Death And The Penguin, page 10
He washed up and tidied things a bit before leaving. Let Pidpaly at least come back to comparative comfort for a day or two, he thought, locking up behind him.
That evening the nameless paramedic phoned.
“Not long for this world, that old man – it’s cancer,” he said.
“Where is he?”
“October Hospital, Oncology, Ward 5.”
“Thanks.” Viktor replaced the receiver.
Saddened, he looked round at Sonya.
“Are we going to the waste area today?” she asked, catching his eye.
“Supper first,” he said, making for the kitchen.
43
A couple of days later, the Chief’s courier arrived with a fresh batch of files. Glancing over them, Viktor saw he was now dealing with senior ranks of the military. About 20 were due for obelisks, all featuring nostalgia for the past seamlessly combined with arms dealing. Beyond that, it was every man for himself – even to the extent of ferrying illegal emigrants over the Ukrainian–Polish frontier in military helicopters, and the permanent renting out of transport aircraft. The further he read, the grimmer it got. But this bunch had something about them that marked them out from previous notables. Putting the papers aside, he thought about it, looking out at on-going winter. He gathered up the papers again. They had all been good husbands and fathers, these generals, colonels and majors, morally sound to a man.
Another read through, and he was in the mood for work. He put the kettle on and fetched out the typewriter from under the table.
He worked away for two hours, until distracted by the phone. It was district militiaman Sergey.
“I’ve had a word with my niece,” he said, “and she’s happy to come. I’ll bring her along in half an hour, if that’s all right.”
“Good.”
The darkness of a winter evening was descending early over the city. Putting work aside, Viktor went and sat in the living room. Sonya was playing with her Barbie doll.
“Where’s Misha?” he asked.
“In there.”
“Sonya, we’ve got an auntie coming,” he said, “a young auntie who’s going to be your nanny.”
Feeling he had put it clumsily, he paused.
“Will she play with me, Uncle Vik?” Sonya asked.
“Of course.”
“What’s she called?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “She’s a niece of Uncle Sergey, whose dacha we went to for New Year.”
The doorbell rang. Getting to his feet, Viktor looked at his watch. A bit early, he thought, for Sergey. But Sergey it was.
“This is Nina,” said Sergey, as they removed their jackets in the corridor.
Viktor shook hands, took Nina’s jacket, and hung it on a peg.
“This is Sonya,” he told Nina as they gathered in the living room.
Nina gave her a smile.
“And this,” he told Sonya, “is Nina.”
Again he was tongue-tied by the awkwardness of the situation, half expecting the little girl and the young lady to talk away, making him superfluous. Instead, they looked at one another and said nothing. Viktor, meanwhile, took in Nina: small, round-faced, short chestnut hair, looking about 17, in close-fitting jeans emphasizing a certain plumpness, and a blue sweater gently outlining small breasts. There was something of the teenager about her – the smile, perhaps, though that was visibly restrained. The reason, he soon saw, being to hide yellow-stained teeth. Probably a smoker, he thought.
“I can begin tomorrow,” she said suddenly.
“And what shall we do?” Sonya asked.
Nina smiled her half-smile. “What do you want to do?”
“Go tobogganing.”
“Have you got a toboggan?”
“Have I?” asked Sonya with a wide-eyed, skittish glance at Viktor.
“No,” he confessed.
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring one,” Nina said quickly, as if to forestall anything Viktor might say. “Transport’s good from Podol where I live.”
Viktor nodded.
It was agreed that Nina would come at ten and take care of Sonya until five.
Having seen Sergey and his niece out, Viktor sighed with twofold relief. To his delight, the business side of their conversation had proved less than mercenary, and more to the point, Sonya now had a nanny. He felt more comfortable, more relaxed for the future.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked, returning to the living room.
“She’s all right.” Sonya said cheerfully. “We’ll see what Misha thinks of her!”
