He dressed, put on his MoES tunic, slipped a left-over half-full bottle of cognac into his pocket, put on snow boots, and with Misha cradled in his arms, left the flat. No-one was about, and the city so deeply and infectiously asleep as to set Viktor yawning, and also Misha, who was standing beside him on the snowy pavement.
The faint yellow dots of distant headlights appeared and grew slowly larger and brighter. Stepping into the road, Viktor raised his arm. The ancient Moskvich crawled cautiously towards him and stopped. He went to open the door, but it was locked.
“Where do you want to go to?” a man’s voice asked through the lowered window.
“Dnieper Embankment,” said Viktor, trying to see the man’s face.
“Cost you 30 hryvnas, seeing it’s New Year’s Day,” said the still unseen driver.
“OK.”
They got out just beyond Metro Bridge. No sign of dawn breaking. He looked to see the time, but discovered he’d left his watch at home.
“Come on, we’ll find you an ice-hole,” he told Misha.
It was somewhat alarming to be down on the frozen river in –10° with the far shore invisible in greyish – hopefully, morning – haze. Something else he’d left behind was his fur hat, but the effects of champagne and cognac, and the security of having a supply of the latter, did something to mitigate the loss.
Together they set off across the ice. Slowly. Not from fear, but because Viktor found a slow pace more manageable, and Misha was not in a hurry. Indeed, every so often he stopped to look up at his master, falling behind as he did so, then catching up in order to do so again.
“Soon be there,” said Viktor, plodding on.
But like the darkness, the ice continued unbroken. He halted, stared about him, but saw only ice. That was strange. Hydropark should be there somewhere. Squatting beside Misha, he confessed quietly, earnestly, that they were lost, but that it would soon be light. He swigged his cognac, felt its bitter-sweet warmth suffuse his body, slowing thought and movement even further. The bottle, as he replaced it, struck against what proved to be his mobile. Lighting its tiny window, he dialled 060 and an electronic woman announced that it was 06hrs 08 mins.
“It’s a pity they don’t tell you when dawn is,” he said to Misha.
They pressed on, and in the chilly twilight, encountered a fisherman seated on his box over an ice hole.
“Any luck?” Viktor asked.
The man, in sheepskin jacket with turned-up collar, made no reply. On the ice beside him, short of the frozen-over hole, lay his rod and an empty bottle of vodka.
“You see – what’s good for penguins is death to us Ukrainians,” he told Misha, as horrified by the idea of himself suffering such a fate as he was fearful of the future in general.
82
It was completely light by the time they drew up outside their block in an ancient, L-plated Zhiguli, and Viktor paid the driver, a pale, bespectacled youth, the 45 hryvnas he asked. It was excessive, but New Year was when those out to earn a bit extra found fares willing to pay over the odds.
Everyone was still asleep. The clock showed 9.45. The cat was mewing over her empty bowl in the corridor, and to keep her quiet Viktor filled it with milk. He then got a fillet of frozen cod, and put it in a sinkful of hot water to thaw.
Time for his own breakfast, he decided. Their walk on the Dnieper ice had left him tired and hungry. He fetched his unfinished plate of roast from the sitting room, and he and Misha settled down to breakfast.
Sonya, who was the first to wake, looked into the kitchen with her presents.
“Actually new roller skates were what I wanted,” she said.
“You should have told Grandfather Frost.”
“He ought to have guessed!” she snapped. “By the way, I’m hungry too.”
“Like me to make you some semolina?”
“Semolina? No, thank you. I’ll get something from the table.”
She was soon back, sitting on a stool with slices of dried-up Dutch cheese, rings of smoked sausage and two pickled cucumbers on her plate.
By 11.00 everyone was up and about. Nina washed up before opening her presents, then gave Viktor a manly hug, kissing him on the lips and cheek.
Viktor, having by now somewhat recovered from his early morning excursion, made Nina coffee, telling her to read the grounds when she’d drunk it. Nina drank so fast she burnt her lips, but the images, when revealed, made her laugh and forget it. Sonya wanted to see, but Nina wiped the side of the cup before she could.
