Death and the Penguin (6 page)

Gulping tea, he pondered the point. He read what he had written, before continuing:

Here, breaking off again to look more closely at the programme, he permitted himself the ghost of a smile.

He straightened up, breathing hard, as if having completed a 100-metre sprint, not sat tapping away at a typewriter. To relieve the strain imposed by this urgent nocturnal commission, he massaged his temples. Still, the job was done.

He reached for what he had written and read it through, feeling suddenly sorry for the opera singer who had died, or met death, he knew not how.

He looked out of the window. The car was down below, waiting.

Getting to his feet, he turned, and was startled to see Misha looking on thoughtfully from the doorway, standing immobile, tiny eyes alone burning with vital fire, but quite inscrutable, simply observing his master dispassionately, and for no particular reason.

Taking a deep breath, Viktor squeezed between penguin and door and out into the corridor, threw his sheepskin jacket over his dressing-gown, and made for the landing and stairs, clutching his text.

The courier was asleep, head sunk forward onto the wheel. Viktor tapped the window. The man rubbed his eyes. Without a word, he opened the door, relieved Viktor of the page of text, started the engine and drove off.

Viktor returned to his flat. The night was all in pieces. He didn’t feel like sleep, he was brimming with superfluous energy.

Discovering some sleeping tablets in the medicine cabinet, he washed down two with water still warm from the kettle, and retired to his room.

Next morning at ten, the Chief rang again. He was happy with the
obelisk
and apologized once more for disturbing Viktor’s sleep. A couple more days, he said, and Viktor would be able to come to the office, the main thing being to remember his Press card, as the Special Task Militia was now on duty at the entrance and on every floor.

Outside, winter continued crisp with frost. It was fairly quiet.

Standing over his Turkish coffee-maker at the stove, Viktor was wondering how to fill his day. One possibility, in view of his night’s work, was take the day off. But a day off involved an even greater need for interesting content than a normal day. He therefore decided to go, after coffee, to the kiosk for the papers, and then make up his mind what to do.

His second cup he drank over the papers. First, he read his night’s work, now in half a million copies, on the last page but one. It was all there, untouched by the Editor-in-Chief. He would
have been enjoying his night’s sleep while the text was being set ready for the press. Going back to page one, he read the lengthy, full-page leader:
NOT AN END TO WAR BUT A TRUCE
. Pictures reminiscent of the assault on Grozny broke up the soldierly columns of print. He ploughed on. The more he read, the more absorbed he became. What emerged was that while he had been leading a normal life in Kiev, near-battles had been fought by two warring Mafia clans. At least, so the article claimed. Seventeen dead, nine wounded, five bomb blasts. Among the dead were the Editor-in-Chief’s driver, three militiamen, an Arab businessman, persons as yet unidentified, and a singer from the National Opera.

The other papers, he noticed, devoted far less space to the
war
than
Capital News
. Against that, there was a little more about the death of the singer, whose body had been discovered in the early hours at the lower funicular station. She had been strangled with a leather belt. Furthermore, her architect husband had vanished and their flat was in disorder, having evidently been ransacked in search of something.

Viktor pondered. The singer’s death had, on the face of it, nothing to do with clan warfare. A completely
extraneous
crime, in fact. The missing husband might have had a hand in it. And -the thought horrified him – so might he, having referred to her in his Yakornitsky obituary. He had not named her, of course, but for many a nod was as good as a wink, and that might have been the last straw for hubby …

He sighed, and for a moment felt appallingly wearied by his own assumptions.

“What rubbish!” he said under his breath. “Why would hubby ransack his own flat?”

The day ended, oddly enough, on a fairly productive note. Three
obelisks
lay ready on the table. Through the window the light of the winter evening was fading. Steam was rising from a freshly made cup of tea.

He skimmed his latest efforts. A bit on the short side, but all because he had not been to the office for some time for additional information on his notables from Fyodor. But that was no problem. Pending printing he could still work on them, still revise them.

He drank his tea, turned off the kitchen light, and was on his way to bed, when there was a knock at the door.

Taken aback, Viktor stood in the corridor listening to the silence. Then, discarding his slippers, he went barefoot to the door and peeped through the spyhole. It was Misha-non-penguin. Viktor let him in.

Misha had Sonya in his arms, asleep. He came in without a word, merely nodding hello.

“Where can I put her?”

“In there,” whispered Viktor indicating the living room door.

Misha laid Sonya on the settee, then tiptoed back to the corridor.

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” he suggested.

On again went the kitchen light.

“Put the kettle on.”

“It’s only just boiled.”

“I’ll stay till morning,” Misha said dully. “And Sonya can live here for a bit … OK? Till things settle down.”

“What things?” asked Viktor.

But he received no answer. They were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, except that Misha was now where Viktor usually sat, and Viktor had his back to the stove. For just an instant he seemed to detect a flash of hostility in Misha’s eyes.

“Cognac?” he asked, in an effort to lift the black cloud of tension hanging over them.

“All right,” said his visitor.

Viktor poured. They drank in silence.

Lost in thought, Misha drummed the table with his fingers. Looking around and spotting the pile of newspapers on the window sill, he drew it towards him. Picking up the topmost, he pulled a wry face and thrust the papers back again.

“Life’s funny,” he sighed. “You try to give pleasure and end up crash-diving like a submarine …”

Viktor heard what he was saying, but the meaning eluded him, like gossamer in the wind.

“Pour me another,” said Misha.

Downing his second glass, he went and looked at Sonya still peacefully asleep in the living room, then came back.

“I daresay you’d like to know what’s happened,” he said slowly in a weaker voice, looking hard at Viktor.