44
For Viktor, the arrival of Nina was a kind of liberation. Not because he had previously given a lot of time to Sonya – he was giving just as much now – breakfast, supper, the same evening television sessions together. But he was still left with the feeling of having considerably more time, not necessarily free time, but just time – simply by virtue of reproaching himself less, thinking less often of Sonya and no longer accusing himself of not doing anything with her. Now Nina came for her in the morning, and they set off together he knew not where, and in the evening a weary Sonya would boast, We walked around Hydropork or We’ve been to Pushcha-Voditsa!
Viktor was happy. Work was making quiet progress. Winter was relenting. Misha was again roaming the flat at night, and once scared Sonya into screaming. She had been sleeping with her arm hanging over the side of the settee, when Misha bumped, then nestled against it.
She had probably been dreaming, and the sudden physical warmth of Misha had produced a nightmare effect.
Having finished the military, Viktor decided not to ring the Chief for further files, but take a day off. It was sunny, and a pre-spring thaw was in progress.
Sonya and Nina had gone for a walk again. Misha, after a solid breakfast, had returned to the living room, and was standing by the balcony door, where the cold was to his liking.
Viktor decided to pay old Pidpaly a visit.
The thaw had made the pavements treacherous, and on his way to the October Hospital he had several falls, the last of them on the steps of Oncology.
Ward 5, which he located unaided, was huge, like a school gymnasium. To some extent, and probably by reason of the strict alternation of beds and bedside tables, it was like a barracks. Not a nurse was to be seen. A sour medicinal odour pervaded the place. Some beds were screened off.
After a good look round he spotted Pidpaly, lying staring at the ceiling, on a bed by a window. His head seemed to have shrunk.
Picking up a heavy stool inside the door, he went and sat by the penguinologist’s bed, but went unnoticed.
“Hello,” said Viktor.
Pidpaly turned, and his thin pale lips extended into a smile.
“Greetings.”
“How are we? Are you getting treatment?”
A smile was the old man’s response.
“I didn’t bring anything,” Viktor said guiltily, noticing two oranges on a neighbouring bedside table. “Somehow I didn’t think.”
“No matter … the good thing is you’ve come.” The old man extricated an arm from under the blanket of grey greatcoat material, raised it to his face and fingered the stubble on his flabby cheeks. “The barber comes once a week, on Friday. Gets paid only for two hours, so he’ll never get to me.”
“And you want your hair cut?” Seeing how little hair he had, Viktor was surprised.
“A shave is what I want,” said the old man again, fingering his stubble. “My previous neighbour,” he nodded at the bed on the right, “gave me his shaving kit. The whole works. Brush and all. But I can’t shave myself …”
“Like me to?” ventured Viktor.
“If you would.”
Taking the razor, brush and squat plastic beaker, also part of the kit, from Pidpaly’s bedside table, Viktor got to his feet.
“I’ll just fetch some water.”
He walked the whole length of the corridor twice in search of a nurse or doctor, without finding either. He did find a toilet, but the water from the tap was cold. In the end he enquired of a patient, who sent him to the kitchen, one floor down. There an old woman in a blue smock looked out a half-litre jar, and filled it with hot water from a boiler for him.
The actual shave took the best part of an hour, the razor being old and the blade blunt. He could see the cuts left on the old man’s cheeks, but no blood came. When at last he had finished, he collected Eau de Cologne from others in the ward, and pouring a little into his palm, rubbed it on the old man’s cheeks. Pidpaly groaned.
“Sorry,” Viktor said mechanically.
“No matter,” said the old man hoarsely. “Means you’re still alive if it hurts.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“Give my flat over to him and he’ll give me another three months.” Again he smiled. “But what’s three months to me? I’ve no unfinished business.”
Viktor’s right hand balled itself into a fist.
“Do they give you no medicines?” he asked.
“There aren’t any. Those who bring them, get given them. For the others, it’s bed and rest.”
Viktor said nothing, waiting for his fury to abate.
