The Senility of Vladimir P (9 page)

‘Why will you suffer?'

‘Why will I suffer?' demanded Vasya angrily. ‘Papa, what world do you live in? If the world knows that I have a cousin who's done what Pasha has done – and the world will know, or suspect, because his name's Sheremetev just like mine – then the size of some of the commissions I have to pay has just doubled. Do you understand me?'

‘No, I don't understand you. What commissions?'

‘Commissions! How do you think the world goes round? Mother of God! Get real, Papa! If I gave him the money to get out – which I don't have, as I told you – but
if
I gave him the money, do you know what would happen then? With some people, I couldn't do business at all, no matter how big the commissions I would pay. So you can say to Uncle Oleg, I'm sorry his son is such an idiot, but maybe after a couple of years inside he won't be such an idiot when he comes out.'

‘I'm not going to say that to Uncle Oleg.'

‘Fine. Don't. Only don't judge me. You live your way, I'll live mine. But tell me this: who's going to be paying for your retirement, Papa, when you're too old to work? Who's going to keep you alive when you suddenly discover that the money you've scraped to save from your salary isn't enough for even a year? Is it me or is it Pasha?'

‘I'm not asking you to pay for my retirement. I'm asking if you have —'

‘I don't have it! Okay? And I'm saying, if I did, I still wouldn't give it, and you can tell whoever you like!'

Sheremetev was silent.

‘So how are you, anyway, Papa?' asked Vasily.

‘I'm fine,' muttered Sheremetev.

‘How's your patient? Is he still alive?'

‘Of course he's still alive.'

‘Are you sure? I saw him on the TV the other day with Lebedev. Was that him or have they stuffed his corpse like Lenin?'

‘Don't say a thing like that!'

Vasily laughed. ‘Do you need anything? Have you got enough money?'

‘
I
don't need anything. Your cousin —'

‘Don't start that again, Papa. I've told you. Pasha's old enough to know what he's doing. He's not a fool, and he's not a child. We live in Russia. If he did what he did, he knew what the consequences might be. Lucky he didn't end up dead. I'm serious, Papa, he should take this as a warning. People who get a reputation for writing such things don't live long in this country. Say that to Uncle Oleg.'

‘I'm not going to say that to Uncle Oleg. He's worried enough.'

‘Well, I can't tell you what to do.'

There was silence again.

‘Papa? Is there anything else? I've got things to do.'

Commissions, thought Sheremetev. What did that really mean? To whom was Vasya paying these commissions, and what was he getting in return?

He remembered Vasya as a small boy, always smiling, running, cheeky, always pushing to the limit and sometimes beyond. He thought of Karinka and wondered what she would have made of their son now. It was the same Vasya, the same little boy he had carried to bed each night, and yet at the same time it wasn't and he felt that he hardly knew this child they had brought into the world.

‘Vasya . . .' he said hesitantly.

‘What, Papa? I have to go, really. What is it?'

Sheremetev took a deep breath, then blurted it out. ‘What is it that you actually do?'

Vasya laughed.

‘Really, Vasya, tell me.'

‘You don't want to know.'

‘I do.'

‘Okay. Let's put it like this: I help people.'

‘What kind of people?'

‘Anyone.'

‘What kind of help?'

‘Whatever they want.'

‘I don't understand.'

Vasya laughed again. ‘Papa, I've got to go.'

‘Why does that mean you have to pay commissions?'

‘Forget I said that. I don't.'

‘You said you did.'

‘Sometimes there's no other way.'

‘To help people?'

‘Listen, Papa, I've got to go, really. Tell Uncle Oleg . . . Tell him whatever you want, but from me, there's not going to be anything.'

Sheremetev hesitated. Now that he had asked, he knew that he should ask more.

‘Papa, I'm going. Goodbye.'

Still Sheremetev hesitated. Then he let it go. ‘Goodbye,' he murmured.