Lyosha tried his calculator and examined the diary.
“Any use?”
Lyosha shrugged.
“It will be if you find me something to do.”
But for me, no presents, thought Viktor, and beyond an anonymous phone call, no best wishes either.
He had an urge to be alone. Tomorrow he’d be at work for Andrey Pavlovich, but today was still a day off.
“The new year’s what your first day makes it!” came suddenly to mind, and so far the outlook was not good. He thought of the fisherman frozen in the pose of Rodin’s “Thinker”, and no doubt by now removed to some morgue. He decided to go for a walk.
83
Kreshchatik Street was already a little livelier. Two great orange snow ploughs were at work, and a few pedestrians window-gazing at the unaffordable. Viktor went, as his steps led him, to the Old Kiev Cellar Café, which was shut. Turning back, he slowly made his way past Znamya Booksellers, Central Universal Stores and what was once Friendship Bookshop. At the corner of Proreznaya Street he paused, tried to remember when he’d last read a book, but couldn’t. As a boy he’d liked Jack London, as a young man, Khachayev’s Maksim Gorky. The time of books had then ended, and the time of newspapers dawned. He’d had a go at writing something of his own, but work for Capital News had put the kibosh on that, teaching him to write fluently and with due respect of those who had died.
That fisherman dead on the Dnieper ice was equally worthy of respect, though, not having known him, he could not say in what particulars. However much he may have boozed, abused his wife, banged doors, there was something fine, perhaps even enviable, in the manner of his death.
Viktor looked up at the Trade Union House tower to check the time, but got only the Adidas advert, of which he’d seen more than enough. In quest of an open café, he set off up Proreznaya Street, and found the Cyber, where teenagers were playing virtual war games and the supervisor, deep in a back number of Top Secret, deigned eventually to notice him.
“Any coffee?”
“Could be.”
“Internet working?”
“And why shouldn’t it?”
“Coffee and Internet, then.”
“Computer 6. Coffee on its way.”
“Penguin” produced a mass of search responses, “Vernadsky Base” included, but what caught his eye, was “Antarctic SOS”. He clicked on.
A photograph showed two bronzed, tough, tall 50-year-olds, and a resolute, attractive, equally bronzed blonde, and a fine sea-going yacht with, in three languages: “Croat crew seek like-minded spirit for voyage to Anatarctica, sharing expense.” The e-mail address being Mladen, he wondered which of the men Mladen was, and who the attractive young lady might be.
Helped by the supervisor, he printed out the advertisement, registered an e-mail address of his own, then e-mailed Mladen, expressing interest but making no mention of Misha. The new year’s what your first day makes it, he thought. Things were looking up.
84
Woken by something between a cry and a sob, Viktor eventually got up to investigate. Lyosha and Sonya were asleep in the sitting room, but Misha was missing from his bed by the balcony door.
Viktor found him in the kitchen, pressed into the corner between the stove and the wall, body heaving as if he were sobbing.
“Misha! What’s wrong?”
Misha turned. His cheek was bleeding. Sensing another presence and spotting the green eyes of the cat under the table, Viktor gra
bbed her by the scruff of the neck and threw her out of the flat. Then, fetching cotton wool and ointment, he ministered as best he could to a willing patient.
Sonya appeared in her white flannel pyjamas and sleepily took the scene in.
“The cat scratched him,” he explained.
“We must kick her out,” said Sonya.
“We mustn’t do that. It’s just that she’s jealous of Misha.”
“Could I have some Fizz?”
He poured them both some Fizz.
“Do you know, Uncle Lyosha’s keen on Auntie Nina.”
He looked at her in amazement.
“It’s true. He’s always asking her about something or other. And she’s told him about the dacha at Osokorki, and about Uncle Sergey in the urn.”
Viktor shrugged. “You must go to bed. I’ll sit up with Misha for a bit.”
Misha was now standing with his back to the stove, looking puzzled and aggrieved, the latter by virtue of the ointment on his cheek. Before returning to bed, Viktor saw Misha to his, and having shut the sitting room door, let the cat back in.
