Nikolai and Vasili came to sit down at the table.
Just then a door at the back of the main room opened and in bustled Olga Stepanovich, Pyotr’s wife, a plump rosy woman with a slight squint. Arms outstretched, she made a bee-line for Nikolai and embraced him.
‘You. It is you who are to blame for all this happiness.’ She planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘Our entire lives are about to change.’
Her husband groaned. ‘Where do you think you are, Olga, in a Chekhov play?’
‘We will buy one of those Nespresso coffee machines,’ she said, snatching her handbag from the table where she had left it earlier and heading for the back room again.
Two minutes later she re-emerged, this time without a smile and looking grim. She marched over to the front door of the apartment and turned the key in the lock so that no-one could leave.
‘Excuse me. My watch is missing. I’m sure you won’t mind if I just check your pockets to see if any of you picked it up by accident.’
With that she proceeded to frisk Nikolai, patting him down before turning to Shimon Simonov who meekly submitted to the search.
‘I don’t suppose you would stoop to taking your wife’s watch but I’ll check just the same.’ She briefly inspected her husband’s pockets before turning to Egor who already stood with his empty pockets turned inside out. Then, clucking with annoyance, she marched back to the other room. After a few minutes:
‘Found it!’ she shouted. She returned, smiling as before and headed for the exit. ‘A Nespresso coffee machine like the one George Clooney advertises,’ she reminded her husband before leaving.
After that interruption Vasili served everyone tea along with some stale blinis.
‘I think we should get down to business,’ he said.
The other members of the group gathered behind Pyotr Stepanovich to peer over his shoulder as he opened up his laptop and revealed the full text of the European Union project.
‘We in the European Union want to make the world a better place,’ read out Shimon Simenov in bewilderment, raising his arms to reveal the threadbare elbows of his jacket. ‘And what makes them think they are qualified to adjust reality in such a way?’
Egor Dudnik butted in, all the energy seeming to gather in his moustache:
‘Who do these foreigners think they are, anyway, coming over here to teach us about xenophobia? We have a long and glorious history of it without their interference. The next thing we know they’ll be trying to re-write our great Russian novels to make them more moderate: Crime and Punishment – oh . . . Raskolnikov mustn’t murder the old woman. Why doesn’t he bring her some soup and bread rolls instead? Anna Karenina – oh how we cheered when she fell under the train and someone pulled her out just in time. I’m not at all sure we should be having anything to do with the European Union.’
‘You may be right,’ said Vasili looking glum. ‘Corruption is part of our legacy: tsars, commissars, oligarchs, all fleecing us. What would we do without it? How would we create our wonderful literature with its starving masses and cabbage soup swimming with cockroaches?’
‘I disagree. I think Russia belongs with Europe.’ Nikolai turned to Pyotr. ‘What would the English say if they were applying? They’re beacons of moderation.’
‘Oh, the English.’ Pyotr pulled a face. ‘They would say “Let’s not kill the Queen. Let’s give the poor some socks”.’
This struck Nikolai and Pyotr as so hilarious that they doubled up with uncontrollable giggles.
Egor continued defiantly: ‘Let the Europeans keep their J.K. Rowling – sitting on top of the bestseller list for years because she’s too idle to get off. We have our own dragons, our own house goblins hiding in magic eggs, not to mention our talking cheeses of yesteryear.’
This made Nikolai and Pyotr laugh even more until Nikolai suddenly announced in all seriousness: ‘I think Pushkin would have wanted Russia to join the E.U.’
There was a moment’s silence before Egor Dudnik exploded: ‘Pushkin? The father of Russian literature?’
