The Senility of Vladimir P (17 page)

Sheremetev ran back upstairs, threw on a coat, slipped his feet into a pair of boots, and ran down again.

‘Here, Nikolai Ilyich!' called the guard at the door, holding out a torch to him.

Sheremetev grabbed it. ‘Get one for yourself and follow me!' He ran out, the security guard close behind. In the direction of the main drive, he saw the light of a torch poking into the darkness.

‘That'll be Gorya,' said the guard behind him.

‘Then let's go that way.' Sheremetev ran around to the other side of the house. Immediately he sniffed the charnel pit. He had a horrible thought. ‘Check in there,' he called out to the guard.

‘In
ther
e
?'

‘In case he's fallen in. I'll go that way.'

The gigantic grotesque sausages of the greenhouses loomed at him out of the darkness. Sheremetev ran into the nearest one. Warm, humid air hit him. The beam of his torch pried into lines of plants stretching off into the shadows, ripe aubergines hanging plump and black in the darkness.

‘Vladimir Vladimirovich?' He ran along the lines of plants, leaves brushing at his arms, calling out his name. At the end of the greenhouse he ran out the door and headed for the next one.

Sheremetev stopped. There was a glow in the darkness, some distance away on his right. A lantern was on the ground, and two figures sat on a bench, lit from below, as in a picture out of a children's storybook.

Sheremetev went closer, still breathing heavily from his run.

Goroviev, the gardener, was on the bench. And beside him sat Vladimir in his pyjamas, a coat thrown over his shoulders.

‘Nikolai Ilyich!' called out the gardener.

‘Vladimir Vladimirovich,' said Sheremetev when he reached them. ‘Are you alright?'

‘He's fine,' said Goroviev.

Sheremetev peered at the gardener suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here with him?'

‘I found him sitting on this bench.'

‘When?'

‘Just now. I was trying to get him to come back, wasn't I, Vladimir Vladimirovich? Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It's too cold for you to be out like this.'

‘What were you doing here?' asked Sheremetev.

‘I couldn't sleep. I thought I'd go and do a bit of work with the tomatoes.'

Sheremetev gazed at him disbelievingly.

Goroviev smiled. ‘I'm often up at night. Ask the security guys. They've seen me many times.'

‘Is that your coat he's wearing?'

Goroviev nodded.

Sheremetev made to take his own coat off with the intention of replacing the gardener's.

‘It's okay,' said Goroviev. ‘Leave it with the guard in the hall. I'll pick it up in the morning.'

‘But you'll be cold.'

‘No. I think I'll go back to the lodge now. The tomatoes can wait until morning.' The gardener got up. ‘Goodnight, Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

Vladimir looked at him. ‘Goodnight.'

The gardener picked up his lantern. ‘Goodnight, Nikolai Ilyich,' he said, and walked away.

Sheremetev watched him go, dumbfounded. Was it really possible that the gardener had just happened to find Vladimir sitting here, in this place, on the exact same bench where they had all sat the previous day? That the two of them should by chance converge here at three in the morning? But otherwise, what? How else had it happened?

The gardener, who had confessed that there was a time when he would have strangled the ex-president, could have done anything he wanted to him in the time that they were sitting there. Vladimir was entirely at his mercy.

‘Are you alright, Vladimir Vladimirovich?'

Vladimir nodded.

‘Do you know where you are?'

‘Praskoveevka.'

‘And what are you doing, Vladimir Vladimirovich?'

‘What am I doing?'

Sheremetev nodded.

‘What are
you
doing?'

‘Did that man who was here . . . did he do anything?'

‘Who was here?'

‘A gardener. Goroviev.'

Vladimir frowned. ‘You mean Boroviev, that bastard?'

‘No, Goroviev. Arkady Maksimovich.'

‘He changed his name?'

‘No.'

‘He ran away to London, the coward. If we could have got him back here, the place I would have put him would have made the gulag look like a holiday camp!'

‘Let's go back, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It's too cold to be sitting here.'

‘Do you think so? Who are you, anyway?'

‘Sheremetev.'

‘Oh. I thought you were talking about Boroviev. Do you know Boroviev?'

‘No.'

‘Boy-fucking bastard. Traitor! Pig!'

Sheremetev sighed. ‘Come, Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

‘Still, he didn't last long, did he? People have a habit of dying in London if they're not careful.' Vladimir laughed. ‘It's that English tea they're always drinking. There's more than one way to make it hot!'

