,’ he told me, ‘worth good money’, – as if I didn’t know!” He slapped Viktor on the shoulder. “So yes, we’ll have a team, and you’re responsible, OK? We start a club, qualify as Arm Wrestling Federation, with me as
President, just as soon as we’ve decided on a name and aims. So?”

“Disabled Arm-Wrestlers Club?”

“No, trendier – Chechnya Veterans, say.”

“Except that Chechnya’s Russia and we’re Ukraine.”

“How about Afghan Veterans? Should be the odd veteran there.”

“Sounds better, certainly.”

“Got a team yet?”

“I’ve got a captain. Knowing the pay would help.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Captain $150, team $100 each.”

“Let’s call it $300 and $200, leaving my indebted trainer till later. Let me have the team list by tomorrow. I’ll then register us as a club and get us legal for the coming championship.”

Hearing that he might well find himself team captain, Lyosha was a changed man. Viktor carried him, then his wheelchair, down to the ground floor, and hitched a lift to Tatar Street and Café Afghan in a car with room for the chair in the boot.

Viktor let Lyosha go in alone, giving him half an hour to recruit a team before himself turning up, and duly found him sitting with six other wheel-chairers over a bottle of cognac at two tables pulled together. Taking the guest wheelchair from behind the counter, Viktor was received wide-eyed as he joined them.

“The boys are happy,” said Lyosha, “but they’ve one or two questions.”

They were simple enough. Would expenses be paid? Their hostel places kept safe for their return? Their pensions affected?

Viktor didn’t always know the answer, but did his best to keep his end up.

“Do we get a uniform?” asked a one-legged man with a crew cut.

Viktor nodded.

“Advertising what firm?”

“Don’t know yet, but something good.”

Lyosha finished by making a list of their names. There were seven in all, including himself. Still, one extra wouldn’t break Andrey Pavlovich, and the team would have a sounder look about it.

Nagornaya Street being something of a dead end, traffic was sparse, so instead of trying to hitch, he used his mobile to call a taxi to take them home in comfort.

He carried Lyosha up first, went down for his wheelchair, and by the time he’d removed his outdoor clothes, Lyosha had broken the good news to Nina and Sonya, and Viktor felt somewhat mortified by Nina’s manifest joy.

Sonya, more matter of fact in her reaction, pouted. “Will this mean your going off every day to compete?”

“Not every day,” Viktor said, answering for him. “Sometimes it’ll mean travelling, sometimes flying.”

“Can I go and fly too?” she asked, turning to Nina.

“I’m afraid not,” said Viktor.

“Who can, then? Misha?” she demanded, unwittingly touching on the secret plan he was reluctant to confide to her and Andrey Pavlovich, and reminding him that it was high time to solve the problem of getting Misha to Split with the team.

After supper, Nina made herself coffee, using the cup Viktor gave her for Christmas, and spent some time studying the grounds with a thoughtful, mildly flirtatious expression unusual with her, but not unbecoming.