There followed such a fierce argument about whether or not Pushkin would have wanted Russia to join the European Union that Vasili checked to make sure the casement windows were shut. Pyotr and Nikolai swore that Pushkin would have been in favour. Vasili and Egor argued that he would not. Finally, Shimon Simonov, alleged expert in all things Pushkinesque, rose to his feet. Fearing that he was about to start reciting The Bronze Horseman – which he often did as a prelude to his pronouncements and which took over twenty minutes – Vasili suddenly bellowed:
‘Comrades!’ surprising himself at the use of a term that had not passed his lips for thirty years. ‘Please look at the amount of money involved here, 70,000 euros. After we have set aside money for printing and distribution and, of course, a sum for the treatment of our friend and founder member, Ivan Persikov’s cancer, who would like to pocket several thousand euros?’
Shimon Simonov sat down again. Everyone round the table raised their hands.
‘Then let us get on with the job of making our application,’ continued Vasili. ‘We need something interesting, but not too interesting, with a sizeable helping of blandness. Surely that is not beyond our talents.’
They set to work. Egor rushed home to fetch his draughtsman’s table. The others sat with pen and paper. Soon something began to take shape.
It was decided at this point to bring in Mrs Babikov. Yelena Babikov, who swayed and waddled as she walked and had the vacant face of one prone to religious mania, had been the butt of such constant teasing and mockery all her life that she had become sensitive to the suffering of others and was tolerant and kind. She could be the arbiter of any material too cruel or extreme.
They all put pens to paper and under Yelena’s direction came up with enough ideas for a moderate graphic anti-bigotry magazine that fulfilled the E.U. Commission requirements. At eleven o’clock that evening they were all agreed on the content and with a ‘ping’ it was submitted by email as required to the Evaluation Committee.
Vasili went to the drawer of the small side table and took out three bottles of vodka. Before long Nikolai had found some music and was executing a lively Georgian folk dance around the table. Vasili was standing on a chair with a flush to his melancholic pallor, making a toast to windmills.
‘And I shall continue to tilt at windmills until I catch one of them off-guard,’ he announced to cheers and applause.
The evening spun on into more toasts and much hilarity.
Around midnight when, at that time of year, the sun over Petersburg seems to set and rise in the same place, utterly confusing east with west, Vasili found some sparklers which they all lit and waved around.
As the sparklers went out the mood suddenly changed and they decided that life was not worth living and that they should go down to the River Neva and drown themselves. Nikolai, the more optimistic of the group, managed to dissuade them from this course of action and in the morning, under a sun which had never properly set, they were to be found sprawled over chairs and on the floor of Vasili Babikov’s shabby apartment.
Madame Schultz’s luxury apartment was situated in one of the most exclusive districts of Moscow. As with all postings in less reliable countries, a guard in a sort of sentry box on stilts was maintained by the E.U. just inside the metal grid gates of the compound. The guard concealed his three toddler children in the bottom of the dark box until, every morning, when Mrs Schultz’s driver had taken her to work, the children were unleashed into the garden. Similarly, in the evening when he received a signal from a colleague that she was on her way back, the children were shovelled back in the box until the end of his evening shift.
Madame Schultz found herself, however, upon the horns of an intractable dilemma at the office. The E.U. Head of Delegation and Head of Commission, her boss in Moscow, and his counterpart, the Head of Commission in Brussels, were at war, refusing to speak to each other. The Head of Delegation in Moscow would only address emails to the s
ecretary of his counterpart in Brussels. His counterpart refused to read any emails addressed to his secretary. This meant that the Evaluation Committee for her project was unable to make headway. She decided the only way forward was to break with E.U. protocol requiring all communication to be by email and to visit the groups who had applied, even the one in Petersburg, and check that they were bona fide groups of writers and artists. She interviewed the Moscow applicants first.
Most of these had fashionably short greased hair that stood up like iron filings under a magnet. Some had tattoos and a competitive glint in their eyes. They were the new entrepreneurs, graphic designers who worked for fast-food companies or had started up dog-grooming businesses. They had spotted the advertisement and cobbled together various proposals in order to win the grant. When Madame Schultz looked over the applications it was the one from Petersburg that seemed the most promising in its adherence to the values of the E.U. She sent them an email saying that they should arrange a date for her to visit.
