The Senility of Vladimir P (8 page)

‘That depends.' Oleg looked around for a moment, as if checking to see if anyone was listening, then sat forward in his chair. ‘I got a lawyer who spoke to the prosecutor. Pasha's young, it's a first offence – also, right now, while he's new, the president doesn't want to seem too heavy-handed, kind of a honeymoon period, that's what the lawyer said . . . normally, he said, this would cost about ten thousand dollars to clear up.'

‘That's what a lawyer costs?'

‘No, that's what you give the prosecutor, Kolya. Some for him, some for the police, and they drop the charges. For a case like this, ten thousand would be about what they expect. Unless, of course, some bigwig wants to make an example out of it.'

‘So you're saying someone wants to make an example of Pasha?'

‘No. Apparently, there's been quite a bit of this kind of thing on the internet. Pasha's not the only one. Right now, Lebedev's approach is to laugh it off. Until he starts to gets angry, the prosecutors and police just see it as a way to make some money for themselves. They took Pasha but they don't really expect to prosecute him. It's just a way for them to have a nice a holiday this year in Mallorca.'

‘So you need ten thousand dollars, is that what you're saying?'

Oleg shook his head. He was silent for a moment. ‘Kolya, they found out about you.'

‘What's to find out?'

‘They found out you look after the president.'

‘So?'

‘So they think you must have a lot of money.'

Sheremetev stared at him, then burst out laughing. Even with the gravity of the situation, he couldn't help himself.

Oleg shrugged. ‘Kolya, what can I tell you?'

‘Do they know what I
d
o
?' asked Sheremetev incredulously.

‘I told them.'

‘And?'

Oleg shrugged again.

‘Olik, I look after him. He's demented! I'm a nurse!'

‘I told them! But in their heads, they don't imagine you can't have money. Everyone near him has money. Everyone knows it. You touch him and your fingers come away covered in gold.'

‘Not mine.'

‘Is that true?'

Sheremetev stared at him.

‘Kolya?'

‘Yes! It's true. How would I get money?'

‘He's worth billions.'

‘Where are they, these billions? Do you see them here?'

‘It's a big dacha.'

‘He doesn't have a ruble in his pocket! He's demented, Oleg! The bills are paid . . . I don't know how. The housekeeper does it. Me, I get my salary in the bank from some firm of lawyers in Petersburg. That's it. That's all I know. There's nothing else. If you wanted to steal from him, you wouldn't find a kopeck.'

‘So you're saying no one here manages to take advantage of the situation?'

Sheremetev hesitated. After what Stepanin had said to him, it was obvious that something fishy was going on with Eleyekov and the cars, but that was the only thing he knew about.

‘Look, Kolya,' said Oleg. ‘When Karinka was sick, I gave you everything I had. To tell you the truth, Ninochka told me to stop.'

‘You never told me that.'

‘She said I was giving away our future, our retirement, and whatever we had wasn't going to be enough and they'd still ask for more.'

Sheremetev stared. ‘Oleg, you should have told me! I would have . . .'

‘What?'

Sheremetev didn't know. Would he really have refused to take more from Oleg, when there was nowhere else he could turn? It was lucky, he thought guiltily, that Oleg hadn't told him.

‘It doesn't matter. I didn't listen to her, Kolya. And anyway I . . .'

‘What?'

‘Nothing. We managed, that's what matters.'

Sheremetev frowned. ‘Olik, I'll give you whatever I have. I've saved whatever I can since I came here. I have a couple of hundred thousand rubles in the bank. By now, it might be a bit more.'

‘A couple of hundred thousand rubles? That's two thousand dollars. They want three hundred
thousand dollars, Kolya. Three
hundred
thousand.'

Sheremetev stared at him.

‘Kolya, tell me the truth. Do you have it? You've looked after him for years. Do you have it or not?'

‘I don't have it. I don't have anything.'

‘Do you know what's going to happen to Pasha if he ends up in prison? Right now, they're treating him well because they think there's a big payday coming from you. He won't survive, Kolya! They'll tear him limb from limb.'

‘I have nothing. Just what I've got in the bank.'