Sheremetev rang Oleg after
he gave Vladimir his dinner and told him that Vasya didn't have the money. Oleg said he had spoken to the lawyer and he didn't think it would help for Sheremetev to meet the prosecutor and tell him that he wasn't a wealthy man. It was a delicate thing, apparently, to get an official to back down from asking for a certain bribe once he had given a number. Negotiation within range of the price was one thing, but confronting him with someone who would tell him that he had made such a drastic mistake was something else. It might just make him more determined to get it. If Oleg didn't have the money, the lawyer said, and if he couldn't get it from anyone else, he would have to be patient and hope the prosecutor didn't feel he would lose too much face by moderating his demands.

And in the meantime, Pavel was locked in a cell with who knew what kind of criminals.

Sheremetev put the phone down, silently thinking of his nephew, hoping that he was alright.

He went to put Vladimir to bed. He helped him change into his pyjamas and gave him his pills, which Vladimir took with a glass of water.

‘My daughter was here, you know,' said Vladimir, sitting on the edge of the bed and handing the glass back to Sheremetev.

‘Today?' asked Sheremetev.

‘She left a few minutes ago.'

‘Really? That's nice.'

‘She told me she's getting married,' said Vladimir.

‘Your daughter? Congratulations. Who to?'

‘I don't know him. He's an engineer. An aeronautical engineer. Works on planes.' Vladimir paused. ‘That's a good profession. Clean and precise.'

‘Does she have children, your daughter?'

Vladimir looked scandalised. ‘Not yet! She's not married.'

‘Of course. I forgot. Forgive me.'

‘That's what she came to tell me! Don't you listen? They're going to be married in three months. I said, with my blessing.'

‘But you don't know the groom,' said Sheremetev.

‘I know him,' said Vladimir, smiling slyly. ‘Of course I know him. Do you think my daughter would get to a position to marry someone and I wouldn't know about the groom?'

‘No,' said Sheremetev. ‘But knowing about someone isn't the same as knowing him.'

Vladimir grinned. ‘That's true.'

‘What does her mother think?'

‘Her mother's happy. She had her doubts, but I told her, if that's what the child wants, that's what she wants.'

‘So you think it's a good match?'

‘Yes, it's a good match. He's an engineer. An aeronautical engineer.'

‘I suppose that's a nice, clean job,' said Sheremetev.

Vladimir nodded. They spoke for a few more minutes, exchanging thoughts on aeronautical engineering and then the state of the defences on the border of the Baltic republics, to which the subject of aeronautical engineering somehow led in Vladimir's mind. Then Vladimir lapsed into silence.

‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, are you ready to go to bed?'

Vladimir looked at him. ‘Is that what I'm doing?'

‘Yes.'

He looked down at his pyjamas and fingered the material of one of his trouser legs.

Gently, Sheremetev lifted Vladimir's legs and swivelled them onto the bed, then covered him over.

‘Goodnight, Vladimir Vladimirovich,' said Sheremetev, turning on the night light.

‘Goodnight,' said Vladimir.

Sheremetev went to the door and switched off the main light. A night light stood beside Vladimir's bed. In its dim, yellow glow, Vladimir lay alone, head on the pillows, eyes looking straight up, unaware, it seemed, that Sheremetev was still there.

Sheremetev thought of the things Pasha had written. But the man lying over there was his patient, and he was his nurse. Sheremetev shook his head and tried to put Pasha's words out of his mind.

It was just after
five o'clock when Sheremetev heard Vladimir through the baby monitor. This time the ex-president wasn't agitated, just disorientated, thinking that it was time to get up. Sheremetev went in and told him that he should go back to sleep. It was worth a try, but it rarely worked. Quarter of an hour later, he had to go back in and settle Vladimir in the sitting room, where his favourite television channel was showing one of its most endlessly repeated documentaries, the one about Vladimir's border war with Belarus that led to the absorption of its northern half into the Russian Federation. Every time he saw it, Vladimir almost wept with emotion. Sheremetev went back and tried to sleep a little more, but he had one ear on the monitor, which crackled constantly with the noise of the tanks and artillery Vladimir had unleashed twenty years earlier and deployed with Russian troops supposedly in their private capacity as vacationers who had chosen to spend their holidays fighting with local patriots.

