The Senility of Vladimir P (19 page)

‘You not only let the others take, you took yourself.'

Vladimir shrugged, as if the point was barely worthy of mention.

‘You had the chance to be a great leader, to take us back to what could have been when Lenin died, before Stalin came.'

‘Grisha, you're giving me a headache. History says: fuck the martyrs! They sacrifice themselves and the world goes on. Those who take, take, and those who don't, don't.'

‘And what did you do, Vladimir Vladimirovich?' asked Sheremetev, who had been standing beside him, listening, as he had never listened before.

‘I took. Why not? With one hand, I gave Russia order, and with the other I took for myself. It's a fair trade.'

‘What did you take?'

Vladimir smiled to himself. ‘Everything.'

‘And others? Should they take as well?'

‘Let them. Let he who can, take.' Vladimir laughed. ‘We have all of Russia, Grisha. There's plenty to go round. Support me – and you can have what you want. Why? Because I've given order. When my time as president comes to an end, that will be my legacy. Order, strength, stability, unity. Not the Russia of Boris Nikolayevich, falling apart like a senile old man, but a strong Russia, a Russia that can be proud, a Russia that the United States and the rest of them will fear, not laugh at.'

‘This is it, is it?' said Sheremetev.

‘This is it. Look around, Grigory Markovich. This is Russia.'

‘Your Russia? Your creation?'

‘Yes,' said Vladimir smugly. ‘My Russia. The Russia I made. No one else could have done it.'

‘And you wouldn't change anything?'

‘Nothing.'

Sheremetev picked up the knife and fork from Vladimir's dinner tray and slammed them down on the table.

Vladimir jumped.

‘Eat!' Sheremetev stepped back. ‘There's your food, Vladimir Vladimirovich! Go on! Eat!'

Vladimir looked up at him. His eyes filled with confusion.

Sheremetev turned away and took a deep breath. When he turned back, Vladimir was still gazing at him with the same heartrending look.

‘Okay,' whispered Sheremetev, more to himself than to Vladimir. He sat down and began to fasten a napkin around Vladimir's neck. ‘Let's eat.'

‘Who are you?' asked Vladimir.

‘Sheremetev. I look after you. Pick up your fork, Vladimir Vladimirovich.'

Vladimir made no move, perhaps sensing the uncharacteristic lack of warmth in Sheremetev's voice. Sheremetev took another deep breath, trying to find the strength in himself to want to care for this man.

‘Are you hungry, Vladimir Vladimirovich?' he asked.

Vladimir nodded.

‘Let's eat, then, shall we? We've got beef stroganoff. You like beef stroganoff, don't you?'

Vladimir nodded again.

Sheremetev closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and forced himself to smile. Vladimir smiled back.

‘I'm having beef stroganoff!' he said.

‘I know,' replied Sheremetev. ‘Your fork, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Would you like to pick it up?'

Sheremetev waited a moment, but Vladimir made no move, so he picked it up for him.

Later that night, Sheremetev got a call from Oleg. His brother had the name of someone who bought watches.

The address that Oleg
gave him turned out to be a shop in the centre of Moscow, in an alley near the Arbat. In the window was a dusty display of watches and pieces of jewellery that looked as if they had been there for centuries. Across the glass, in ornate gold letters, was written the name Rostkhenkovsky, and beside the door, which was locked, was a bell.

Sheremetev rang it. He heard a click. Tentatively, he pushed on the door and it swung open. The shop was long and narrow, with jewellery cabinets along either side. As he stepped inside, an inner door opened at the other end of the shop.

He was momentarily taken aback. In such a place, he had expected to find some wrinkled old shopkeeper with bushy nasal hair and sagging trousers. Instead, he found himself confronted by a smart, petite young woman in a cream and grey pinafore dress, with short brown hair cut stylishly to fall across one side of her pixieish face, almost covering an eye.

‘Yes?' she said.

Sheremetev coughed nervously. ‘I've been told that you buy watches.'

The woman nodded.

Sheremetev waited, expecting her to say that she was going to go and find the resident horologist, but instead she continued to stand facing him on the other side of the counter.

‘
You
buy them?'

The woman nodded again.

‘So should I . . . ?'

The woman cocked her head. ‘If you have a watch you'd like to sell, if I can't see it, I can't tell you if I want to buy it, can I?'

‘It's just – you'll excuse me – you look very young.'

‘Twenty-eight,' said the woman combatively.

‘You look younger.'

‘That's meant to be a compliment?'

‘No,' said Sheremetev. ‘It's just . . . the truth.'

‘Listen, my father died four weeks ago. Now the shop's mine. I worked with him from the day I left school. That's ten years. Even before that, I practically lived in this shop. If you think you know something about watches that I don't, I'd like to know what it is.'

‘I'm sorry about your father,' said Sheremetev.

‘Thank you. He built this business. Did someone send you here?'

‘In a way.'

‘In a way? What does that mean? Who sent you?'

‘I heard about you.'

‘You've got quite a nasty cut there.'

‘Where?'

‘There, on your face.'

