Death And The Penguin, page 9
This set Viktor thinking. He couldn’t go back to town yet, and it was too soon to call the Chief.
“Could I stay on a few days more?” he asked.
“Stay forever!” gestured Sergey. “I’m easy. All the better for me – no idiot’ll try breaking in.”
That evening, in spite of a thumping headache, Sergey set off for Kiev.
“If you need to, ring – there’s a public phone, end of main avenue, by the caretaker’s place,” he said as he left. “I’ll tell Security you’re here. But I’d be a bit more careful with that wad of hundreds … Hide it away somewhere.”
Viktor nodded.
The Zaporozhets sprang into life and departed. Silence returned. Except for faint sounds from the living room where Sonya was watching a film on TV.
“Shouldn’t I look after that money for you?” asked Viktor, perching beside her on the settee.
“Here,” she said, handing him the bundle. “Only don’t lose it.”
Putting the dollars with the gift gun into the shopping bag, he dropped both into the cellar.
38
The next few days passed quietly and uneventfully, apart from the arrival of the local militia to collect the body of the hapless burglar, when, at the request of the caretaker, Vanya, everyone kept indoors. “Not keen to appear as witnesses, are we?” he had asked, and Viktor agreed that he wasn’t.
When the militia had gone, Vanya came around with the all-clear.
“It’s OK,” he said.
“Won’t the owner of the dacha be in trouble?” Viktor enquired.
Grandpa Vanya grinned.
“The Colonel? He’s just been. Reckoned they’d put the mine there for him, not the thief. Obvious, he said, wasn’t it? Lots of that sort of thing about nowadays.”
Sonya spent most of her time in front of the TV, and only when something really boring was on did she go outside or potter with the penguin on the veranda.
Viktor found idleness difficult to bear. He wanted to do something, anything, however useless. But at the dacha there was nothing to do, and he was miserable, first joining Sonya in front of the TV for a bit, then sitting in the kitchen, to where he had moved back the table and hotplate from the veranda.
Unable, finally, to endure it any more, and telling Sonya not to go out, he went and rang the Chief from the public phone.
It was the secretary who answered.
“Can I speak to Igor Lvovich?”
“I’ll take it, Tanya,” intervened the familiar voice. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Viktor. Can I come back yet?”
“Didn’t know you’d gone away,” said the Chief, feigning surprise. “Of course. Everything’s fine. Come and see me as soon as you can. Got something to show you.”
Viktor then rang Sergey asking him to pick them up as soon as possible.
Walking back to the dacha, he was in a happier frame of mind. At last New Year had an aura of holiday about it, albeit of a holiday now past. Again, the crunch of snow, but now it was a cheerful sound. Looking about him, he took in what so far he had not noticed: the sculptural beauty of winter trees, of bullfinches wandering over snow covered with tracks of cat, or dog. And from forgotten depths surfaced a memory of natural history lessons at which, long, long ago, they had learnt to identify animal prints; and of text-book illustrations – Tracks of the hare … Hopping … Bounding … And out of the past, the voice of his first lady teacher: “The hare, when fleeing pursuit, bounds!”
39
Leaving the shopping bag with gun and bundle of dollars on top of the wardrobe, and Sonya at home with Misha, Viktor set off for the editorial office.
Smiling smugly, the Chief sat him in an armchair, produced coffee, asked about the New Year festivities, blatantly putting off any mention of business. When, after coffee, a pause ensued which it would clearly have been foolish to fill with idle conversation, he produced a large envelope from his desk drawer. Keeping his eyes fixed on Viktor, he drew out several photographs and passed them over.
“Take a look. You may know them.”
The photos showed two well-dressed corpses. Young men of 25 or so lying on the floor of someone’s flat, tidily and obediently supine – no outflung arms, splayed legs or faces distorted by fear or agony. Their faces were calm, indifferent.
“Don’t recognize them?”
“No,” said Viktor.
“You were their target … Here’s a memento!” He passed over two more photos.
Viktor saw himself at the little table in the café beneath the Kharkov Opera House; and in the street, also in Kharkov.
“Modest lads,” said the Chief, “only one silencer between them … Anyway, they didn’t get to you. But the negatives are still somewhere in Kharkov … I don’t think they’ll send anyone else, but watch it.”
Finally, he handed Viktor a batch of fresh obelisk material.
“So, quietly back to work,” he said, patting Viktor on the shoulder and seeing him out.