“And what did he offer for your flat?” he asked when calmer. “Medicines?”
“Some sort of American injections …” The old man put a hand to his shaven cheek. “Look, there’s something I want to ask you …” He edged towards Viktor, turning with an effort onto his side. “Bend down closer.”
Viktor bent down closer.
“You’ve got the flat keys?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Viktor whispered back.
“Listen. Don’t let me down. When I die, set fire to my flat,” whispered the old man. “I beg you! Don’t want anyone sitting in my chair, rummaging in my papers, rubbish-binning the lot. Understand? It’s my things … What I’ve lived with, and don’t want to leave here … Understand?”
Viktor nodded.
“Promise you will when I’m dead,” he said, gazing questioningly, beseechingly into Viktor’s eyes.
“I promise,” Viktor whispered.
“That’s good.” Again the bloodless lips formed a smile. “I told you, I did once come in for the better things of this life, didn’t I?”
With a heavy sigh he turned onto his back again.
“So off with you,” he said hoarsely. “Thanks for the shave. Otherwise, it’s lie unshaven, like a corpse!” He pointed to the nearest screen.
“Is that one?” Viktor whispered uneasily.
“Screen today, morgue tomorrow!” whispered Pidpaly. “Off you go.”
Viktor got to his feet, stood for a moment looking down at Pidpaly. But Pidpaly was gazing at the ceiling, thin lips moving as if shaping words audible to no one but himself.
45
The next day began as usual. The sun shone in at the window, and Viktor and Sonya sat at a breakfast of fried eggs and tea in the kitchen. Misha, moody since daybreak, refused, however much cajoled, to come and join them.
Sonya kept casting eager looks at the alarm clock on the window ledge, as if willing the minute hand forward.
At 9.40 the doorbell rang and she darted out, almost knocking her stool over.
Nina had arrived. A happy exchange of greetings ensued, after which Nina, still in her coat, looked in to say hello.
“Where are you off to today?” Viktor asked.
“Syrets. Walk in the woods, then to Podol and to my place for lunch.”
She gave a dutiful nod and a teeth-concealing half-smile.
“So where’s your little jacket?” he heard her asking Sonya in the corridor. “And now your little boots.”
Five minutes later she looked in again.
“Just off,” she said, with another half-smile.
The door banged. Silence descended, except for a faint stirring in the living room. The door creaked open, and Misha peeped out. Apparently satisfied that the corridor was empty, he advanced to the kitchen door and pushed it open. He contemplated his master from the doorway, then came over and snuggled up against his knee. Viktor stroked him.
After several minutes of this, Misha went to his bowl, and stood looking back. Viktor took two small plaice out of the freezer, cut them up and gave them to him. He then returned to his seat, having topped up his cup of tea.
The relative silence – apart from the sound of Misha’s breakfasting – took Viktor back to when there had been just the two of them living there in peace and quiet, without any sense of strong attachment, but with a feeling of interdependence creating a kind of blood tie between them – as if, in the absence of love, there was concern. After all, even relatives didn’t have to be loved – taken care of, worried about, yes, but feelings and emotions were of secondary importance in that, and not, so long as all was well with them, obligatory …
Making short work of his breakfast, Misha returned to his master who, struck by this unusually affectionate behaviour, stroked him, at which he pressed more firmly against his knee. “Not feeling ill, are we?” he asked gently, looking him over.
We seem to have been neglecting you, he thought. First it was the TV with Sonya, now it’s Nina. I’m sorry. And there was I thinking you and Sonya were playing as you used to. I’m sorry … Viktor sat on at the kitchen table for a good 20 minutes, not wanting to disturb Misha, considering the recent past and thinking about the future. Life, despite the short-lived dangers he had sat out at the dacha over New Year, seemed on an even course. All was well, or appeared so. To every time, its own normality. The once terrible was now commonplace, meaning that people accepted it as the norm and went on living, instead of getting needlessly agitated. For them, as for Viktor, the main thing, after all, was still to live, come what might.
