The Senility of Vladimir P (12 page)

Artur glanced from one man to the other.

‘It's alright,' said Sheremetev, clambering to his feet.

‘Here,' said Artur, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. ‘That cut looks bad.'

Sheremetev pressed the handkerchief to his cheek and it came away red with blood. The two pairs of guards standing on either side along the shore had come closer at the sight of the disturbance. Artur held up his hand to them.

Vladimir pulled off his T shirt. He puffed himself up, the once powerful chest and arms that he had showed off so vainly to the world now scrawny and diminished, the gold cross that his mother had given him hanging in the cleavage of wrinkled skin between his pectorals.

‘Where are the cameras?' He smiled knowingly. ‘I know! In the trees. Telephoto lens. Ah, yes, now, I can see them.' He stood proud and turned slowly from one side to the other, giving his phantom photographers time for a shot of him against the background of the lake. Then he walked towards the trees.

Lyosha and the other guards came running from either side.

Artur glanced at Sheremetev. ‘Do you want us to get him?'

Sheremetev didn't reply, pressing with the handkerchief on his lacerated cheek. They all stood, watching. Vladimir was bending down, trying to lift a fallen trunk. It was too heavy. He tried another and managed to drag it a couple of metres. He stopped and posed with it, one end of the tree raised in his arms, elbows flexed to show his biceps, chin raised.

‘What the fuck is he doing?' whispered one of the guards.

‘Posing for the camera,' replied Sheremetev.

‘Where? Which camera?' said the guard, smoothing down his hair.

‘Bring an axe!' shouted Vladimir. ‘I'll show my woodsman's skills. It'll make a good picture. Come on! An axe!'

‘I think they forgot to bring it,' called out Sheremetev, taking a few steps towards him.

‘Idiots! Well they can put it in later. They can say I cut down the tree. I don't want anyone saying they planted the log here like it was some kind of pot.' Vladimir dropped the trunk and posed with arms up and hands clenched around an imaginary axe. He struck another couple of manful poses, swinging, chopping, then tossed the invisible implement aside and strode purposefully out of the forest. ‘Okay. Enough! Show me the shots and I'll choose the ones to use.'

Vladimir stopped at the pile of clothes he had dropped on the shore. He put on his T shirt, but left the sweater and jacket on the ground. When Sheremetev tried to put them on him, he brushed him off. ‘Let's go,' he said. He marched back to the Mercedes in his T shirt and settled impatiently into his seat. Everyone else scrambled into the two cars.

‘To the airport,' commanded Vladimir. ‘These fucking Siberian woods. Honestly, why can't we do this somewhere closer? It's not as if we don't have trees outside Moscow!'

Eleyekov glanced at Sheremetev. ‘Are we going to the airport now?' he whispered. ‘You said we'd be finished by four-thirty!'

Sheremetev shook his head. ‘Back to the dacha,' he murmured.

‘Come on!' shouted Vladimir. ‘And call ahead. Make sure the plane's ready to go. I don't want to wait for some idiot of a pilot who hasn't had the plane refuelled.'

For the first half of the drive back to the dacha, Vladimir kept shouting about getting to the airport and getting out of Siberia and making sure they scheduled these photoshoots so it didn't take three days of his time to do them. He was getting more and more agitated. Every time Sheremetev looked back, Artur gave him a questioning glance. Sheremetev sat with the handkerchief pressed to the cut on his cheek, wondering how much more excited Vladimir was going to get and wishing he had brought an injection of tranquilliser with him in case things got out of hand. But then, for no apparent reason, Vladimir began to calm down. By the time they got back to the dacha he was sitting happily, confidentially telling Artur about various dealings he had had with foreign leaders and affectionately calling him Fedya. ‘They thought they could push me,' he was telling him as they headed up the drive to the dacha, ‘but we knew better, didn't we, Fedya? I was the one who pushed them! Just press the right button – a little bit of pressure in Ukraine, heat up the romance with China – and watch the westerners snarl and snap at each other as they try to organise a response.' He chuckled. ‘Like dogs! First and foremost, Fedya, I'm a specialist in human relations. That's what you have to be, not only if you're a Chekist, but if you're a poli­tician too.' Vladimir chuckled again. ‘Not that there's much difference now that the undercover boys who were sent to work in the federal ­government have completed their mission!'

