The Senility of Vladimir P (6 page)

‘Fedorov?' said Serensky.

Vladimir snorted. ‘Too liberal.'

‘Repov?'

‘He hasn't been the same since the plane crash.'

‘Well, if we can't find someone, the risk is it'll be Lebedev.'

Vladimir was silent.

‘He's so corrupt himself he couldn't come after any of us,' said Serensky. ‘At least that's one thing. Every pie there is, he's had his finger in it.'

‘Lebedev has rotten values,' said Vladimir. ‘He turns the order of things on its head. Lebedev's only after money and power, and the greatness and stability of Russia is merely a means to that end. In that situation, chaos follows. Why is there no chaos now? Because I'm dedicated to the greatness and stability of Russia, and money and power – if there is any – follow from that.'

There was quiet for a moment, then Luschkin burst out laughing. Vladimir silenced him with a glance.

Yet Vladimir had a haunting, taunting feeling that it would be Lebedev who would succeed him, this man who, alone amongst all the others, he had somehow failed to cut off at the knees, that somehow it was inevitable, just as it had been inevitable in the last days of the Soviet era that Boris Nikolayevich would somehow rise up and overthrow Mikhail Sergeyevich once Mikhail Sergeyevich had turned him out of his government. That was why Vladimir kept bringing Lebedev into the Kremlin, loathe him though he did. But that wasn't a solution. Deep in his gut, Vladimir had a horrible ­premonition that somehow Lebedev would find a way up after he had gone. Maybe not at once. Maybe Vladimir would be able to determine who succeeded him at first, but after that, he knew, his grip on the Kremlin would loosen. At the first election, Lebedev probably wouldn't even run. Another few years of putting more money away, buying more supporters, strutting the stage as Uncle Kostya, everyone's favourite relative . . . and then he would strike.

‘I should write a testament,' said Vladimir grimly. ‘Like Lenin. “Anyone but Lebedev.”'

‘Didn't do much to keep Stalin out,' observed Narzayev.

Vladimir looked around disconsolately. ‘Lebedev will drag Russia into the mud. After me we need . . .'

The four men watched him, wondering what he was going to say. But he had no words for it. After him, he wanted to say, Russia needed another him.

‘Well, you've got another six years before you need to worry about that,' said Monarov. ‘Tonight, let's enjoy what you've achieved.' He raised his glass. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, our president for the fifth time: To your health!'

They drank.

Then they put down their glasses. Suddenly they looked older, greyer, anxious. Vladimir knew there was something wrong. What was it? Why had they all come to see him?

‘Vladimir Vladimirovich,' said Monarov. ‘It's time to go.'

‘I'm the elected president! I have another year to serve!'

‘Yes. And now it's time to go.'

He looked around at the others. Luschkin, Narzayev, Serensky, they all stared back at him, faces grim.

‘Vova, we came to see you together, so you wouldn't suspect that any one of us was plotting. We all agree. You can't go on. People are noticing.'

‘What?' demanded Vladimir. ‘What are they noticing?'

‘I just told you.'

‘No, you didn't.'

‘I did. See, you can't remember.'

‘I can! I can remember everything!'

‘You're forgetting things all the time.'

Was he? There seemed to be words in his head, something that he had just been told, floating somewhere in there, but he couldn't quite grasp them. ‘That's a lie!' he shouted. ‘You just want to get me out!'

‘Vova, we're your friends. Your most loyal friends. Resign now. Put in Sverkov —'

‘Sverkov's nothing. Sverkov's a piece of stuffing you put here, you put there, wherever there's a hole you want to fill.'

‘Put in Sverkov, Vova, and he'll win us the next election. That way we keep Lebedev out for at least the next six years.'

‘No.'

‘Every day you stay, Lebedev gets stronger.'

‘I don't care. I control Russia. I control the money, I control the agencies —'

‘Actually, Vova, that's not quite true. You remember the decrees you signed?'

‘What decrees?'

‘The decrees,' said Monarov.

Vladimir looked around. Luschkin, Narzayev and Serensky were gone. ‘What decrees?' he cried.

‘The decrees,' said Monarov.

‘What decrees?
'
he cried in panic.
‘
Zhenya? What did I sign? I can't remember! What decrees?'

Monarov was gone too now. Then Vladimir remembered that Monarov was dead. Yes, he had been to his funeral. And yet there he had been sitting in the chair, eating caviar by the spoonful!

He frowned in confusion.

‘What is it, Vladimir Vladimirovich?' asked Sheremetev, who had come back from the dressing room with a set of casual clothes in case he could persuade Vladimir to change.

‘Who are you?'

‘Sheremetev, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Are you hungry?'