The thaw continued.
At about two the doorbell rang. Expecting it to be Nina and Sonya, he went to the door, but it was Igor Lvovich who marched in, banging the door behind him, took off his coat, and went through to the kitchen without removing his footwear.
Pale, baggy-eyed, the Chief was clearly not himself.
“Make some coffee,” he said, plumping himself down in Viktor’s place.
Seeing to coffee-maker and coffee, Viktor looked back at the Chief. He appeared to be trembling, and for just an instant Viktor felt similarly affected. He lit the burner, poured coffee and water into the coffee-maker, and put it on the flame.
“So what!” the Chief was muttering abstractedly. “So what!”
“Has something happened?”
“It has,” said Igor Lvovich, looking away. “Just wait … Till I warm up …”
Again silence. Viktor stood watching the coffee. As the foam rose, he took the coffee-maker off the heat, fetched cups and poured.
Hands clasped round the cup, the Chief looked across at him.
“Thanks,” he said.
Viktor sat down at the table with him.
“Look,” the Chief began suddenly, “it’s best I tell you nothing. What’s it to you? Remember how you had to lie low for a day or two?”
Viktor nodded.
“Well,” he smiled wrily, “now it’s my turn. Just for a day or two. Till the boys clear the way. Then back to the grind.”
“I’ve done all the military,” said Viktor. “They’re there, on the window ledge.”
In no mood for obelisks, the Chief dismissed them with a wave.
He drank his coffee, lit a cigarette, and looking in vain for an ashtray, used the table instead, and for some minutes sat lost in thought.
“It’s hard, you know, finding you’ve been put on the spot by your own.” He sighed. “Very hard … Busy just now?”
“No.”
“Well then,” said the Chief, looking earnestly at him, “you can go to my office for me – I’ll ring my secretary to let you in – and bring back the brown briefcase from the safe. I’ll give you the key. If you find you’re being followed, ditch the key, and wander round till dark.”
Viktor suddenly felt afraid. Gulping his coffee, he looked up and into a steady gaze dismissive of any thoughts or qualms.
“When?” he asked, like a doomed man.
“Now.”
The Chief handed over a key from his wallet.
“But wait till I’ve rung through,” he said, as Viktor rose from the table.
The Chief went to the living room.
“Off you go,” he said, returning.
Thaw or no thaw, it was freezing, of which none was more aware than Viktor, walking slowly to the trolleybus stop, no longer afraid, but mind and whole body numb with cold.
When, an hour later, he entered the newspaper building, he had to show his Press card to three lots of Special Task Militia before finally arriving at the Editor-in-Chief’s reception. The pale secretary nodded recognition, and without a word, unlocked the Chief’s sanctum. Having closed the door behind him, Viktor found himself trembling all over, and remembering he hadn’t once checked to see if he was being followed, felt suddenly afraid.
To calm himself, he went over to the desk and sat in the Chief’s chair. The safe was to his left, on a low table. He got out the key. After a moment or so’s hesitation, he opened the safe. The brown briefcase was on the lower shelf. He placed it on the desk before him. Once again trembling precluded thought. He had no inclination to get to his feet and leave the office, as if he were aware of danger lurking beyond its walls. He had another look in the safe, to spin out time. On the upper shelf lay a folder with several typed sheets on top. Without thinking, he reached for the topmost sheet, and recognized it at once as his obelisk for the Director of Ferro-Concrete Reinforcements. In the top left-hand corner someone had written
Approved.
For 14.02.99
with a bold, sweeping signature.
His growing astonishment proved a release from fear and trembling. Today was only February the third! A glance at the other sheets confirmed that they, too, were recent obelisks, each approved for some date ahead. Returning to the safe, he took out the folder and untied the ribbons. More obelisks, the more or less recent on top, all of them approved – one for that very day, the third, and with the same bold, sweeping signature. He extracted some from the middle of the pile. The first of these, as well as approved for a date now past had
That evening the nameless paramedic phoned.