40
In January winter was lazy to the extent of making do with December’s snow which, thanks to continuing frost, still blanketed the earth. Shop windows still had their New Year decorations, but the festive spirit had waned, leaving folk alone with the old routine and the future. Viktor was processing his next batch of files. He now received all documents direct from the Chief, Fyodor having retired before the New Year break.
The obelisk index was growing steadily. These latest files were on directors of major factories and chairmen of joint-stock companies. Almost all were charged with the theft of funds and their transfer to Western banks. Some were dealing in banned raw materials, others contriving to barter off plant abroad. Facts were legion, but mercifully not all were underlined in the Chief’s red pencil. Viktor’s task was not easy. He either ran short of philosophy, or lacked inspiration, as each obelisk now involved tense hours at the typewriter. And though, in the end, he was pleased with the result, fatigue weighed heavily upon him, leaving little energy to spare for Sonya or the penguin. So it was as well that he had, at Sonya’s insistence, bought a colour television on their return from the dacha. And now they came together in front of it, but always with Sonya in charge of the remote control.
“It’s my telly!” she said, which Viktor, having in fact bought it with her money, had to concede.
Misha also took an interest in the television, sometimes going right up to the screen and blocking Viktor and Sonya’s view. Sonya would then gently lead him off to the bedroom, where he liked to stand in front of the mirror studying his reflection. Viktor was surprised how easily she managed him. Although that was not surprising perhaps, seeing that she spent far more time with him than he did. Several times she even took him for a walk on the waste area by the dovecotes.
One evening the doorbell rang, and seeing a complete stranger through the spyhole, he was filled with alarm. He at once thought back to the photos of the two dead young men who had been after him. Sighing audibly, the stranger, a man of about 40, gave the button another press, jangling the bell right above where Viktor stood with bated breath.
Behind him the living-room door creaked and Sonya called: “Do go to the door. Someone’s ringing!”
“Open up. Nothing to be afraid of,” came a voice from the other side of the door.
“Who do you want?”
“You! Who else! What are you afraid of? I’ve come about Misha.”
Viktor reached for the lock, wondering which Misha, and finally opened the door.
A thin, unshaven, sharp-nosed man in a Chinese down jacket and a black knitted hat came in. From his pocket, he pulled out a sheet of paper folded in two or three, and passed it to Viktor.
“My calling card,” he said with a grin.
An icy shiver ran down Viktor’s spine as he unfolded it and held it up to read. It was his obelisk on Misha-non-penguin’s friend-cum-enemy, Sergey Chekalin.
“Know me now?” asked the visitor coldly.
“Sergey Chekalin,” said Viktor, and seeing Sonya still standing in the open door, told her sternly to go back in, before turning again to his visitor.
“Could we sit down somewhere? We need to talk.”
Viktor took him into the kitchen, where he sat straight down in Viktor’s chair, leaving him to sit opposite.
“Got some bad news,” said the visitor. “Misha, I’m sorry to say, is dead. And I’ve come for his daughter. There’s no longer any sense in keeping her hidden. OK?”
Very slowly, bit by bit, what had been said got through to Viktor. But the two basic facts: that Misha was dead and that this man had come for Sonya, somehow refused to connect. He put his hand to his forehead, as if at a sudden stab of pain, and it was as cold as ice.
“How did he die?” Viktor asked suddenly, looking down at the table top, his expression one of dismay.
“How?” Sergey responded. “As they all do, tragically.”
“And why does she have to go with you?” Viktor asked after a short pause to collect his thoughts.
“I was his friend. It’s my duty to look after her.”
Viktor shook his head. The visitor stared, astonished.
“No,” said Viktor, his voice suddenly firmer. “Misha wanted me to look after her.”
“Listen,” said his visitor wearily, “with all due respect to your protection, you’ve got it wrong. And can you prove he wanted you to?”
“I have a note from him,” Viktor said calmly. “I’ll show you.”
“Do that.”
Viktor went into the living room and searched through a sheaf of papers on the window ledge for Misha’s note promising to be back when the dust settled. As he turned to where Sonya and the penguin were absorbed watching figure skating on the TV, he heard the front door bang. He went and poked his head into the kitchen. His visitor had beaten an unceremonious retreat, leaving his obituary on the kitchen table.
A few minutes later an engine started up. Viktor looked out, and in the light of a street lamp, saw a long car just like Misha-non-penguin’s moving off.
“What did that man come for?” Sonya asked, looking into the kitchen.
“For you,” he said under his breath, without turning to her.
“What did he come for?” she repeated, not having heard.
“Just for a talk.”