85
At 11.00 next morning the virgin snow outside the Goloseyevo villa revealed that those within had not yet ventured beyond its bounds, and that he, on this yet-to-start second day of the New Year, was the first to visit it.
A red-faced Pasha, dressed as if just back from a ski run, lack of tracks notwithstanding, opened the side gate to him.
“The Chief’s still in bed. Come and have a coffee.”
Viktor kicked the snow from his boots and removed them in the hall.
“He didn’t get back till 3.00 this morning. What a time! You’ve no idea! Vasya – he’s another of his aides – made a list of people to wish Happy New Year to, 73 of them, People’s Deputies, State officials. Had to be done. That’s politics. He has to have a drink with them, talk about the weather and entry into Europe, though some of them make him want to puke. He’s happier talking to me now, whereas in the old days he’d nothing to talk to me about.”
“Maybe I should come back later.”
“No, wait. He told you to come, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re at work, and you’ve got to wait. Don’t imagine he needs me every minute of the day. Very often I sit for a couple of hours doing nothing, but I’m on duty. You have to get used to it.”
Drinking his coffee, Viktor wondered if he really wanted to get used to it. Having a job to do was all right, might even be interesting, but waiting for orders was different.
“Did you have a good New Year?” he asked.
“Usual sort of thing. All sorts coming with greetings and presents, sitting for five minutes knocking back their drink, then off. Each with his own list of a hundred to visit. But all quiet by four. So we had a gin and tonic and watched porn on video.”
His mobile rang. The caller’s number as revealed in the window commanded instant respect.
“I’ll tell him to at once … He’s resting at the moment, but I’ll wake him.”
“Who was that?” Viktor asked, when Pasha returned.
“A two-headed snail. Potapych. Now Special Presidential Adviser, if you please.”
*
“Before I forget,” said Andrey Pavlovich, as they sat with coffee in the sitting room, “there was a plain-clothes man inquiring about you. My fault for including you in document distribution lists. Wanted to know what I knew about you. I think I reassured him, but watch out. Still, back to business. Remember what I retain you for?”
“Humanitarian matters.”
Andrey Pavlovich laughed. “And how! Those artificial limbs were the goods! Now here’s a whole lot of begging letters for you. Take them home, bin the crap, but anything that strikes you as worth-while and not too costly, let me know and we’ll consider it.”
*
“Sorry, I’d like to drive you, but I’m delivering more presents,” said Pasha, helping to pack at least three kilos of letters into a carrier bag.
“Not to worry, I’ll make it,” said Viktor.
86
Over coffee in the Old Kiev Cellar, Viktor made a start on the bundle, reading carefully at first, then skimming with growing mistrust. Kiev feminists requesting money in support of their magazine and for return tickets to a Women’s Rights conference in the USA. The Old Kiev District Council Veterans were more modest: cost of repairs, estimate for 6000 hryvnas enclosed. The Children-our-Tomorrow Benevolent Fund simply wanted $25,000 paid into its account, number supplied. An infant music school needed to have its instruments tuned.
He ordered another coffee and a large cognac.
Two requests from children’s homes, but they, too, wanted money transferred to accounts. Lottery-fashion, he drew one of the many remaining letters at random. It was from a war veteran seeking assistance in publishing his memoirs.
Dumping the whole carrier bag of letters in the first litter bin he encountered, he set off for the Cyber café.
As he walked up Proreznaya Street, he had a strange sensation of being followed, and concluded that he was – by a man in a long black overcoat and grey wolfskin hat with earflaps, on the other side of the street. When Viktor entered the café, the man walked on towards Adidas, taking a mobile from his pocket.
The e-mail message awaiting Viktor ran: “Hi! Glad to hear of your interest in joining our expedition. We sail from Split 8th of March. Contribution required: $10,000. Look forward to your confirming. Best, Mladen Pavlich.”
He e-mailed back his confirmation, inquiring the name of the yacht and details of what he should bring. Split, informed the Internet, was, inter alia, a popular venue for events: Croatian Basketball Championship, from 6th of January; Chess Tournament, February; European Arm-wrestling Championship, 3rd–9th of March.