Vladimir looked at him suspiciously. ‘Yes, I'm hungry.'

There was a knock on the door.

‘Here's lunch,' said Sheremetev.

He went to the door. One of the house attendants was standing outside with Vladimir's lunch.

‘Is everything alright in the kitchen?' asked Sheremetev, taking the tray, still struck by the glimpse he had caught of Stepanin pacing around on the grass outside the dacha.

The attendant shrugged.

‘With the cook? Is he alright?'

‘I didn't see the cook,' muttered the attendant. ‘They just gave me the food.' He stood for a moment longer. ‘Can I go now?'

‘Yes,' said Sheremetev. He carried the tray to the table and set it down. ‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Here's something to eat.'

‘It is time already?'

‘It's time. You're hungry, remember?'

‘Is it breakfast?'

‘Lunch.' Sheremetev smiled. ‘It's easy to forget. You had your breakfast, Vladimir Vladimirovich.' Sheremetev raised him from his chair. ‘Come. Let's eat.'

Sheremetev guided him to the table and put a napkin around his neck. He tied it cautiously. ‘Is this okay? Not too tight?'

‘It's okay,' said Vladimir.

There was a bowl of chicken soup on the tray. Sheremetev put a spoon in Vladimir's hand.

Vladimir fidgeted with it. After a couple of minutes, Sheremetev gently released it from his hand and raised a spoonful of the soup to Vladimir's lips.

‘How is that? Is it good?'

Vladimir smiled. ‘It's good.'

Sheremetev raised another spoonful. Vladimir sipped at it noisily.

Stepanin had about as
much ability to hide his feelings as a Russian bear trying to hide itself in a snow field. That night he sat brooding in the staff dining room, stubbing out one cigarette and lighting another, throwing back one glass of vodka and reaching for the bottle to pour himself the next. Whatever it was that had had him fuming outside the dacha that morning was still eating at him.

‘Something wrong?' asked Sheremetev eventually.

The cook grunted. He got up and opened the door to the kitchen and yelled at one of the potwashers, then came back and slumped disconsolately in his chair, fingering his vodka glass with a look of disgust.

‘Vitya?'

Stepanin looked up. ‘What's the boss been like today? Okay? Give you any trouble?'

‘I was going to take him out, but the cars were broken down.'

‘Both cars?' said Stepanin disbelievingly.

Sheremetev shrugged.

‘An S-class Mercedes and a Range Rover?'

Sheremetev shrugged again.

‘What fuckery! Broken down? Sure. Eleyekov! What a gangster.'

‘He's a gangster?' said Sheremetev.

‘No, I don't mean a gangster. Not a
gangster
.'

‘Then what do you mean?'

Stepanin gave Sheremetev a look, the kind Sheremetev had been accustomed to receiving ever since he first confided to one of his fellow conscripts in the army his belief that their captain would soon be exposed and punished for hiring them out like slaves. ­‘Eleyekov's okay,' muttered Stepanin. Everything's okay for
him
.' The cook angrily stubbed out his cigarette, picked up the box, toyed with the idea of lighting another one, then threw it down in disgust.

Sheremetev watched him.

‘It's the chickens,' growled the cook.

Sheremetev was none the wiser.

‘The chickens! Barkovskaya, that slut, suddenly has a cousin who sells chickens. Where has he come from, this cousin? From under which stone has he crawled? Yesterday there was no cousin – today there is. They're probably stolen chickens, if you ask me.'

‘Stolen from where?'

‘Who knows?' Stepanin fixed Sheremetev with a furious glare. ‘Do you have any idea how many ways there are to steal chickens? Do you even know how many places you can steal them from?' Stepanin poured himself another vodka, watching the liquid cascading into the glass. ‘Not only chickens! Ducks, pheasants, geese. Anything with feathers.' The cook threw down the vodka, swallowed hard, and grimaced. ‘Put a feather on it,' he rasped, momentarily hoarse, ‘give it wings, put a beak on its face – and Barkovskaya's cousin, the shit, has it.'

‘Aren't they fresh?' inquired Sheremetev.

‘They're fresh!' retorted Stepanin. ‘Why shouldn't they be fresh?'

‘What about the quality?'

‘The quality's fine!'

‘Then . . . ?'

Stepanin sighed, and gave Sheremetev another one of those looks, but worse this time, as if he was gazing upon a fool whose imbecility was of a depth so extraordinary, whose innocence was of a simple-mindedness so complete and so utterly unsullied by knowledge or experience, that in the five billion years of its existence the world had never witnessed the like. ‘Today, my chicken supplier calls me and says he's been terminated. Half an hour later, this other one turns up with chickens and grouse and God knows what. Now, Kolya, tell me, who's the chef? Stepanin or Bolkovskaya?'