‘How can you
no
t
?' cried Oleg. ‘You look after him. He's the richest man in Russia. In the world, probably. He's senile. How can you have
nothin
g
?'

Sheremetev had no answer.

Oleg threw back his head, eyes closed, teeth clenched in frustration. ‘I'm sorry,' he said eventually. ‘I shouldn't have said that. You have principles. You always have.' He laughed for a second, shaking his head. ‘Pasha would approve.'

‘I wish I had the money.'

‘Well, you don't. That's clear, isn't it? You know, Nina says . . . Did you notice Pasha wrote about Karinka?' Oleg picked up the blog and read out the part where Pavel had mentioned the woman who died of kidney failure while richer people got treatment. He needn't have – Sheremetev had registered it. ‘It affected him when she died, Kolya. It affected him deeply.'

‘I know,' said Sheremetev.

‘That's why he stole.'

‘What was it? Nothing! A few hospital supplies. I've seen nurses walk out with whole suitcases full. And it was six years ago. He was a kid. Are they really going to prosecute him over that?'

Oleg shook his head helplessly. ‘You know, he was only fourteen, but he knew what was going on. He knew why she wasn't getting treatment. It's funny. I don't know how he found out. I never told him. Maybe someone else did. He was never the same after she died, Kolya. Suddenly he was serious, concerned. If he heard about an injustice, someone taking bribes, he'd brood on it for days.' Oleg sighed. ‘I'm not saying it's bad. I love that about him. I respect him for it. He's a good young man. Karinka's death changed him, that's all I'm saying. If you ask me, it's better to be like that than to be like . . .'

Oleg stopped himself. Sheremetev knew who he had been going to mention next.

‘I can't speak for Vasya,' murmured Sheremetev.

‘No,' said Oleg. ‘But he managed, didn't he? Karinka's death didn't do anything to him.'

‘It took its toll,' said Sheremetev quietly.

‘Really?'

It was funny, as Oleg had said. Pavel, Karinka's nephew, had responded to the circumstances of her death by developing a social conscience. Vasily, on the other hand, Karinka's son, had responded in the opposite way. He was nineteen when Karinka died, away on his army service. He didn't come back to live with his father after that. With Karinka gone, Vasily floated away into whatever world of business – or worse, Sheremetev feared – had swallowed him up. Sheremetev didn't know exactly where he lived – he always seemed to be changing addresses. When Sheremetev had still had the apartment in Moscow, Vasily would occasionally come around. His fortunes seemed to go up and down. Sometimes he'd arrive driving a good car and bringing expensive foreign foodstuffs such as Sheremetev had never bought in his life – at other times he'd turn up on the metro with a bottle of Georgian wine. He would put whatever he had brought on the table, stay for an hour, and then he was gone.

Sheremetev didn't know what to say. The two brothers sat in the small room, the Pinto twins, two peas from the same pod even forty years after they had been given that nickname.

‘How bad is he, anyway?' asked Oleg after a while.

‘Who?' said Sheremetev.

Oleg raised his eyes towards the ceiling, as if Vladimir was in the room above their heads.

‘He lives in his own world,' said Sheremetev. ‘He has no idea what's going on. He still thinks he's president.'

‘What does he do all day?'

‘Sits and talks to his old friends. They're not here of course, but he imagines them.'

‘What does he talk about what?'

‘Who knows? I only hear half the conversation.'

‘Do you listen?'

‘Why would I listen? It's his conversation. He's entitled to his privacy.'

Oleg looked at his brother doubtfully. But Sheremetev was serious. To have listened to the conversations Vladimir had with his imaginary visitors, he felt, would have been no different to eavesdropping on a conversation Vladimir was having with a real person. As far as Vladimir was concerned, he
was
having that conversation, and for him, therefore, that conversation was real. It was a matter of his patient's dignity that Sheremetev should respect Vladimir's right to have those conversations in private, even if Sheremetev often couldn't avoid being in the room at the time.

‘Aren't you interested to know what he's talking about?' asked Oleg.

‘It's not my place,' replied Sheremetev. ‘Besides, if I do happen to hear something, it's gobbledygook to me. Olik, what are they going to do to Pasha if you can't find the money?'