Eleyekov pulled up.

‘We're here, Vladimir Vladimirovich,' said Sheremetev.

‘About time!'

Sheremetev took Vladimir inside. Eleyekov and his son immediately drove off in their two armour-plated cars towards an appointment with a visiting Azeri mining billionaire who didn't dare step into the street without a dozen uzi-wielding henchmen to protect him.

‘Do you want a hand getting Vladimir Vladimirovich upstairs?' asked Artur.

‘Thank you, Artyusha,' said Sheremetev. ‘He's fine. It was just the change of scenery. It excited him a little, I think. I can manage.'

Lyosha and the other security men dispersed. Artur stayed, feeling, it seemed, that his mission wasn't complete until he had personally seen Vladimir back to his suite. ‘You don't want me to come with you?'

‘Thank you, Artyusha. We're fine.'

‘It's no trouble, Nikolai Ilyich. Being responsible for the safety of Vladimir Vladimirovich isn't a job, it's a privilege.'

Sheremetev smiled. ‘He's safe, Artyusha.'

‘Well, that cut on your face, Nikolai Ilyich, make sure you get it seen to.'

‘I've got your handkerchief, I know. I'll return it to you as soon as I've had it washed.'

‘Don't worry about that. Just get your face seen to. It doesn't look good.'

Sheremetev turned to Vladimir. ‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Let's go up.'

Vladimir started up the stairs but stopped after a couple of steps.

‘Are you tired?'

Vladimir nodded.

‘Come. I'll help you.' Sheremetev took Vladimir's arm and gently pulled him up.

Vladimir took a weary step.

‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. One step at a time.'

‘Are you sure you don't want some help?' called up Artur.

Sheremetev glanced down at him. ‘No. We're fine. Vladimir Vladimirovich is strong, but he's not a young man, after all.'

‘Maybe we should have an elevator installed.'

‘Maybe,' said Sheremetev. There would be no shortage of people in the dacha who would be in favour of the idea, he thought, each hoping to take a cut of the cost. He turned back to Vladimir. ‘We're okay, aren't we, Vladimir Vladimirovich? One step at a time . . .That's it. Another step . . . After such an outing, it's natural to be tired. We'll have a rest when we get to your room . . . That's it . . . Another one . . .'

The security man watched them ascend the staircase. The old man who had stood bare-chested in the forest with his arms raised in the mime of holding an axe, giving orders, telling everyone what to do, just like the head of state he had once been – suddenly he was reduced to this. A step, then a rest . . . A step, then a rest . . .

Sheremetev and the ex-president got to the top and slowly disappeared from view.

Artur felt a tug on his arm. He looked around to find Stepanin standing beside him.

The cook glanced right and left, then leaned closer. ‘A word in your ear, Artyusha.'

The cut on Sheremetev's
face continued to bleed. When he finally got a chance to take a look in a mirror, he saw a gash about five centi­metres long running over his cheekbone. He washed it clean. The edges of the skin were ragged and gaping. Every time he managed to staunch the bleeding, a facial movement would open the wound and restart it. When Vladimir's dinner arrived, he sat feeding him with one hand while pressing a piece of gauze on the cut with the other.

He needed stitches. Sheremetev phoned Dr Rospov, the local doctor who was contracted to provide day-to-day care to Vladimir between the visits of the grand professors from Moscow, and told him that there had been a minor accident and some stitches were required. When he arrived, the doctor wasn't too pleased to discover that it was Sheremetev who needed attention. Sheremetev took him to a suite on the upper floor, adjacent to his bedroom, explaining that he had had an accident.

‘You should have gone to the hospital,' said the doctor brusquely, rubbing at Sheremetev's cheek with an iodine-soaked swab.

‘I can't leave Vladimir Vladimirovich,' replied Sheremetev through teeth gritted against the pain of the doctor's cleansing.

Rospov grunted. He finished cleaning the wound and then drew out from his bag the implements he would need to suture it. He pulled on a pair of gloves. ‘This'll hurt,' he announced, and injected the skin around the cut with local anaesthetic.

Sheremetev winced at the sting.

‘Hold still! There. I'll give it a minute to let it work.'