On the day of the visit, the sun peeped through the casement windows into the Babikovs’ freshly cleaned apartment. The literary group had assembled in good time, respectably dressed and with minds singularly focused on the proximity of the grant. They had taken a vow not to contradict Madame Schultz and to talk only in terms of moderation and tolerance. In the interests of gender equality, Mrs Yelena Babikov had been included in the company.
It was Madame Schultz’s first visit inside a Russian household. She was introduced to them one by one – with Egor Dudnik going crimson as his name was mentioned. Her informality, friendliness and passable grasp of the Russian language soon allowed the group to relax.
‘I thought your proposal for an anti-bigotry magazine was very interesting,’ she said, ‘and I’ve brought something to show you on my laptop to prove that the European Union also has soul, that it is not entirely focused on specifications for vacuum-cleaners or introducing the regulatory size for Europe-wide toilet cisterns.’
Nikolai Pestov could hardly believe his ears.
‘Do you mean that you have regulated cisterns throughout the continent?’ he enquired, immediately becoming even more enamoured of the European Union.
A little unsure of her ground, Madame Schultz said she thought so.
‘Anyway,’ interrupted Pyotr Stepanovich in an ingratiating tone of voice, ‘we know that the E.U. has soul. They have a statue of Robert Schumann the composer outside their building.’
‘Ah,’ Madame Schultz was smiling. ‘Many people make that mistake. That statue is of Robert Schuman, accountant and lawyer and founding father of the European Union. But let me show you what is on my laptop here.’
Pyotr cringed at his mistake. All the members of the group gathered obediently around her.
She switched on her laptop. There was a tinny rendition of Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ and on to the screen sprang a square-jawed woman with solidly set blonde hair. She spoke with a barely suppressed hysteria that was evident even in the Russian sub-titles:
‘The introduction of a European Prize for Literature shows that the European Union is more than politics and finance and sewage incinerators. It gives soul to the European Union. We are not just a conglomeration of financiers but an institution that has soul.’
She smiled at the camera until it was turned off and the screen went blank.
‘Ah yes,’ sighed Shimon Simonov, at his most fawning. ‘How lucky you are. The European soul is healthy and strong. I thought I saw the great Russian soul walking along through the silver birches. It limped and walked with a stick. It was always ahead of me. Nearly out of sight. And then I lost it.’
Pyotr Stepanovich was staring at Shimon with a look which clearly said ‘Wrap your fake Russian soul up and put it in your pocket. We are trying to get a grant here.’
No-one knows what Shimon Simonov would have gone on to say because at that moment one of the doors leading off the room slowly opened and Babikov’s lodger, known only as The Serb, stepped into the room, smiling and reeking of wine fumes. He was tall and wore a pill-box hat and a green calf-length jacket with a theatrical appearance that had some insignia on it. With the unerring instinct of someone who recognises the most important person in the room, The Serb stepped forward and addressed himself to Madame Schultz:
‘Holy Russia will rise again. In Schlisselburg,’ he announced.
Madame Schultz was not sure that her Russian was up to the occasion. So she beamed.
Encouraged, The Serb took another step in her direction.
‘But there are other forces. What about the other forces controlling us? The Shining Beings?’ he enquired.
By this time Vasili Babikov had risen from his chair and was leading the Serb back to his quarters.
Nikolai put his head in his hands. Madame Schultz, however, sensing that the drama was over, continued with the conversation about soul.
‘We think business can have soul too.’ At this observation the room fell silent. ‘Look at our lovely Manuel Barroso. President of the European Commission for many years. It was under his tenure that this European prize for literature was established to prove that we have soul. And he has gone straight to Goldman Sachs to continue his career and spread the word there.’
Nikolai put a restraining hand on the shoulder of Egor whose teeth were baring into a grimace.
As if things could not get worse, the afternoon sun chose at that precise moment to penetrate a crack in the green brocade cover of the parrot’s cage and the parrot found his voice:
‘Lenin’s work will live on. The party is our helmsman. Communism will live forever!’ shrieked the parrot.