‘Please, Vladimir Vladimirovich,' said Sheremetev, who had no idea what Vladimir found so funny in what he had just said. He pulled gently at his arm. ‘It's cold. You'll get ill. Please stand up.'

Vladimir stood. Sheremetev took one last look around the bench, shining his torch on it, then they started walking back.

Barkovskaya was waiting in the hall. ‘Thank God,' she whispered, fingering a crucifix at her neck, as the ex-president appeared.

‘It's okay,' said Sheremetev. ‘Everything's okay.'

‘Are you sure?' Barkovskaya peered anxiously at Vladimir.

‘I'm taking him upstairs. Please let the others know that he's safe, Galina Ivanovna.'

He guided Vladimir up the stairs and into the bedroom. Now Sheremetev took a good look at the ex-president. His pyjamas were wet and muddy, but otherwise he looked unharmed. Sheremetev took a new pair of pyjamas from the dressing room and helped Vladimir into them. Vladimir cooperated, as docile as a lamb. Sheremetev took him to the toilet, then brought him back to the bed.

The old man looked at him and smiled.

‘Are you tired, Vladimir Vladimirovich?'

Vladimir nodded.

Sheremetev went to the bathroom, unlocked the cabinet in which he kept Vladimir's tablets, and came back with a sedative. After what had happened, he thought, it wouldn't hurt for Vladimir to have an extra one. He took a glass of water off the bedside table and gave it to him. ‘Here,' he said, turning over Vladimir's other hand and pressing the pill into his palm. ‘Take this.'

Vladimir put it in his mouth and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of water. His Adam's apple worked up and down noisily in his throat.

Sheremetev took back the glass and set it down. He helped Vladimir into bed and turned off the light, leaving only the night light glowing.

‘Goodnight, Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

There was no response.

At the door, Sheremetev stopped and looked back at the old man lying in the bed. Vladimir's eyes were already closed. In another moment, a light, rasping snoring began.

Sheremetev rested his head against the door jamb. What was it that Nina had said? How hard was it to know how to steal?

He
knew how to steal, thought Sheremetev, watching Vladimir sleeping peacefully. If even half the things people said were true – or a quarter, or a tenth – he had been the biggest crook in Russia, the king of bribe-takers and embezzlers. What would he do if
his
nephew was in prison? He wouldn't hesitate.

Only he, Sheremetev, would. Only Saint Nikolai, as his colleagues had derisively called him.

Sheremetev closed his eyes. He remembered Stepanin laughing, saying that Sheremetev had drawn the short straw because the old man had nothing that was worth taking, nothing but old clothes. But Stepanin didn't know what else was up here.

There were a couple of empty niches in the watch cabinet that stood in Vladimir's dressing room. Occasionally Sheremetev had come across a watch somewhere – down the back of a sofa, in a sock drawer – which Vladimir must have taken at some point and forgot where he left it. Was that why the niches were empty? Or had they never been filled? Or were they the evidence of earlier thefts? In six years, Sheremetev had never seen anyone check the contents of the cabinet. But surely there must be an inventory of these watches? But if there was, surely he would have seen someone check from time to time – or at least once in his time with the ex-president – to see that everything was still there.

Yet he was afraid that there was, and that if he did what he was thinking of doing, someone would find out.

So was that all that had ever stopped him? Fear? The fear that someone would catch him if he did something wrong as a conscript, the fear that someone would discipline him if he took a bribe as a nurse – even though all the time he knew that everyone else was doing it? Not only fear, but cowardice. Extreme, snivelling cowardice. Everyone always thought it was principle, and in the very sharpness of their mockery of him, he knew, there was a certain grudging acknowledgement of his supposed integrity. Funnily enough, the mockery had sometimes made his resolve to stick to his principles even stronger. But how much principle had he really ever had?

There was some, surely. He hadn't been able to let the poor patients languish just because the rich ones had money, and that wasn't only because of fear. But was that principle or softness? Well, there was no room for softness in Russia, and if it was principle, there was even less room for that. Wasn't that what all of this was showing him?

He was a fraud. Cowardice dressed up as virtue – making his brother commit the offence for him. He wondered if Oleg still did such things today. And why not? Why shouldn't Oleg do it when the whole of Russia was doing it as well? Why be like his idiot older brother?

And he – Sheremetev – what if he had never been afraid? What would he have done then? Would he still have stuck to his so-called principles?

Was he going to continue to be afraid? Now? Always?