Viktor said nothing. He no longer wanted to know anything. Sleep was what he wanted, and Misha-non-penguin’s odd behaviour was beginning to get him down.

“The shootings, the bombs, you know about, don’t you.” Misha gestured towards the papers.

“Well?” asked Viktor.

“Know who’s to blame for that lot?”

“Who?”

Misha combined a longish pause with a smile that was weary and unfriendly.

“You.”

“
Me
? How – how could I?”

“Not entirely you, of course … Though without you, none of this would have happened.” He stared unblinkingly, seeming to gaze through and beyond Viktor. “Just that you were feeling bloody – I could see you were. I asked you why. You told me. We were open about it. That child-like openness was what I liked about you. You wanted to see your little bits in print, edged round with black. And why not? So then I asked you who your best future lamented was … Simply out of a wish to give you pleasure … Give me another.”

Viktor got up and poured them both cognac, hands trembling visibly.

“You mean,
you
killed Yakornitsky?” He was aghast.

“Not me,
we,”
corrected Misha. “But don’t you worry, he more than had it coming … Another thing is that his death leaves out in the cold the privatization fanatics he milked of funds
on account
. Apart from that he retained certain documents touching on parliamentary colleagues by virtue of which he prolonged his own existence and security. It’s a tough life they lead at the top … A kind of war.”

A lengthy pause followed. Misha-non-penguin looked out of the window, leaving Viktor grappling with what he had been told.

“Listen,” he said at last, “am I involved in the death of his mistress, too?”

“You haven’t grasped it,” said Misha in a calm, schoolteacher-like voice. “What you and I have done is pull out the bottommost
card of the card house. Result: total collapse. Now we just wait for the dust to settle …”

“Me too?” Viktor asked, sounding alarmed.

Misha shrugged. “Individual matter,” he said, replenishing his glass. “But you’ll be all right. You, it seems, enjoy good protection … Which is why I’ve come to you.”

“Whose?”

Misha gestured vaguely.

“I don’t claim to know. Just a feeling. You wouldn’t still be with us if you didn’t.” He became lost in thought. “Can I ask you to do me a favour?” he enquired after a while.

Viktor nodded.

“Go off to bed, and I’ll sit on for a bit and have a think.”

Viktor went to his room, lay down, but didn’t feel like sleeping. He listened, but the silence of the flat was absolute. Everyone, it seemed, was sound asleep. Faintly from the living room came a child’s voice. It was Sonya muttering
Mummy, Mummy
.

Who, he wondered, was where?

Eventually he dozed off.

A little later, the penguin emerged from behind the dark-green settee, and sauntered towards the half-open living-room door. En route he paused by the sleeping girl, gazed thoughtfully at her, then continued on into the corridor. Pushing the next door open, he proceeded to the kitchen.

Sitting asleep in his master’s place, head resting on the table, was a strange man.

For several minutes the penguin considered him, standing motionless by the door, then turned about and retraced his steps.

The clock on the bedside table showed 7.00. Outside it was still dark and quiet. Having woken with a headache, Viktor lay on his back contemplating the ceiling and thinking about his conversation with Misha-non-penguin. Headache or no headache, he now had some questions for his caller of the night before.

Slowly, trying to make no sound, he got up, put on his dressing-gown, and went to the living room.

Sonya was still asleep, thoughtfully covered with Viktor’s grey autumn overcoat from its hook in the hall.

Steeling himself, he went out into the corridor, only to be brought up short by the doors left open on the way to the kitchen.

The kitchen was empty. On the table was a note.

Caught unawares, Viktor sat at the table staring at the handwritten note, trying to put from his mind the questions he had intended to ask Misha-non-penguin, and hadn’t.

Through the window, the grey of a wan winter dawn was contending with night.

His thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the living-room settee. Getting to his feet, he went and looked into the living room.

Sonya was sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asked, becoming aware of Viktor’s presence.

“He’s gone,” he replied. “You’re to live here for a bit.”

“With Misha the penguin?” she asked brightly.

“Yes,” he answered dryly.

“Yesterday we had our windows broken,” she said. “And it was very cold.”

“Your windows at home?”

“Yes,” she confided. “Crash! Bang! they went. It was awful!”

“Like something to eat?”

“So long as it’s not porridge.”

“Haven’t any,” Viktor confessed. “I’m not a great eater.”

“Me neither,” said Sonya with a smile. “Where are we going today?”

“Where?” he repeated, trying to think. “I don’t know … Where do you want to go?”

“The zoo.”

“Right,” he said, “but first I must do a couple of hours’ work.”

For lunch Viktor gave Misha fish, while he and Sonya had fried potatoes.

“I’ll buy a bit more food tomorrow,” he promised.

“This’ll do me,” she said, taking the larger plate.

Viktor smiled. Faced for the first time with another’s childhood, he observed, cautiously, curiously, as though still a child himself. Sonya’s spontaneity, her replies – not so much inopportune as somehow off at a tangent – brought a smile to his face. He ate with half an eye on her sitting opposite, eating more with interest than appetite, narrowly inspecting every forkful,
while between her and the stove, Misha was busy at his bowl.

Once, she twisted round and transferred a fried potato to Misha’s bowl on her fork. Head cocked comically to one side, Misha looked at her in surprise. Sonya burst out laughing. Misha stood for a while, then returned to his bowl and ate the fried potato.

“He likes it!” she reported, well pleased.

Viktor drank his tea, put Sonya into her coat, and they set off for the zoo.

It was snowing lightly, the wind in their faces, and coming out of the Metro he wrapped her up to the eyes in her scarf.