The doctor looked around the room as he waited for the anaesthetic to take effect. Rospov was a plump, generally amenable type. He wasn't often needed at the dacha, but Sheremetev had got to know him over the years. Already, Sheremetev could see, his irritation at being called out was dissipating. Besides, he would probably be charging a hefty fee.

‘How's that?' said the doctor, touching Sheremetev's cheek with the tip of a pair of scissors. ‘Feel anything? Numb?'

Sheremetev nodded.

‘Okay. I'll tidy it up first.'

He trimmed the ragged flaps of the wound with a pair of scissors, leaving the edges straight and clean. Then he sat back, examining his handiwork, made another couple of snips, and put the scissor down.

‘You'll need six or seven stitches,' he said. ‘It's not just a nick.'

Sheremetev nodded.

The doctor set to work. ‘So how'd this accident happen?' he asked, as he drove the suture needle in for the first stitch.

‘A zipper.'

The doctor looked up for a moment with an inquisitive glance, then began to tie the suture in a series of quick hand movements.

‘Vladimir Vladimirovich threw a jacket at me,' said Sheremetev, as Rospov paused before inserting the second stitch. ‘I took him out for a walk and he got agitated.'

The doctor nodded. ‘How's that going now, the agitation?'

‘He has his moments.'

‘It's worse?'

‘About the same.'

‘The drugs are helping?'

‘I don't know. Maybe.'

‘And Professor Kalin, is he still coming to see him?'

‘Every month. He brings another professor with him. Andreevsky. Do you know him?'

The doctor shook his head. He put in the second stitch, tied it and snipped the suture thread. ‘I think we'll need seven here, Nikolai Ilyich. Is that okay?'

‘Whatever you think.'

He put the next stitch in. ‘Who was it you told me that he always talks about when he gets agitated? Who was it again? A Georgian? A Ukrainian? A Syrian?'

‘A Chechen.'

‘That's right! A Chechen. I knew it was someone he'd got us into a war against. What do you think it's about? Do you think he feels guilty?'

‘I don't know.' Sheremetev couldn't recall anything to suggest that Vladimir felt any guilt towards the Chechens. His tone of voice and the way he struck at whatever he thought he was seeing weren't exactly suggestive of contrition. But then why did he constantly sense the Chechen's presence around him, and why did he feel so threatened by it?

‘So that was it today? That Chechen again?'

‘No, today we were at the lake.'

Sheremetev gave a brief account of the outing and the ten minutes of mayhem that ensued beside the lake. The doctor chuckled at the story of Vladimir stripping off for his imaginary photoshoot. ‘When I was a kid,' he said, ‘that's all you used to see. On horses, on boats, killing tigers, I don't know what. Every month, it seemed, there was a new picture of our macho president taking on the world.'

Sheremetev didn't reply. The doctor worked quietly for a couple of minutes, completing the sutures. Then he sat back and examined the wound. He prodded at it, then took another iodine-soaked swab and gave it a last rub.

‘Okay, I'm finished. Once the anaesthetic wears off, if it's causing you pain, take an aspirin.' He pulled off his gloves, separated the needles and bundled everything else up.

‘Leave it,' said Sheremetev. ‘I'll get rid of it.'

‘Will you need me to come back to take out the stitches or can you do it yourself?'

‘I can do it myself.'

‘Leave it for a week, then see. If you think it's closed, take them out. If not, leave them a couple of days longer. If you're not sure, I can come back.'

Sheremetev nodded.

‘You'll have a scar, Nikolai Ilyich. I've done my best to close it neatly. As long as the laceration stays closed and has a chance to heal, it shouldn't be a bad one.' The doctor picked up his bag. ‘Maybe I'll say hello to Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

They went along the corridor. Vladimir was sitting in front of the television. The doctor greeted him. Vladimir appraised him without a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

‘I'm Dr Rospov,' said the doctor.

‘Is someone sick?' replied Vladimir.

The doctor smiled. ‘No, I was just passing, so I thought I'd say hello. Are you well, Vladimir Vladimirovich?'

Vladimir looked at him suspiciously.

‘I'm just asking.'

‘I'm well. Who are you?'

‘Do you know?'

‘Do you?'

‘I'm Dr Rospov.'