Suddenly, Mrs Yelena Babikov wobbled to her feet, her lips and jowl trembling with emotion:
‘And what are we supposed to do? He is our beloved family pet. Are we supposed to have him put down just because his ideas are a little old-fashioned? Well, I say no. We love and cherish him. Let him say whatever he thinks.’
‘Bravo,’ agreed Madame Schultz, who remembered her own anguish at having to leave her favourite pet cat behind in Brazil. In a flash she recognised that here was the true spirit of tolerance and compassion she was seeking: ‘I shall let you know the result of your application by email as soon as I return.’
She restrained herself from announcing her verdict until she could announce the results to all the applicants simultaneously. In our bureaucracy lies our fairness, she reminded herself.
Nikolai had been appointed to escort her to Moskovski Station and spent much of the journey there enquiring about cisterns.
No sooner was Madame Shultz out of earshot than Egor Dudnik leapt to his feet, ran over to the wall and banged his head on it several times shouting:
‘Bastards. They have ruined the ‘Ode to Joy’. They play it as a formula on every tin-pot occasion. I hate them. They should all be shot. I’ve a good mind to go to Moscow and blow up everyone working for the European Union.’
‘I hope you’re not going to blow people up dressed like that,’ said Pyotr Stepanovish, who had spotted that Egor still wore his pyjama top under his best summer shirt.
Shimon Simenov stood up:
‘When I was drinking, I was a god. I could stride through Petersburg. I could knock people out. Now I’m creeping around saying “Excuse me” to European bureaucrats.’
The weary group said goodbye with no idea of the success or otherwise of their meeting.
Back in Moscow Madame Schultz found an email in her inbox. It was from Boeing Aircraft Manufacturers in Chicago. It seemed that the Serbian gentleman had managed to leave the Babikov household and crawl into a police station to report that his feet were missing. Having been admitted to a detoxification unit he had somehow ordered a Boeing 707 jet from America for his private use. Madame Schultz had received an email asking if the gentleman did have enough funds to purchase such an aircraft and whether the European Union was, indeed, standing guarantor. She clucked with impatience and deleted the email.
&nbs
p; She then sent an email informing the Petersburg group that their application was successful and that as soon as they supplied the remaining 20% of the grant they would receive a cheque for 56,000 euros.
Madame Schultz surveyed her work with satisfaction. Was it possible that through her actions she had been instrumental in turning that great ship of state, Mother Russia, in a new direction that would avoid corruption and embrace moderation and tolerance? She hoped so. Having poured herself a drink, she settled down to watch a rather strange documentary about the conflict in the Ukraine and the righteousness of Russian actions there while puzzling briefly over the wailing sound that was coming from her guard’s sentry box.
No-one had read the small print. The next morning telephones rang frantically between the members of the writers’ group. The sum of 14,000 euros was impossible for them to raise between them. Finally, Nikolai telephoned his friend Fyodor and asked if there was any way the oligarch might help.
On the set of his fake documentary, Fyodor, dressed in his Night of the Wolf-Hook costume, approached the oligarch, who was seated in the producer’s chair overlooking a location strewn with the ruins of blown-up tanks and the remnants of rocket grenades. He was a large, pear-shaped man with a fleshy but mobile face and a powerful lazy carnality. He wore black silk socks and an open-necked shirt.
‘Good morning, Midas.’ Fyodor sidled up to the oligarch. ‘I thought I should tell you that I heard something that worried me a little. It concerns your campaign to run for president. There is a group of scally-wag intellectuals, writers and satirists who intend to bring out a magazine that refers to some unsavoury episodes in your past.’
A thunderclap of laughter erupted from the oligarch.
‘How much will it cost to buy up all the copies?’
‘I’m not sure.’
The oligarch wrote out a chit and handed it to Fyodor. ‘Take this to the finance department. They will provide funds.’
The Master of Chaos Page 6