Quietly, Sheremetev went to the dressing room. A soft glow came in from the night light next door. Sheremetev peeked back into the bedroom for a moment to check that Vladimir still slept.

He turned. In front of him stood the cabinet. He opened its doors.

Sheremetev counted the trays. Twenty-five, each one resting neatly in its slot.

Twenty-five!

What about his duty to his wife? Nina had flung that at him, and it had cut him to the bone. Had he been too proud, too self-righteous to sacrifice his so-called principles? Even for Karinka?

But Karinka was gone now, and nothing could bring her back, and what he had done he had done – and what he hadn't done he hadn't done – and somehow he would have to live with that. But Pasha could still be saved.

In front of the cabinet, with its tray above tray of watch beside watch, Nikolai Sheremetev asked himself: what about his principles now, and what about his duty to his nephew?

Sheremetev didn't get much
sleep that night. It was almost a relief when he heard Vladimir stirring and had a reason to get out of bed and stop thinking about the questions that had kept him awake. He knew what he was going to do. It wasn't exactly a decision to do it, more a resignation to the fact that it had to be done. He didn't know whether it was wrong or right – both, probably – and he didn't know how to balance one side against the other, and so he gave up trying. Pasha was in jail. That was enough.

After getting Vladimir showered and dressed, Sheremetev went outside and called his brother.

‘Oleg,' he said, ‘I've had an idea.' Sheremetev looked around to make sure there was no one nearby who could hear him. Even so, he lowered his voice. ‘I have something. Something that . . . maybe I could sell.'

‘What?' said Oleg.

‘Like I told you, I've never got any money out of caring for Vladimir Vladimirovich, just my salary. I know Nina thinks I'm a fool —'

‘Kolya, listen, she shouldn't have said those things. I want to apologise —'

‘Wait. Let me finish. In the early days, when he still had most of his faculties, there were times when Vladimir Vladimirovich did want to show his appreciation. I told him it wasn't necessary, and I didn't feel comfortable, but he insisted, and he was a hard man to refuse.'

‘Naturally. He was the president.'

‘I wouldn't accept such a thing now, of course, because he really doesn't know what he's doing. But back then, you know, the forgetfulness was much less, and when he said he wanted to do something, he really did know what he wanted. I mean, I think it was ethical to accept, you understand.'

‘Anything you did, Kolya, I'm sure it was ethical.'

Sheremetev hesitated. He had worried that he wouldn't be able to lie, that Oleg would discern something in his voice, but actually, the story he had made up was sounding remarkably believable, even to his own ears, and surprisingly, almost disturbingly, easy to tell.

‘When you came to me, and yesterday, again, when you asked if there was any way I could help, any way at all . . . well, naturally, I thought of what I had in the bank. But last night, I realised, maybe there's something that has some value, maybe I could sell it. So anyway, the thing is . . .' Sheremetev paused again, knowing that if he kept going he was about to cross a dividing line, and even if he did nothing further, even if Oleg turned down his offer, he would never be able to go back, at least in his mind.

‘What is it, Kolya?'

Sheremetev took a deep breath, then blurted it out. ‘He gave me a watch.'

‘A watch?' said Oleg. ‘What kind of watch?'

‘Some . . . watch. I don't know exactly. But it's a nice looking watch and Vladimir Vladimirovich's doctor happened to be here the other day and he had a watch on his wrist and he said this watch cost him seven thousand dollars – the watch he was wearing, I mean, not the one I have – and there are others that are even more expensive. For example, he said that the one that Vladimir Vladimirovich was wearing at the time was worth much more. A lifetime's wages for a working man, Olik! And knowing Vladimir Vladimirovich, when he gave me the watch that I have, it was a year after I started working for him – it was to mark the year, I think – and he was genuinely showing gratitude, so I don't think he would have given me something that isn't worth anything. Who knows how much it's worth? Maybe he gave me one that's really worth a lot.'

There was silence.

‘Oleg?' said Sheremetev.

‘You'd sell it for Pasha?'

‘Of course I'd sell it for Pasha! It's a watch, Oleg. Who cares? I don't even wear it. The old watch I bought when I got my first job is good enough for me. This one just sits in my cupboard. The thing is, it's not going to be three hundred thousand dollars, right? But it might be something. It might be a start. And if the prosecutor realises that we don't have the kind of money he wants, maybe in the end this will be enough. I mean, you said normally ten thousand is enough. Who knows? Before I spoke to the doctor, I had never imagined it, but this watch could be worth that much.'

Again, there was silence on the phone.