‘Oh.' Sheremetev's hand went to his cheek. The bruising had started to come down, but the sutures were still embedded along the line of the laceration.

‘If you'll excuse me, you don't look like the kind to get into fights.'

‘It was an accident.'

The woman scrutinised him for a moment, as if wondering whether to throw him out. If she was, she decided against it. ‘Okay. Let me explain how it is. Everything we do is legal, in case you're wondering.'

‘I didn't mean —'

‘Well, it is. So, we buy watches. If it's just an ordinary watch – two, three thousand dollars – we sell it here ourselves. If it's something special, there are other places we take it to. Some are shops, some are dealers who work privately with certain clients. Not every watch should be displayed in a shop window, if you understand what I mean. So anything you've got, believe me, one way or another, we can handle it for you.'

Sheremetev frowned. A watch that cost two or three thousand dollars was just an ordinary watch?

‘What's your name?'

Sheremetev hesitated. ‘Nikolai Ilyich.'

‘Nikolai Ilyich . . . ?' She waited.

‘Just Nikolai Ilyich.'

‘Okay. Suit yourself. I'm Anna Mikhailovna Rostkhenkovskaya. So, are you going to show me something, Nikolai Ilyich, or have you just come for a chat?'

Sheremetev reached into the inside pocket of his coat and fished out a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief, trying to keep his hands from trembling. Under the young woman's eyes, he put it down on the down on the counter and drew back the wrapping.

Anna Rostkhenkovskaya had a healthy scepticism when people came in off the street and announced that they wanted to sell her a watch. Half the time, they pulled out a treasured Swatch. But as soon as she saw this one emerging from its wadding, she knew she was dealing with something serious.

‘May I?' she asked.

‘Please,' said Sheremetev.

She pushed back her hair with a quick flick of her fingers and picked up the watch. Nothing in her expression gave any indication of what she was thinking as she examined the timepiece.

What had come out of the handkerchief, to Rostkhenkovskaya's surprise, was a Rolex Oyster Perpetual Daytona in gold and platinum with a gold strap. What was even more surprising, as she studied it, was what appeared to be a series of sparkling, baguette-cut diamonds in place of the hour markers around the watch face and embedded in each of the watch hands.

Rostkhenkovskaya had seen plenty of Rolex Daytonas, but never one bejewelled like this. She wasn't aware of Rolex ever having produced such a series, which meant that this was a bespoke piece, either produced to order by Rolex itself – presumably at significant expense – or tailored after purchase by an expert watchmaker.

‘Just a moment,' she said.

Rostkhenkovskaya opened a drawer and took out a jeweller's loupe. She examined each of the diamonds through the lens. They appeared to be flawless and of exceptional clarity and colour. She took another careful look at the watch itself, which seemed to be in mint condition. She doubted that it had ever been worn.

As she studied the piece, Rostkhenkovskaya ran through the numbers in her head. A standard gold and platinum Daytona that looked as if it had just come out of its box – thirty thousand dollars. With the diamonds: double that for the value of the jewels alone, and possibly double it again for the uniqueness of the piece. With an interesting provenance, you could double it once more.

‘This is yours?' she asked, putting the watch down at last.

Sheremetev nodded.

‘You bought it?'

‘It was a gift.'

‘Who from?'

‘An uncle.'

‘Does he have a receipt, your uncle?'

‘He's no longer– he's senile.'

‘I'm sorry. And this is a gift, you say?'

Sheremetev nodded.

‘A very generous man, your uncle.'

Sheremetev didn't reply.

The young woman was silent for a moment. ‘The diamonds are interesting. There wouldn't be many Daytonas like this.' She paused. ‘Rolex probably knows exactly who bought each one.'

‘Are they diamonds?' asked Sheremetev, missing the young woman's insinuation.

‘What did you think they were?'

Sheremetev shrugged.

Rostkhenkovskaya folded her arms. ‘Okay, so what are we saying, Nikolai Ilyich? You want to sell this watch, yes?'

‘That's why I'm here.'

‘Despite the fact that your doting uncle gave it to you?'

‘I need the money. If my uncle still had his senses, he'd be the first to tell me to sell it.'

‘So not a very sentimental man?'

‘Not really.'

‘Would I know him?'

‘No.'

‘You know, it doesn't look like the watch was ever used.'

‘He has a lot of watches. People used to give them to him.'

‘
Give
them to him? Watches like this one?'

Instinctively, Sheremetev's hand went to his mouth. He had said too much. He had worked out the uncle story on the train in to the city, but who had an uncle who was
given
watches like this?

Rostkhenkovskaya noticed the reaction. She wondered how much of the story she could believe. Maybe the watch was stolen, but the man in front of her was an unlikely thief. Could be a fence, though. But what kind of a fence would turn up like this, with a face that looked as if he had just danced a tango with a chainsaw? Who would ever forget it?

‘Okay,' she said eventually. ‘The problem, Nikolai Ilyich, is that with a watch like this – such a unique watch – someone might recognise it. To be honest, I've seen plenty of Daytonas, but never one with diamond insets. It's one of a kind.'