‘You are, of course.'

‘So who decides on the suppliers? Stepanin or Bolkovskaya?'

Sheremetev, not knowing the protocol amongst chefs and housekeepers, guessed. ‘Stepanin?'

‘So what's Bolkovskaya doing? Hmmm?'

‘It's her cousin. Perhaps she thought —'

‘Exactly! Her cousin. Okay, so let's say, in this one case, I say, it's Bolkovskaya's cousin, it's fine. Let's get the chickens from her cousin. Not to mention the fact that my chicken man is a friend who goes back with me twenty years. We stood guard duty together in Crimea. Even then he was stealing chickens. He stole – I cooked. What feasts we had! Okay, but let's forget that. Let's say Bolkovskaya's cousin is more important than twenty years of friendship and guard duty on some shitty base in Crimea.' Stepanin leaned closer, his eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know what else happened today?'

Apart from both cars being broken down – and Sheremetev had a hunch that wasn't what Stepanin was talking about – nothing out of the ordinary, as far as he was aware.

‘A certain restaurant in the town didn't get their chickens either. Do you understand what I'm saying?'

‘No,' said Sheremetev. He was utterly confused. What restaurant was Stepanin talking about? Did the friend from his days on the Crimean base supply it as well? And why should it make a difference if he did?

Stepanin stared at him, then shook his head and sat back in the chair. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it.

Sheremetev had a feeling that there was something the cook wasn't telling him. But what? There seemed to be more to this, he sensed, than mere loyalty to an old army buddy.

‘What about everything else you're responsible for buying? Has Barkovskaya done anything about the rest?'

‘Look, first, there's the principle!' retorted Stepanin angrily. ‘It's as old as the ages. The cook chooses the suppliers. Without that principle – chaos! And second . . .' He hesitated, gazing shiftily at Sheremetev.

‘Second . . . ?'

‘Second . . . Second . . . This is the thin end of the wedge! If I let her do this, it's exactly as you say. Next, it'll be the fishmonger. Then the butcher. Then the cheesemonger. Then the fruit and veg man. Then the dried fruit merchant. Then —'

‘Dried fruit? Do we eat a lot of dried fruit?'

‘A lot! You'd be surprised.'

‘I never see any.'

‘Well, most of it . . . there's a confectioner I know in town. Anyway, the point is, this is only the start.'

‘Vitya, how many cousins could she have?'

‘Cousins? In Barkovskaya's position, if you're looking for cousins, you'll find them everywhere!'

‘But for a cousin you need an uncle and an aunt,' pointed out Sheremetev. ‘You can't just —'

‘If I let Bolkovskaya do this, the bitch will do it with everything, just you see. And that, Kolya, isn't right. It's not just. Things should be as they were. She's happy, I'm happy, everyone eats well, and there's peace in the world.'

‘I still don't understand about the dried fruit,' said Sheremetev, deciding to forget about Stepanin's theory of endless cousins, which made no sense to him, whichever way he tried to look at it. ‘Where does it go, this dried fruit? I can't remember the last time I had a piece.'

‘What do you like?'

‘Apricots.'

‘I'll get you a packet. Look, can't you see how dangerous this is? If I let Barkovskaya win on this, it's all gone. Everything! Let someone like her take an inch, and she'll take the whole mile.'

‘Maybe you should go to Barkovskaya and say . . . you know . . . let's have some kind of arrangement. Maybe one time your friend, one time her cousin. Share.'

‘
Share?
' The cook's eyes almost popped out of their sockets. ‘Kolya, there's the principle, and there's . . . there's . . .' Stepanin's voice trailed off. He stubbed out his cigarette, and again, and again, until it wasn't only stubbed but broken, flattened, smashed, destroyed.

‘Vitya, is there something you're not telling me?'

Stepanin looked up at him sharply. ‘What am I not telling you?'

‘I don't know. That's what I just asked you.'

‘Kolya, you know what my dream is.'

Sheremetev knew. Russian fusion! Minimalist décor! What that had to do with Barkovskaya ordering chickens from her cousin, Sheremetev had no idea.

‘Is it such a terrible thing, to want to have my own restaurant? What am I asking for? To reopen the gulag? Imagine it. Russian fusion! Minimalist décor! Something totally new. The first night I'm open, you'll have a table. Is it some kind of crime, Kolya, to want this?'

‘No, it's not a crime, Vitya.'

‘So?' said Stepanin.

‘
So
?
' said Sheremetev, still at a loss to understand what the cook thought was really so terrible about what the housekeeper had done, or what it had to do with his dream of a restaurant.