‘Well, watches can be expensive,' said Oleg. ‘But so much?'

‘I don't know. I'm saying it's possible.'

‘And you're prepared to sell it?'

‘Why not?'

‘It might mean a lot to you.'

‘More than Pasha? Oleg, for God's sake! It's a watch. A watch is a watch. I couldn't care less about it. I care about my nephew. I care about my brother.'

‘I'm sorry about the things Nina said yesterday.'

‘Well, I even care about her as well.'

Oleg laughed for a moment. ‘She said some terrible things. She shouldn't have asked you to compromise your principles.'

Sheremetev sighed. ‘I don't know if those principles are right any more. I don't even know if they are principles, if they ever were. Anyway, in Russia, I don't know if one can live by them. Maybe I should have taken the money, all those years when I was working in hospitals. People came in with bundles of notes, Oleg. I said no and off they went to someone else. I didn't even save them anything – they still paid. I could have done it. Maybe I should have.'

Sheremetev listened to himself. The idea of what he was saying revolted him. Thank God, he thought, that he hadn't had to make this choice back then. But he had, hadn't he? He did make a choice, not even thinking as he did it, when Karinka was dying. He had been paying the bribe-takers, but hadn't considered becoming one himself when the money ran out. Not even for Karinka's sake. What had been
wrong
with him?

‘Kolya? Kolya! Are you still there?'

‘Sorry. Yes, I'm here.'

‘What do you want to do?'

‘This watch, Olik, where would I go to sell it? Who would give me a good price?'

‘You don't know anyone?'

‘Do I go around selling watches all day?'

‘You want me to help you? You definitely want to sell this thing?'

‘Yes! I dont know how much we'll get, but whatever it is, it's yours.'

Oleg laughed. ‘Kolya, I don't know what to say!'

‘Don't say anything. We're brothers. Can you find me someone to buy the watch?'

‘Why don't you to talk to Vasya? I would have thought this would be his kind of thing.'

‘I don't want to get Vasya involved.'

‘But Kolya —'

‘No, not Vasya!' Sheremetev found himself reacting viscerally against the suggestion. ‘Can you find me someone?'

‘I'll try. If you're prepared to sell, it's the least I can do.'

‘Good. Give me a call when you know.'

Sheremetev put his phone away. Suddenly he found that he was shaking. He had done it – and you don't give up fifty years of honesty just like that. But that wasn't the thing that had sent a chill through him. It was his immediate, instinctive reaction to Oleg's suggestion to call Vasya. No, not Vasya! What did it mean, that he felt like that? Sheremetev realised that he didn't trust his own son.

Sheremetev stayed outside for
a few minutes more, delaying the moment of going back inside. Two of Stepanin's potwashers come out, carrying a big black tub between them. They stopped beside the chicken pit, put the tub on the ground, and then raised the wooden lid that covered the hole. Even from a distance, Sheremetev could smell the fetid air that immediately wafted out of it. As he watched, the two potwashers upended the tub and a spillage of fresh pink carcases tumbled in.

He went a little closer. ‘What's going on?'

The potwashers were putting the lid back on the pit, each holding it with one hand and their nose with the other. One of them glanced at him and shrugged.

In the kitchen, Stepanin sat glumly at one of his steel benches, a glass of vodka in his hand and the bottle in front of him.

‘What happened?' asked Sheremetev. ‘You're throwing chickens out again.'

The cook swallowed the vodka and poured another glass without saying a word.

‘Vitya?'

‘They firebombed my supplier,' muttered Stepanin.

‘They
firebombed
. . . ?' Sheremetev was aghast. ‘Who firebombed?'

‘Barkovskaya.'

‘
Barkovskaya
firebombed your supplier? When? Last night? But I saw her here —'

Stepanin turned to him. ‘Not Barkovskaya herself! Someone did it for her, obviously.'

‘And they told you they were doing it for her?'

‘They didn't need to.' Stepanin threw back the vodka and winced at the liquor's ferocity. ‘There are some things you don't need to say.' He shook his head. ‘What fuckery!'

‘Vitya,' said Sheremetev slowly, ‘what did you do to make Barkovskaya's cousin stop delivering chickens?'

The cook shrugged.

‘Vitya?'

‘Let's just say someone taught him a lesson.'

‘What kind of lesson?'

‘The kind of lesson where you break a leg or two.'

‘You broke his legs?' demanded Sheremetev in disbelief.

‘Not me personally!'