After breakfast, at the usual time, he took Vladimir for a walk. As soon as they got outside, there was a whiff of rotting chicken. Someone had thrown a cover over the pit to prevent the foxes getting in and leaving chicken heads and gnawed carcases strewn over the lawn behind the dacha, but the hole still gave off the stench of a charnel house. As they got closer, Vladimir started wrinkling his nose. Sheremetev could see a familiar look in his eye. Any unpleasant smell, he knew, was always likely to put Vladimir in mind of the Chechen, and it might only be another moment before he jumped into one of his martial arts poses. ‘This way, Vladimir Vladimirovich,' he said hurriedly, steering him away. Vladimir went with him, glancing suspiciously from side to side.

They went around the house towards the part of the estate that was still covered in birch wood and followed a path that led into the trees. Soon the air was fresh and the chirping of birdsong was all around them. The path crossed the paved track that ran from the main drive of the dacha to the garage, situated a hundred metres or so away in a clearing in the wood. Two black cars, the Mercedes and the Range Rover, stood in front of the building, and Eleyekov and his son were polishing them. Both men were red-haired, the younger Eleyekov a taller, slimmer version of the older.

‘Shall we go and say hello?' he said to Vladimir.

Vladimir stopped.

‘No?'

‘I'm tired.'

‘That's because you got up at five o'clock, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Come on, a little further.'

‘Where's my bed?'

‘It's not time for your nap yet. You haven't had lunch.'

‘
Wher
e
'
s my bed
?
'

‘We're outside.'

‘I think I'll lie down.'

‘Vladimir Vladimirovich! Please don't!' Sheremetev reached for him before Vladimir dropped where he was. ‘Come on, let's go back.'

Eleyekov heard the shout and looked up to see the nurse spinning the ex-president around and hurrying him away.

Sheremetev managed to march him back to the house, constantly nudging Vladimir forward and deflecting his desire to sleep through the sheer act of moving. He got him upstairs and into bed, still in his clothes. Vladimir lay on his back, staring up, as he always did before falling asleep. Sheremetev drew the curtains. By the time he turned around, Vladimir's eyes were closed.

Sheremetev took the baby monitor. After a few minutes he looked in and found Vladimir still sound asleep.

He quietly left the suite again. For a moment he stood in the corridor. The sight of the cars had reawakened his incredulity. Surely they couldn't have both been broken down when he wanted to take Vladimir for an outing the previous week.

He went outside and headed for the wood.

In front of the garage, Eleyekov and his son were still polishing the cars. The two black vehicles gleamed in the autumn sunlight.

Eleyekov spotted Sheremetev on the track and called out to him. His son looked up for a moment and then went back to work.

‘Didn't I see you before with Vladimir Vladimirovich?' asked the driver when Sheremetev reached him. ‘What happened? Didn't you want him to talk to us?'

‘Not at all. We were coming to see you, but Vladimir Vladimirovich got tired, Vadim Sergeyevich. We had to go back. When he gets tired, if you don't go back in a hurry, he'll throw himself down just where he is.'

‘Really?' said Eleyekov. He stepped back from the cars and stood beside Sheremetev, arms folded, as if examining a pair of fine animals. ‘What do you think, Nikolai Ilyich? Magnificent beasts, aren't they?'

‘So they're working, are they?'

‘Working? Of course! What do you think? Cars like this? They're precision machines. They never break down.'

‘Last week you said neither of them was working.'

‘Last week? Are you crazy? I never said that! When?'

‘When I wanted to take Vladimir Vladimirovich to the lake. Last week, I called down and the guard said he phoned you and the cars were being fixed.'

The driver stared at him for a moment. ‘Ah . . . Well, technically, that was right.'

‘Technically?'

‘Yes, it's very technical. Everything about these cars is technical. They're precision machines, Nikolai Ilyich. A lot of computer programming. Very delicate. Very sensitive, right Borya?'

Eleyekov's son looked around and grunted.