“Not long for this world, that old man – it’s cancer,” he said.
“Where is he?”
“October Hospital, Oncology, Ward 5.”
“Thanks.” Viktor replaced the receiver.
Saddened, he looked round at Sonya.
“Are we going to the waste area today?” she asked, catching his eye.
“Supper first,” he said, making for the kitchen.
43
A couple of days later, the Chief’s courier arrived with a fresh batch of files. Glancing over them, Viktor saw he was now dealing with senior ranks of the military. About 20 were due for obelisks, all featuring nostalgia for the past seamlessly combined with arms dealing. Beyond that, it was every man for himself – even to the extent of ferrying illegal emigrants over the Ukrainian–Polish frontier in military helicopters, and the permanent renting out of transport aircraft. The further he read, the grimmer it got. But this bunch had something about them that marked them out from previous notables. Putting the papers aside, he thought about it, looking out at on-going winter. He gathered up the papers again. They had all been good husbands and fathers, these generals, colonels and majors, morally sound to a man.
Another read through, and he was in the mood for work. He put the kettle on and fetched out the typewriter from under the table.
He worked away for two hours, until distracted by the phone. It was district militiaman Sergey.
“I’ve had a word with my niece,” he said, “and she’s happy to come. I’ll bring her along in half an hour, if that’s all right.”
“Good.”
The darkness of a winter evening was descending early over the city. Putting work aside, Viktor went and sat in the living room. Sonya was playing with her Barbie doll.
“Where’s Misha?” he asked.
“In there.”
“Sonya, we’ve got an auntie coming,” he said, “a young auntie who’s going to be your nanny.”
Feeling he had put it clumsily, he paused.
“Will she play with me, Uncle Vik?” Sonya asked.
“Of course.”
“What’s she called?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “She’s a niece of Uncle Sergey, whose dacha we went to for New Year.”
The doorbell rang. Getting to his feet, Viktor looked at his watch. A bit early, he thought, for Sergey. But Sergey it was.
“This is Nina,” said Sergey, as they removed their jackets in the corridor.
Viktor shook hands, took Nina’s jacket, and hung it on a peg.
“This is Sonya,” he told Nina as they gathered in the living room.
Nina gave her a smile.
“And this,” he told Sonya, “is Nina.”
Again he was tongue-tied by the awkwardness of the situation, half expecting the little girl and the young lady to talk away, making him superfluous. Instead, they looked at one another and said nothing. Viktor, meanwhile, took in Nina: small, round-faced, short chestnut hair, looking about 17, in close-fitting jeans emphasizing a certain plumpness, and a blue sweater gently outlining small breasts. There was something of the teenager about her – the smile, perhaps, though that was visibly restrained. The reason, he soon saw, being to hide yellow-stained teeth. Probably a smoker, he thought.
“I can begin tomorrow,” she said suddenly.
“And what shall we do?” Sonya asked.
Nina smiled her half-smile. “What do you want to do?”
“Go tobogganing.”
“Have you got a toboggan?”
“Have I?” asked Sonya with a wide-eyed, skittish glance at Viktor.
“No,” he confessed.
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring one,” Nina said quickly, as if to forestall anything Viktor might say. “Transport’s good from Podol where I live.”
Viktor nodded.
It was agreed that Nina would come at ten and take care of Sonya until five.
Having seen Sergey and his niece out, Viktor sighed with twofold relief. To his delight, the business side of their conversation had proved less than mercenary, and more to the point, Sonya now had a nanny. He felt more comfortable, more relaxed for the future.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked, returning to the living room.
“She’s all right.” Sonya said cheerfully. “We’ll see what Misha thinks of her!”