‘The sentence for the crime is up to ten years.'

Sheremetev winced. ‘You can have what I've got, every ruble, I promise.'

‘If all you've got is a couple of hundred thousand, you may as well keep it.'

‘Should I talk to the prosecutor? I could tell him I don't have anything.'

Oleg thought about it. ‘I don't know if it would help. I can ask the lawyer.'

‘Ask. If they'll see me, I could explain.'

‘What about Vasya?' said Oleg. ‘Does he have money?'

‘Three hundred thousand dollars?'

‘As much as he can! The lawyer says there may be a little room for negotiation.'

‘I'll talk to him. I don't know what he's got.'

‘Talk to him today, Kolya. Please.'

Sheremetev nodded. ‘I'll call him.'

There was silence again. For a couple of minutes the two brothers sat without speaking, each caught up in his thoughts.

‘Can I see him?' asked Oleg eventually, raising his eyes to the ceiling again.

‘It's not really allowed, Olik.'

‘Would he know? You said he's got no idea what's going on, right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then . . . ?'

Sheremetev sighed. ‘Alright. Just for a minute.'

They went up the stairs, encountering the maid who was Stepanin's lover on the way. Sheremetev opened the door to Vladimir's sitting room. Vladimir was in his chair, the TV on in front of him, a younger version of himself on the screen. At first they could see only the back of his head. Sheremetev gave Oleg a nudge and led him in.

Vladimir's head turned. Oleg froze.

‘Who's this?' said Vladimir.

‘My brother,' replied Sheremetev.

‘What's his name?'

‘Oleg.'

Vladimir gazed at him with his cold, blue eyes. ‘Can you smell something?'

‘Say no,' whispered Sheremetev, as he saw his brother hesitating. ‘It's got nothing to do with the chickens.'

‘No,' said Oleg.

‘Sure?' said Vladimir.

Oleg glanced at Sheremetev, then nodded.

‘The fucking Chechen's somewhere here, I can tell you. I can smell him, the son of a bitch.' Vladimir laughed. ‘He can never take me by surprise, because I can
smell
him from fifty metres. I'm like a bear! Understand me?'

Oleg nodded.

Vladimir watched him a moment longer, then turned back to the television.

‘Who's the Chechen?' whispered Oleg.

‘No idea,' murmured Sheremetev.

At the door, Oleg stopped and looked back. Vladimir sat, eyes on the television, oblivious to them. Oleg tapped Sheremetev with the rolled-up pages of Pasha's blog. ‘Do you agree with this, Kolya?' he said quietly. ‘The stuff that Pasha wrote?'

Sheremetev glanced at his brother, then looked at the old, senile man who was facing away from them in the chair. He shrugged. ‘I've never really thought about it.'

Sheremetev didn't ring his
son very often. Something held him back. He didn't know what Vasya did to earn money, and at a certain level he probably feared that he might find out.

But he rang Vasya that night, as he had promised Oleg that he would do.

To his surprise, Vasya already knew about Pasha's blog – and he was unsympathetic, to say the least. He didn't seem to regard it as unusual that the prosecutor wanted a bribe to let Pasha go. He laughed coldly when Sheremetev asked if he could pay it.

‘How much do they want?'

‘Three hundred thousand dollars,' said Sheremetev.

Vasya laughed again.

‘Even if you can only spare a part —'

‘Even if I could – which I can't – why would I give it to Pasha? So he can get out and do it again? Does he think such a thing is going to make a difference to anybody but himself? Let him spend some time inside and then maybe he'll learn some sense.'

‘Let him spend some time inside?' Sheremetev was incredulous. ‘Are you serious, Vasya? He's your cousin.'

‘He's an idiot. What he did is an indulgence. Writing something like that makes no difference to anyone – those who agree with him, agree with him, and those who don't, don't – and nothing he says will change anyone's mind. What he writes makes not a speck of difference, so why does he do it? Because he thinks somehow it makes him better than everyone else. Pasha's always been like that. And what happens while the holy martyr is standing up there on his pedestal? Everyone suffers. Uncle Oleg suffers. You suffer. And if anyone knows he's my cousin, I suffer.'