‘So were they broken down or not?'

‘Depends what you mean by broken down,' said the driver. ‘Could they move? Yes, if you're talking about simply pressing the accelerator. But with cars like this, that's only the beginning. Sometimes they need . . . tuning. Like a piano. If you use them when they're not tuned . . . well, yes, in an emergency, if you have to, you can use them, but let's just say I wouldn't like to take responsibility for the consequences. Look, the important thing, Nikolai Ilyich, is that these cars are always at the disposal of Vladimir Vladimirovich. Twenty-four seven! The only thing is that if he needs them, it's best if you can give me some warning.'

‘How much warning?'

‘Not much. A couple of days.'

Sheremetev frowned, trying to understand why he needed to give warning when the cars were constantly at Vladimir's disposal. ‘But if —'

‘Look, do you still want to take him to the lake?' said Eleyekov. ‘Yes? When do you want to go?'

‘How about tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow?' Eleyekov pulled a small notebook out of his pocket and consulted it briefly. ‘What about the next day? Tomorrow the cars . . . they need tuning.'

‘Again?'

‘They need a lot of tuning. Tuning, tuning, tuning. That's the secret with cars like these. Let's do the next day? Is the next day alright?'

Sheremetev shrugged. For Vladimir, one day was as good as another.

‘When shall we do it? What time would you like to go?'

‘The morning would be good – instead of his walk. Say ten o'clock.'

Eleyekov checked his notebook again and grimaced. ‘Mmmm . . . the morning's not so good. How about the afternoon? Three. No, make it two. Two? Would that be good?'

‘Sometimes Vladimir Vladimirovich has a nap after lunch.'

‘Perfect!' said Eleyekov cheerfully. ‘He can nap in the car! How long will you spend there? About an hour, do you think?'

‘Maybe a little more.'

‘An hour and a half. Any more is too much for an old man.' Eleyekov pulled out a pencil and made a note in his notebook. ‘Right! The day after tomorrow. Two o'clock. We leave at two, half an hour there, half an hour back, we're home by four-thirty. You're booked in!'

Into the driver's pocket went the notebook and pencil. Sheremetev watched in bemusement, utterly puzzled by the whole performance. ‘And the cars will be tuned?' he ventured.

‘Tuned, polished, revved. Nothing's too good for Vladimir Vladimirovich.' Eleyekov grinned. ‘It will be good for him to get away for a bit, have a nice outing.'

It would be good for everyone to get away, thought Sheremetev, with the atmosphere as unpleasant as it was in the dacha. He glanced at Eleyekev, who was gazing lovingly at the cars again. The driver, he knew, was friendly with Stepanin, and perhaps knew better than him what was happening with the cook.

‘Vadim Sergeyevich,' he said, ‘what's going on with Stepanin? Why is he digging his heels in with Barkovskaya?'

‘Why do you think?' said Eleyekov, raising an eyebrow.

‘He said it's a matter of principle.'

Eleyekov laughed.

‘The cook always chooses the supplier. He says it's the thin edge of the wedge.'

‘It's the thin edge of the wedge, alright,' replied Eleyekov, winking.

‘What does that mean?'

Suddenly Sheremetev was conscious of the driver giving him one of those looks that he was accustomed to receiving, a look of pity and amusement that intimated that there was a whole parallel world to the one in which he lived, of which he wasn't even aware.

‘What, Vadim Sergeyevich?'

‘Look, Nikolai Ilyich . . . It's really not my business, so I probably shouldn't tell you . . .'

‘What?' demanded Sheremetev.

‘I shouldn't say . . .'

‘Vadim Sergeyevich! Please!'

Eleyekov sighed, as if the other man were really dragging it out of him. ‘Okay. Stepanin had an arrangement with Pinskaya. Alright. Let's just leave it at that.'

‘An arrangement with Pinskaya? About what?'