44
For Viktor, the arrival of Nina was a kind of liberation. Not because he had previously given a lot of time to Sonya – he was giving just as much now – breakfast, supper, the same evening television sessions together. But he was still left with the feeling of having considerably more time, not necessarily free time, but just time – simply by virtue of reproaching himself less, thinking less often of Sonya and no longer accusing himself of not doing anything with her. Now Nina came for her in the morning, and they set off together he knew not where, and in the evening a weary Sonya would boast, We walked around Hydropork or We’ve been to Pushcha-Voditsa!
Viktor was happy. Work was making quiet progress. Winter was relenting. Misha was again roaming the flat at night, and once scared Sonya into screaming. She had been sleeping with her arm hanging over the side of the settee, when Misha bumped, then nestled against it.
She had probably been dreaming, and the sudden physical warmth of Misha had produced a nightmare effect.
Having finished the military, Viktor decided not to ring the Chief for further files, but take a day off. It was sunny, and a pre-spring thaw was in progress.
Sonya and Nina had gone for a walk again. Misha, after a solid breakfast, had returned to the living room, and was standing by the balcony door, where the cold was to his liking.
Viktor decided to pay old Pidpaly a visit.
The thaw had made the pavements treacherous, and on his way to the October Hospital he had several falls, the last of them on the steps of Oncology.
Ward 5, which he located unaided, was huge, like a school gymnasium. To some extent, and probably by reason of the strict alternation of beds and bedside tables, it was like a barracks. Not a nurse was to be seen. A sour medicinal odour pervaded the place. Some beds were screened off.
After a good look round he spotted Pidpaly, lying staring at the ceiling, on a bed by a window. His head seemed to have shrunk.
Picking up a heavy stool inside the door, he went and sat by the penguinologist’s bed, but went unnoticed.
“Hello,” said Viktor.
Pidpaly turned, and his thin pale lips extended into a smile.
“Greetings.”
“How are we? Are you getting treatment?”
A smile was the old man’s response.
“I didn’t bring anything,” Viktor said guiltily, noticing two oranges on a neighbouring bedside table. “Somehow I didn’t think.”
“No matter … the good thing is you’ve come.” The old man extricated an arm from under the blanket of grey greatcoat material, raised it to his face and fingered the stubble on his flabby cheeks. “The barber comes once a week, on Friday. Gets paid only for two hours, so he’ll never get to me.”
“And you want your hair cut?” Seeing how little hair he had, Viktor was surprised.
“A shave is what I want,” said the old man again, fingering his stubble. “My previous neighbour,” he nodded at the bed on the right, “gave me his shaving kit. The whole works. Brush and all. But I can’t shave myself …”
“Like me to?” ventured Viktor.
“If you would.”
Taking the razor, brush and squat plastic beaker, also part of the kit, from Pidpaly’s bedside table, Viktor got to his feet.
“I’ll just fetch some water.”
He walked the whole length of the corridor twice in search of a nurse or doctor, without finding either. He did find a toilet, but the water from the tap was cold. In the end he enquired of a patient, who sent him to the kitchen, one floor down. There an old woman in a blue smock looked out a half-litre jar, and filled it with hot water from a boiler for him.
The actual shave took the best part of an hour, the razor being old and the blade blunt. He could see the cuts left on the old man’s cheeks, but no blood came. When at last he had finished, he collected Eau de Cologne from others in the ward, and pouring a little into his palm, rubbed it on the old man’s cheeks. Pidpaly groaned.
“Sorry,” Viktor said mechanically.
“No matter,” said the old man hoarsely. “Means you’re still alive if it hurts.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“Give my flat over to him and he’ll give me another three months.” Again he smiled. “But what’s three months to me? I’ve no unfinished business.”
Viktor’s right hand balled itself into a fist.
“Do they give you no medicines?” he asked.
“There aren’t any. Those who bring them, get given them. For the others, it’s bed and rest.”
Viktor said nothing, waiting for his fury to abate.
“And what did he offer for your flat?” he asked when calmer. “Medicines?”