‘Would that make a difference to what it's worth?' asked Sheremetev.

‘At this level, the watch world is quite a small world. Such a unique watch . . . If someone recognises it, and the way you got it isn't one hundred percent above board . . .' She shrugged. ‘Do you understand?'

Sheremetev frowned.

‘So let me ask you again – forgive me – but you have no documentation for this piece, is that correct?'

‘My uncle gave it to me.'

‘And do you have a certificate of gift?'

‘What's that?'

‘It's a certificate that says he gave it to you as a gift.'

Sheremetev shook his head.

Rostkhenkovskaya had a dealer in mind who would jump at this watch. But was it stolen? The small man who had walked into the shop with it didn't have the manner of a criminal. It didn't look as if he had done any research on the piece before trying to offload it. If she had to guess, he had no idea what it was worth.

The dealer she was thinking of would sell this on, she estimated, at a minimum of one hundred thousand dollars. If that was what he thought he could get for it, he would pay her around seventy-five thousand for the piece. Her father's rule of thumb was to offer the seller two-thirds of the price he would receive, which in this case would amount to fifty thousand dollars. But if there was a question of the piece being stolen, the calculation changed. If a theft came to light, the insurance company would normally pay something to get it back – twenty percent of the value was the norm. That would make the insurance payment for this watch twenty thousand, perhaps more. Her father's rule had been to offer half the likely insurance payment, which still left a healthy profit if it turned out that the piece was identified as having been stolen, and an even healthier one if no one ever found out. For this watch: ten thousand.

But all of that depended on how much you thought the seller knew.

‘Five thousand dollars,' she announced.

‘Five thousand?' murmured Sheremetev.

‘You have a second-hand, platinum and gold Daytona with some very small baguette-cut diamonds of average quality, Nikolai Ilyich. On the market, at the very best, unless you can prove to me that, I don't know, President Lebedev wore it when he was sworn in, that's worth ten thousand dollars. I give you half of that, so that's five thousand.'

Rostkhenkovskaya waited to see how Sheremetev would react. He gazed glumly at the watch.

‘What, Nikolai Ilyich?'

In his dreams, Sheremetev had fantasised that the watch might bring him many multiples of that sum, as Dr Rospov had intimated that the one he had seen on Vladimir's wrist might have done. In his more realistic moments, he had told himself that maybe he would get ten thousand, the price of Pasha's freedom if the prosecutor saw sense. But five thousand . . . What good was that going to do? Was it worth selling?

‘Look,' said Rostkhenkovskaya, ‘I'm giving you a fair offer. If we're lucky someone will end up buying this for ten thousand, as I said. But they might not – the price might be lower. I give you five, but I don't keep the other five. I take it to someone else who's going to sell it. I keep maybe a few hundred for myself.'

‘I understand.' Sheremetev sighed. ‘My nephew's in jail. I'm trying to get him out. If only I could have ten . . .'

‘Nikolai Ilyich, really, what would that leave for me?'

‘I understand.' Sheremetev hesitated, then began to wrap the watch in the handkerchief.

‘Nikolai Ilyich, stop. Listen. I want to help, okay? Let's see what we can do. Your nephew's in jail. It's a terrible thing, and everyone in Russia is corrupt.' Rostkhenkovskaya paused and shook her head as if in disbelief at her own weakness, as she had watched her father do since she was old enough to remember. ‘Seven and a half. Would it help if I made it seven and half thousand?'

Sheremetev frowned, then gave a shrug and nodded. Rostkhenkovskaya smiled.

‘Thank you,' he said.

‘You're a hard negotiator, Nikolai Ilyich. Seven and a half thousand! I'm not going to make a ruble . . . but, who cares, if it helps your nephew get out of jail? Not everything's about money, is it?'

‘It's a start,' said Sheremetev.

‘Good. A start. So do we have deal?'

‘I feel bad, if you're not going to make a ruble.'

‘It's okay, please! Do we have a deal?'

Sheremetev thought for a moment. ‘Okay.'

‘I'll go and get the money.'

‘Now?'

Rostkhenkovskaya turned on her heel. ‘Yes. Now.'

She vanished into the back of the shop. An older woman appeared in the doorway while she was gone and stood, watching. Sheremetev smiled at her. She gazed blankly back at him.

Rostkhenkovskaya came back and the other woman disappeared.

The young woman examined the watch again to make sure, unlikely as it seemed, that this apparently guileless customer hadn't pulled a switch under the eyes of her mother. Then she counted out seven hundred thousand rubles in five thousand ruble notes.

‘It's actually seven thousand five hundred and forty dollars,' she said as she handed them over. ‘I rounded up.'

‘I'll give you change!'

‘No, Nikolai Ilyich. Let's not quibble.'

Sheremetev thanked her again. ‘It's quite a lot, isn't it?' he said anxiously, gripping the wad.

‘Put it in a couple of pockets,' advised Rostkhenkovskaya.

As she watched, Sheremetev proceeded to do so, just like a schoolboy following the advice of his teacher, dividing the money between the two inside pockets of his jacket.

‘Do you want a receipt?'

He shook his head.