“What’s arm-wrestling?” he asked, distracting the supervisor from his screen.
The supervisor demonstrated.
When he left the café and headed back to Kreshchatik Street, the man in the wolfskin hat was nowhere to be seen. At the Proreznaya–Pushkinskaya Street junction a Mercedes S600 drew up beside him. A rear door opened.
“In you get, Viktor,” urged the voice of his supposedly deceased former chief, Igor Lvovich, Editor of Capital News. “Have some champagne. I’ve already wished you a Happy New Year, but we’ve still to clink glasses.”
Viktor got in, Igor Lvovich tapped the chauffeur’s shoulder, and the Mercedes glided forward.
“Prior to my death in the motor accident, word reached me that you had shot yourself,” said Igor Lvovich. “Then, it emerged, it was not you but another obituarist, a novice at the job, nothing like you. So as you see, all has turned out for the best.”
He laughed, seeing Viktor’s expression of total disbelief.
“Nor was it me who burned to death on the Borispol Highway, but a suitably clothed, suitably documented, spruced up vagrant. So here’s me, dead and buried, yet not. And happening to hear that one Comrade Zolataryov, a.k.a. ‘The Penguin’, is walking about, large as life and complete with penguin, I say to myself, we must meet … After all, you’re one of the best, already Aide to a People’s Deputy – I’m in the picture, you see – and as Gorbachov would put it, rightly so. Here’s us, a vast country, but catastrophically short of men able to think and act, or simply think. Functionary-wise, we’re a wilderness!” he declared, accompanying the words with a dismissive gesture. “Our problems far exceed the number of men capable of coming up with solutions. You can see for yourself. That Deputy of yours, for instance. Pasts are no longer considered. All’s forgiven, all’s forgotten! Just so long as a man can string two words together!”
He paused as if to give Viktor a chance to speak, but Viktor could do no more than stare. It really was his old chief, though fleshier of face and with bags under his eyes from liverishness, sleepless nights or unhealthy living. On the other hand, he was more expensively suited, and his Rolex was not a Chinese fake.
“I’m starting a new
paper. Ukrainian Courier. First issue ten days from now. Buy it. Read it. You might have some thoughts. I’d like your advice. I value your opinion. I could in due course make you editor-in-chief …”
Consulting his Rolex, he told the driver to switch on National Radio 1, and a few seconds later the chimes reverberated over the quadraphonic stereo system.
“A sucker for the exact time, that’s me,” he smiled.
From a tiny bar between the two front seats he produced a bottle of champagne and glasses, and briefly lowering the window at the touch of a button, shot the cork out. “Happy New Year!” he said with a merry twinkle in his eye, and they clinked glasses.
Dropped off in Pechersk between Arsenal metro station and Square of Glory, Viktor plodded in the direction of Caves Monastery, numb from the shock of this encounter, and as little able to comprehend it as to clear his head of Igor Lvovich’s “So here’s me, dead and buried, yet not”.
87
That evening Sonya again confided suspicions concerning Lyosha’s feelings towards Nina, who was at that moment pushing him to the bathroom to wash and clean his teeth.
“So what?” Viktor asked.
“So he’s a guest and you shouldn’t allow it!” Sonya responded in amazement.
“Sonya,” he urged. “Keep an eye on things, yes, but where grown-ups are concerned, don’t meddle.”
Sonya sighed and swept out.
88
Early next morning Viktor spent Andrey Pavlovich’s clothing allowance on a warm Finnish jacket with hood, high winter boots, jeans and an emerald green pullover, and returned to the flat to get into them.
“Very smart,” said Lyosha.
Nina, poking her head out of the kitchen, said nothing.
“Not found anything for me yet?” Lyosha went on to ask. “If I sit doing nothing much longer, I’ll be back on the vodka.”
“Bear with me. Everyone’s still celebrating.”
His mobile rang in the pocket of his MoES jacket in the corridor. It was Pasha. The Chief would like to see him within the hour.
Penguin Lost Page 18
