Death And The Penguin, page 20
The nervy flame cast trembling shadows on the kitchen walls. For a while he gazed, fascinated, then, taking pen and paper, wrote:
Dear Nina,
In a bag on top of the wardrobe is Sonya’s money.
Look after her. Got to go away for a bit. Back when the dust settles …
The last sentence wrote itself, and he was about to underline it, but stopped and simply read it over several times. It had a soothing ring.
All the best, – Viktor.
he added, pushed the note from him, and sat for a long while contemplating the candle flame.
The dark-green urn with lid still stood on the window ledge, its surface reflecting the gentle glow of the candle.
Style was a word beloved of bearded Lyosha. Maybe he, Viktor, should invent a style of his own. Do something new before suicide. Go where he had never been before and where no one would think of looking for him!
The candle lit a sad smile.
Quietly he went through to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. From the pocket of his winter jacket he took his own bundle of dollars earned in conjunction with Misha. He went back to the kitchen and had another look out of the window. It would be cold, out there in the dark. Going again to the bedroom, he came back with a sweater, which he put on under his anorak. And shoving the weighty bundle of dollars into his pocket, he left the flat.
76
For $10 the taxi driver drove him to the door of Casino Johnny where his way was barred by a massive, dark-suited guard. Something about his mighty frame and aggressive manner moved Viktor to laughter. Flashing his bundle of notes and peeling one off, heedless of denomination, he stuck it in the guard’s breast pocket. The guard stepped aside.
A girl cashier in a snow-white blouse with a pale-blue scarf around her neck dozed behind her window. For a night-spot it was too quiet. He looked around, puzzled, having imagined something very different.
He tapped on the glass. The girl woke, and looked in surprise at his anorak.
He proffered $100, and was handed a number of different-coloured plastic counters.
“This your first time here?” she asked, seeing his doubtful response. “They’re instead of money. For use in the bar, and for placing bets.”
He looked around, unsure where to go.
“That way,” she prompted, pointing to a heavy green curtain.
It was another world he found himself in, more like what he had imagined, except that it was still too quiet. There were, by his estimate, no more than seven people in the whole place. A man was playing alone against the croupier at one of the roulette tables; at another, three men were playing. Two more were playing poker. There was soft music, and from a corridor, neon-signed Bar, a girl came in with a glass of wine.
Viktor went over to the table at which the lone man was playing. He might have been Japanese or Korean, and was placing his stakes in a subdued, embittered sort of way.
Viktor sat beside him, watched what he did, then made his first bet.
The tiny ball sped around, stopped, and the croupier slid some counters towards him.
He had won!
Roulette was something he had seen only at the cinema, and this was like a film he had never seen before. With sudden abandon, he placed all his counters on red, and won again, watched with evident mistrust by the Japanese-Korean.
Placing all his counters on even, Viktor won again.
This was tedious. Shoving the counters into a pocket of his anorak, he went to the bar, ordered a large cognac, and as change for his counter, got back three of a different colour.
Toy money, toy prices, toy people – this was a Children’s World indeed …
Returning, glass in hand to the tables, he sat down at the same one, staked a fistful of counters, and won again.
Beginner’s luck, he decided.
The Japanese-Korean took himself off, and Viktor played on alone. Played and won. The plastic results of which began to weigh down both pockets.
“Look,” he said, addressing the croupier, an elegant young man in white shirt and bow tie, “what do I do with these counters?”
“Change them back into dollars,” was the answer.
Viktor nodded, and went on winning.
Then back to the bar. After which, the restaurant. A dumpy woman of no age or figure. A hotel room … All he could remember was the strength of her arms.
Next morning, head buzzing, Viktor woke alone. He got up and looked out of the window at the familiar square with its little market.
He wasn’t going anywhere, he decided. He still had money that he wouldn’t be needing …
Struck by sudden doubt, he took his anorak off the chair and felt in the pockets. To his surprise, the bundle of dollars and mass of counters were still there.
When he had washed and dressed he went down to the restaurant, and for a few counters had an excellent meal and more to drink. Back in his room, he slept until evening, then went down again, this time to the casino.
His second night was even more successful than the first. He went on winning, not caring what might happen to him. He realized subconsciously that to go on winning was bad. At the same time this seemed strange, since people played to win.
After a good spell in the bar, he proceeded to the cashier’s desk. There was no one there, but another elegant young man of about 17, also in white shirt and bow tie, appeared, having evidently noticed him.
Viktor started shedding counters from the pockets of his anorak onto the shelf in front of the window.
Catching a flash of alarm in the young man’s eyes, he stopped and stared.
The young man gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.
“You oughtn’t to cash all that lot in,” he whispered, “you’ll never get away from here.”
“So what do I do?” asked Viktor, at something of a loss.
“Play until morning, then phone some friends to meet you at the door.”
“That’s the local rule, is it?” Viktor said, drunkenly surprised.
“No,” said the young man. “We play by the book, unlike most.” He nodded towards the green curtain through which Viktor had entered the night before.
Leaving his counters at the window, Viktor went and looked through the curtain. In the hotel foyer, not five metres away, four thugs stood chatting. One gave him a cheery wink.
Gathering up his counters, Viktor played on, and towards dawn fell asleep on a comfortable black leather settee in the bar.
At about nine he was woken by someone who rummaged in his pockets for his key on its hefty hotel pear, and conducted him to his room.
For his third night at the tables he felt as if his powers were deserting him. He had a mist before his eyes and could hardly see where he was placing his counters. But he still kept winning, and in the end grew apprehensive, under the cold, lifeless gaze of the nattily dressed, neatly cropped croupiers and house security guards.
Towards morning one of them came over to him.
“Like us to see you home?” he asked, his face frozen in a waxen smile.
“Home?” For Viktor it was a word of menace.
“Don’t worry, we’d drive you in the limo – with an escort, if you like. You could cash your chips, or leave them and come back.”
“What’s the date?” he asked suddenly.
“Ninth of May,” replied Waxen Smile.
“And the time?”
“7.30.”
Viktor tried to think. The 9th of May. Not just former Victory Day, but the day of Misha’s flight … Only not now. Misha was at the Theophania Clinic, which was where they would be waiting, eager to close Viktor’s dead hand around the Stechkin automatic.
“Could you, in an hour’s time, take me to the aircraft factory?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation.
They looked at him amazed.
“Certainly,” said Waxen Smile. “With escort?”
Viktor nodded.
The man withdrew.
The limousine was enormous. He had never seen such a vehicle. It was like sitting in a room. The escort served him with a gin and tonic from a small refrigerator.
They drove along Victory Avenue, and through the tinted glass Viktor could see people stopping to watch the limo pass.
He smiled contentedly, sipping another gin and tonic. He was still drunk. Pulling out a fistful of chips, he offered them to the escort. The latter accepted with thanks.
They pulled up at the factory gate and the escort enquired, “Where now?”
“Ask Valentin Ivanovich of the Antarctic Committee to meet me here.”
The escort got out, and Viktor watched him walk calmly through the checkpoint and disappear inside the building. No one stopped him.
Five minutes later he returned.
“He’s waiting,” he said, indicating the checkpoint.
“You can go,” said Viktor, getting out.
Valentin Ivanovich looked thoroughly alarmed, but seeing Viktor, heaved a sigh of relief.
“Phew! I didn’t know it was you,” he said. “Where’s the penguin?”
“The penguin,” said Viktor bleakly, “is me.”
Valentin Ivanovich nodded thoughtfully.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We’re loading.”
December 1995 – February 1996
www.vintage-books.co.uk
Andrey Kurkov, Death And The Penguin