“Some sort of American injections …” The old man put a hand to his shaven cheek. “Look, there’s something I want to ask you …” He edged towards Viktor, turning with an effort onto his side. “Bend down closer.”
Viktor bent down closer.
“You’ve got the flat keys?” he whispered.
“Yes,” Viktor whispered back.
“Listen. Don’t let me down. When I die, set fire to my flat,” whispered the old man. “I beg you! Don’t want anyone sitting in my chair, rummaging in my papers, rubbish-binning the lot. Understand? It’s my things … What I’ve lived with, and don’t want to leave here … Understand?”
Viktor nodded.
“Promise you will when I’m dead,” he said, gazing questioningly, beseechingly into Viktor’s eyes.
“I promise,” Viktor whispered.
“That’s good.” Again the bloodless lips formed a smile. “I told you, I did once come in for the better things of this life, didn’t I?”
With a heavy sigh he turned onto his back again.
“So off with you,” he said hoarsely. “Thanks for the shave. Otherwise, it’s lie unshaven, like a corpse!” He pointed to the nearest screen.
“Is that one?” Viktor whispered uneasily.
“Screen today, morgue tomorrow!” whispered Pidpaly. “Off you go.”
Viktor got to his feet, stood for a moment looking down at Pidpaly. But Pidpaly was gazing at the ceiling, thin lips moving as if shaping words audible to no one but himself.
45
The next day began as usual. The sun shone in at the window, and Viktor and Sonya sat at a breakfast of fried eggs and tea in the kitchen. Misha, moody since daybreak, refused, however much cajoled, to come and join them.
Sonya kept casting eager looks at the alarm clock on the window ledge, as if willing the minute hand forward.
At 9.40 the doorbell rang and she darted out, almost knocking her stool over.
Nina had arrived. A happy exchange of greetings ensued, after which Nina, still in her coat, looked in to say hello.
“Where are you off to today?” Viktor asked.
“Syrets. Walk in the woods, then to Podol and to my place for lunch.”
She gave a dutiful nod and a teeth-concealing half-smile.
“So where’s your little jacket?” he heard her asking Sonya in the corridor. “And now your little boots.”
Five minutes later she looked in again.
“Just off,” she said, with another half-smile.
The door banged. Silence descended, except for a faint stirring in the living room. The door creaked open, and Misha peeped out. Apparently satisfied that the corridor was empty, he advanced to the kitchen door and pushed it open. He contemplated his master from the doorway, then came over and snuggled up against his knee. Viktor stroked him.
After several minutes of this, Misha went to his bowl, and stood looking back. Viktor took two small plaice out of the freezer, cut them up and gave them to him. He then returned to his seat, having topped up his cup of tea.
The relative silence – apart from the sound of Misha’s breakfasting – took Viktor back to when there had been just the two of them living there in peace and quiet, without any sense of strong attachment, but with a feeling of interdependence creating a kind of blood tie between them – as if, in the absence of love, there was concern. After all, even relatives didn’t have to be loved – taken care of, worried about, yes, but feelings and emotions were of secondary importance in that, and not, so long as all was well with them, obligatory …
Making short work of his breakfast, Misha returned to his master who, struck by this unusually affectionate behaviour, stroked him, at which he pressed more firmly against his knee. “Not feeling ill, are we?” he asked gently, looking him over.
We seem to have been neglecting you, he thought. First it was the TV with Sonya, now it’s Nina. I’m sorry. And there was I thinking you and Sonya were playing as you used to. I’m sorry … Viktor sat on at the kitchen table for a good 20 minutes, not wanting to disturb Misha, considering the recent past and thinking about the future. Life, despite the short-lived dangers he had sat out at the dacha over New Year, seemed on an even course. All was well, or appeared so. To every time, its own normality. The once terrible was now commonplace, meaning that people accepted it as the norm and went on living, instead of getting needlessly agitated. For them, as for Viktor, the main thing, after all, was still to live, come what might.