Stepanin stared at him for a moment, then sat back. ‘What fuckery! Fuckery with a cock on top.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘I can't let this go.'

Sheremetev watched him, wondering for a moment if this was all some kind of joke.

Stepanin eyes narrowed. ‘I'll do what I have to.'

‘Which is what?'

‘Don't worry.' He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Vitya Stepanin always has a plan.'

Vitya Stepanin did have
a plan, although it wasn't of the most sophisticated subtlety. In its essence, it consisted of doing nothing – but a special kind of nothing. The next day, when Barkovskaya's cousin rang to find out what he wanted, he replied: ‘Nothing.' He said the same thing the next day, and the day after that. Chickens were not required. Nor were ducks, geese, pigeons, partridges, pheasants, snipe, grouse or any of the other feathered beasts that the housekeeper's cousin purveyed. Stepanin had no idea what was going to happen next, but as far as he was concerned, Barkovskaya wasn't getting any more chicken fricassee until she backed down.

Chicken fricassee disappeared from the menu. So did chicken soup, chicken kiev, chicken wings, chicken supreme, chicken caccia­tore, chicken curry, chicken salad, chicken with mango and all the other chicken dishes that Stepanin was wont to serve up. A cook down to his fingernails, Stepanin grieved for his lost dishes, but he hoped that in time he would send them out of his kitchen again, and for the present there was too much at stake, he told himself, to let sentimentality prevail.

Stepanin asked Sheremetev to apologise to Vladimir on his behalf, knowing how partial the old man was to chicken Georgian style. From the moment he took the job at the dacha, the cook had made it his mission to prepare for the boss, as he called him, the foods of which he was most fond. Not only had he questioned Sheremetev extensively on the subject, but he had researched all he could find about the ex-president's culinary predilections. Vladimir ate almost all his meals at the table that had been installed for the purpose in the sitting room of his suite, so Stepanin never saw him devouring the results of his labours and consequently had to rely on Sheremetev's reports of the boss's reactions. Sheremetev didn't have the heart to tell him that Vladimir couldn't remember what he had eaten at the start of the meal by the time he got to the end, much less an hour or a day later, and the cook could have served up beans and brisket, which Vladimir relished, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and Vladimir would have been just as happy as he was with chicken Georgian style, boeuf à la Tversk, sole in butter sauce and all the other immediately forgotten delicacies that arrived on trays from the kitchen.

Accordingly, Vladimir didn't notice the disappearance of chicken from his diet. To check, Sheremetev asked him if he had had any recently.

‘Yes,' replied Vladimir. ‘At lunch.'

It was ten o'clock in the morning.

‘What if I was to tell you that there'll be no more chicken?'

Vladimir laughed. ‘That's preposterous. I've never heard such a stupid proposition. Get rid of the official whose idea this is.'

‘There may be a problem for a time.'

‘A problem?' said Vladimir. ‘What sort of problem?'

‘With chicken, Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

‘No, there's no problem with chicken. The problem,' said Vladimir, waving a finger, ‘is that Russians think chicken is the problem, when in fact, it's not chickens at all. Chickens are a distraction that our so-called friends in the west would like us to waste our time on, when it is the west itself that has caused the problem by sending us the second rate chickens they themselves won't eat. Why else would I impose sanctions on them to stop them sending us this rubbish? Yes, this is exactly what Obama, Merkel and the rest of them want to see. This whole thing is a crude attempt to retaliate for our perfectly legitimate restrictions on the distribution of gas through the Ukraine pipelines, when in reality there is no comparison between the two. Chicken is not gas! Gas is not chicken! Is that clear? Russia has no problem with chicken. Russia has no problem with anything. Every problem in Russia is the fault of the west, which can't bear to see a Russia that is strong and independent. I call on Russians to stop eating chicken and strike a blow against those in the west who would like to put us back into a cold war!'

‘Yes, Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

Vladimir nodded emphatically, a fierce expression on his face.

Slowly the look changed and his face became blank again. Sheremetev tidied up around him.

‘Who are you?' he said after a while.

‘Sheremetev, Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

Vladimir nodded, as if he remembered now. ‘Do you know my mother?'

Sheremetev shook his head.

‘What about my brothers?'

‘No, Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

He smiled slyly. ‘How could you? They died before I was born.'

‘I know,' said Sheremetev.

‘How do you know?'

Sheremetev shrugged. ‘Everyone knows.'

Vladimir narrowed his eyes. ‘How does everyone know?'

‘It's known, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It's very sad.'

Vladimir watched him suspiciously for a moment. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Very sad. My mother has never recovered. She gave me this cross, you know, only last week.' He fingered a small gold crucifix that hung around his neck.