‘Let me ask you this, Nikolai Ilyich. How do you think Pinskaya and her husband – a housekeeper and a truck driver – saved enough money to retire to a villa in Cyprus? Huh? Where did they get it from? And how do you think Vitya Stepanin is planning to get the money to open the restaurant he dreams of in Moscow? Nikolai Ilyich, what I'm saying is: there was an
arrangement
.'

Sheremetev frowned. ‘What was it?'

‘Honestly, I don't know the details. If I had to guess, I'd say there were two sets of invoices. One real one that she pays, and one for Pinskaya to show to whoever is supplying the funds. One, if you think about it, will be higher than the other. And the difference between the two will go into someone's pockets. Some to Stepanin, and some to Pinskaya. That's how things are usually done in Russia. But that's only a guess, Nikolai Ilyich. It could be something else.'

‘And now Barkovskaya is trying to stop it?'

‘Stop it?' Eleyekov shook his head incredulously. ‘We tried peres­troika once in Russia and look where that got us. No one wants to try that again.'

Eleyekov was only partly
right. There had been an arrangement between Stepanin and Pinskaya – but it wasn't simply a matter of double invoices. Over the years that the cook and the housekeeper had worked together, it had evolved into something more elaborate and complex, hinging on the fact that one of Stepanin's old army friends – not the chicken rustler, but one who had worked with him in the kitchens – ran a restaurant in the nearby town of Odintsovo and that Stepanin, for some reason, had seen fit to add an extra loop into the process whereby he would send provisions to this old comrade. In short, Stepanin ordered provisions for the forty people he fed each day at the dacha, but the suppliers delivered enough for eighty, doub­ling their prices so they didn't lose out. Stepanin then sold the extra forty people's worth of food to his friend's restaurant, pocketing the money. Initially, this had involved Stepanin hiring a van to take the extra provisions to the restaurant, but by now the operation was so efficient that the suppliers delivered to the restaurant direct, bringing only the cash to Stepanin and recovering it in the bloated invoices they directed to the housekeeper every month. Pinskaya, in turn, had kept ten percent of the sum of the invoices for herself, as was normal practice. The suppliers not only knew this, but gave her the ten percent in cash, then inflating their invoices by an extra twenty percent, allowing not only for the housekeeper's ten percent but for a little additional profit on the side. Altogether it was a perfectly satisfactory, if not exemplary and truly patriotic arrangement, and everyone was content. Stepanin's suppliers had double the business they would have had and an extra ten percent on the top. Stepanin was steadily salting away the capital for his restaurant month by month. And Pinskaya, for whom the arrangement with Stepanin was only one block in a towering edifice of arrangements relating to every other product and service that was provided to the dacha, was busily paying off the loan for the villa in Cyprus to which she and her husband couldn't wait to decamp.

Inevitably, there was what some might have naively considered to be a flaw in this brilliant strategy, namely, that as a result of all these extra little percentages piled on top of more percentages, the pro­visions for the dacha cost two and a half times as much as they should have – and if anyone who knew about large-scale provisioning had bothered to take the ten minutes it might have taken to compute the number of people being fed and the amount of money it was costing to feed them, and took the two minutes to do the division to work out how much this amounted to per head, this little flaw would have stood out like a glaring red beacon with a screaming siren on top. But Stepanin and Pinskaya had not been stupid enough to start with the additional percentages at the level they had eventually reached. They had begun much more modestly, and the percentages had grown more audacious over time, as it became apparent that they could accumulate with impun­ity. Nothing is free, of course, and they were perfectly well aware that the extra money was coming from somewhere, so someone was paying for the restaurant in Moscow and the villa in Cyprus, but even if they had wanted to thank their unwitting benefactors – which would have been ill-advised, if not foolhardy – they wouldn't have known how. Was it the state paying the bills? Was the money coming from Vladimir's own fabled wealth? Or was it from some other donor? Whoever it was didn't seem to care. Each month, Pinskaya gathered up the ludicrously inflated invoices and receipts for all the goods and services provided to the dacha and sent them off to a firm of lawyers in Petersburg, and each month the bank account from which she withdrew the funds to pay the suppliers was replenished, ready to be emptied again.