The thaw continued.
At about two the doorbell rang. Expecting it to be Nina and Sonya, he went to the door, but it was Igor Lvovich who marched in, banging the door behind him, took off his coat, and went through to the kitchen without removing his footwear.
Pale, baggy-eyed, the Chief was clearly not himself.
“Make some coffee,” he said, plumping himself down in Viktor’s place.
Seeing to coffee-maker and coffee, Viktor looked back at the Chief. He appeared to be trembling, and for just an instant Viktor felt similarly affected. He lit the burner, poured coffee and water into the coffee-maker, and put it on the flame.
“So what!” the Chief was muttering abstractedly. “So what!”
“Has something happened?”
“It has,” said Igor Lvovich, looking away. “Just wait … Till I warm up …”
Again silence. Viktor stood watching the coffee. As the foam rose, he took the coffee-maker off the heat, fetched cups and poured.
Hands clasped round the cup, the Chief looked across at him.
“Thanks,” he said.
Viktor sat down at the table with him.
“Look,” the Chief began suddenly, “it’s best I tell you nothing. What’s it to you? Remember how you had to lie low for a day or two?”
Viktor nodded.
“Well,” he smiled wrily, “now it’s my turn. Just for a day or two. Till the boys clear the way. Then back to the grind.”
“I’ve done all the military,” said Viktor. “They’re there, on the window ledge.”
In no mood for obelisks, the Chief dismissed them with a wave.
He drank his coffee, lit a cigarette, and looking in vain for an ashtray, used the table instead, and for some minutes sat lost in thought.
“It’s hard, you know, finding you’ve been put on the spot by your own.” He sighed. “Very hard … Busy just now?”
“No.”
“Well then,” said the Chief, looking earnestly at him, “you can go to my office for me – I’ll ring my secretary to let you in – and bring back the brown briefcase from the safe. I’ll give you the key. If you find you’re being followed, ditch the key, and wander round till dark.”
Viktor suddenly felt afraid. Gulping his coffee, he looked up and into a steady gaze dismissive of any thoughts or qualms.
“When?” he asked, like a doomed man.
“Now.”
The Chief handed over a key from his wallet.
“But wait till I’ve rung through,” he said, as Viktor rose from the table.
The Chief went to the living room.
“Off you go,” he said, returning.
Thaw or no thaw, it was freezing, of which none was more aware than Viktor, walking slowly to the trolleybus stop, no longer afraid, but mind and whole body numb with cold.
When, an hour later, he entered the newspaper building, he had to show his Press card to three lots of Special Task Militia before finally arriving at the Editor-in-Chief’s reception. The pale secretary nodded recognition, and without a word, unlocked the Chief’s sanctum. Having closed the door behind him, Viktor found himself trembling all over, and remembering he hadn’t once checked to see if he was being followed, felt suddenly afraid.
To calm himself, he went over to the desk and sat in the Chief’s chair. The safe was to his left, on a low table. He got out the key. After a moment or so’s hesitation, he opened the safe. The brown briefcase was on the lower shelf. He placed it on the desk before him. Once again trembling precluded thought. He had no inclination to get to his feet and leave the office, as if he were aware of danger lurking beyond its walls. He had another look in the safe, to spin out time. On the upper shelf lay a folder with several typed sheets on top. Without thinking, he reached for the topmost sheet, and recognized it at once as his obelisk for the Director of Ferro-Concrete Reinforcements. In the top left-hand corner someone had written
Approved.
For 14.02.99
with a bold, sweeping signature.
His growing astonishment proved a release from fear and trembling. Today was only February the third! A glance at the other sheets confirmed that they, too, were recent obelisks, each approved for some date ahead. Returning to the safe, he took out the folder and untied the ribbons. More obelisks, the more or less recent on top, all of them approved – one for that very day, the third, and with the same bold, sweeping signature. He extracted some from the middle of the pile. The first of these, as well as approved for a date now past had