‘You got someone to do it? Are you insane? What were you thinking?'

‘What do you mean, what was I thinking? This is my future, Kolya! My dream! Everything depends on it. You understand? And that bitch Barkovskaya isn't going to stop me!' Stepanin picked up the vodka bottle and angrily poured again, sloshing some of the liquor on the steel bench. ‘You want some?'

‘No.'

Stepanin drank. ‘It's simpler to be like you,' he said bitterly. ‘Take your salary and that's it. No complications. Of course, you live a miserable life and die in poverty, but that's not so bad, I suppose.'

‘Thank you,' said Sheremetev, feeling like bashing the cook over the head with the bottle.

Stepanin raised his glass in a mock tribute to Sheremetev.

Sheremetev snatched the bottle away from him. ‘It's nine o'clock and you're already drunk. You're not going to be able to cook.'

Stepanin waved a hand. ‘Who gives a fuck?' He glared at the potwashers. ‘Clean that fucking stove down, I told you! What are you waiting for? I'm going to start in a minute. And you,' he yelled, turning his ire on one of his assistants, ‘where's the stock, you fucking idiot?'

‘We used it yesterday, Chef!'

‘And you didn't make more? I have to tell you every time? You moron!' Stepanin looked back at Sheremetev. ‘See? Look what I have to work with here. A cook of my talents! Classically trained!'

‘Who did you get to teach Barkovskaya's cousin a lesson?' asked Sheremetev.

‘What?'

‘Who did you get to break Barkovskaya's cousin's legs?'

‘I don't know if he broke his legs. It might have been his arms.'

‘
Who
?
'

‘Who do you think? Artyusha.'

‘
Artyusha?
Our Artyusha? The security guy?'

‘Who else?'

‘But . . . but . . .' Sheremetev stared, utterly lost for words.

Stepanin laughed. ‘You really don't know anything, do you, Kolya? Have you seen the BMWs he drives? Every six months he changes it – the latest model! Even if you knew nothing, if you saw that, you'd realise something was going on. The Lukashvillis run the biggest protection racket in Odintsovo. It started with Artur's cousin, who was shot dead in his car a few years ago by another group of gangsters. After that, Artyusha took over. When he was finished with the other gang, no one but the Lukashvillis was left in the town.'

‘But he told me he was studying to be an electrical engineer!'

‘Maybe he was. Who cares? You want to run a business in Odintsovo, you want to have a restaurant – shit, you want to take your kid for a walk – you pay Lukashvilli. In return, he keeps the cops off your backs.'

‘How does he —'

‘What do you think all these security guards are doing here, Kolya? Last night, when you needed them to find Vladimir Vladimirovich, how many of them were actually here? And they're only some of his foot soldiers. He has plenty more. Artyusha's got them hired out as bouncers, bodyguards, anything you like. You want security in Odintsovo, you come to Lukashvilli. You should talk to your son – he knows all about it.'

‘My son?'

‘Yes. What's his name again?'

‘Vasya,' whispered Sheremetev.

‘Vasya! That's it. Vasya.'

‘He works with Artur?' asked Sheremetev in horror.

‘No. Artur told me he talked to him one time. Sheremetev's son, he said. Apparently he had to organise some protection for ­some­one, down here in Odintsovo. If you do that, you have to talk to Artur.'

Sheremetev shook his head, fighting a losing battle to comprehend what he was hearing.

Stepanin laughed. ‘The ex-presidential dacha! Who would imagine that you would run a protection operation from here? But think about it. Lukashvilli's smart. Blanket surveillance, electrified fences, a legitimate security business in case anyone ever asks why you've got so many thugs on your payroll . . . not that they would. You couldn't ask for more.'

‘What else does he do, my son?' whispered Sheremetev.

‘How should I know? Ask him yourself, Kolya.' The cook paused – the look on Sheremetev's face was almost pleading. ‘Look, from what Artur said, he sounds like he's just one of these guys who helps people.'

‘What does that mean?' implored Sheremetev. ‘I don't understand.'

Stepanin sighed. ‘Say you've got a restaurant. Say you've got a really important person who's coming to dine. This person is obviously going to have enemies. He'll turn up with his bodyguards, of course. Fine. But you don't want trouble. You don't want the bodyguards to actually have to do anything. It won't help your restaurant if something happens, and if the police somehow end up getting involved, you'll never stop having to pay them. So you might decide you want to get some people yourself for the night just to keep away anyone who might have ideas. For that, you might turn to someone who can help you.'