She went back to the TV, and Viktor sat down at the kitchen table to think – about his life, and Sonya’s part in it. An inconspicuous one, it might seem, but one that still bound him to look after her and think about her. Except that looking after amounted to no more than food and the odd conversation. Sonya’s presence in his life was much like that of Misha the penguin in his flat. Still, when someone had turned up to take her away, alarm had given rise to sudden determination. Again there had been talk of protection, of security, of which he knew nothing. His life was split in two halves, one known, one unknown. And what was in the other half? What did it consist of? He bit his lip. Riddles were the last thing he wanted to contend with. The Chief’s red pencil had trained him in the use of basic facts as starting points for any text or idea. That evening he was hard put to it to determine which of the ideas dancing around inside his head would, when committed to paper, merit red pencil.
41
It was strange, but in a couple of days Viktor had forgotten Sergey Chekalin’s visit, being, after a polite telephonic hastener from the Chief, completely absorbed in his work. In brief breaks between obelisks he drank tea and thought that he ought to devote more attention to Sonya, take her to the puppet theatre and that sort of thing. But all that would have to be deferred pending more free time. One way he did manage to make the little girl happy was with the ice-cream and other sweets he now purchased in large quantities. Shopping excursions provided his only opportunities for a breath of fresh, frosty air. The more frequently he sallied forth, the happier Sonya and Misha were. Sonya’s happiness, unlike Misha’s, took vocal expression. More often than not she called him Uncle Vik, and that pleased him. But the main thing was that she didn’t object to spending most of her time in the flat. And in the evening, when they sat in front of the TV watching the latest episode of a Mexican serial, Viktor had a calm, comfortable feeling, while giving no thought to what he was watching. He was enjoying this winter. Anything bad was quickly forgotten over work, or in front of the TV.
“Uncle Vik,” began Sonya, pointing at the screen, “why does Alejandra have a nanny?”
“I expect she’s got rich parents.”
“Are you rich?”
Viktor shrugged. “Not very …”
“Am I?”
He turned and looked at her.
“Me, am I rich?” she asked again.
“Yes,” he nodded. “Richer than me.”
It was a conversation he recalled the next day during one of his tea breaks. How much a nanny cost he had no idea, but the notion of engaging one for Sonya came that day as a revelation.
That evening his district militiaman friend looked in with a bottle of red wine. They sat in the kitchen. Wet snow was falling and flakes were sticking to the window pane. Sergey was a bit on edge.
“Do you know, I’ve been offered a district militia job in Moscow. Ten times what I’m paid here … Free flat.”
Viktor shrugged. “But you know what it’s like there,” he said. “Shooting, explosions …”
“Got that here, too,” said Sergey. “But it’s not Special Task I’m joining … I’ll be what I am now … I don’t know – maybe I’ll go for a year, earn a bit of money.”
“Up to you.”
“Yes.” Sergey sighed. “How about your troubles? Over and done with?”
“Looks like it.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Don’t happen to know of some normal young woman, do you?” Viktor enquired earnestly. “I’m looking for a nanny for Sonya … Reliable and not too expensive?”
Sergey thought. “I’ve got a niece. Twenty. Unemployed. Like me to ask?”
Viktor nodded.
“How much a month would you offer?”
“$50?”
“Right,” said Sergey.
42
Next day, out of the blue, the old penguinologist phoned.
“It’s me, Pidpaly,” he said weakly. “That you, Viktor?”
“Yes.”
“Could you come? I’m feeling ill.”
Putting his work aside, Viktor set off for Svyatoshino.
The old man was pale. His hands were shaking. The skin below his sunken eyes was yellow.
“Come in,” he said, visibly cheered.
The room was warm and stuffy.
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know … Stomach pains. Three days I haven’t slept,” the old man complained, sitting down at the table.
“Have you called a doctor?”
Pidpaly waved an arm dismissively. “What for? What am I to them? No money to be got out of me.”
Viktor went to the phone and called an ambulance.
“No point!” Another dismissive wave. “They’ll come, and go away. I know them.”
“Sit where you are,” Viktor ordered. “I’ll make tea.”
The kitchen table was a heap of dirty crockery and leftovers. The cups had soggy cigarette ends in them. He washed out two of the cups in the sink and put the kettle on.
Time passed. The tea was ready and they sat at the table in silence and a state of expectancy. The ghost of an ironic smile played over the old man’s features. From time to time he shot Viktor a glance.
“I told you, I did once come in for the better things of this life,” he said didactically, his voice hoarse and feeble.
Viktor said nothing.
At last, the doorbell rang. A paramedic and an orderly entered.
“Who’s the patient?” asked the paramedic, teasing burnt tobacco from a just-extinguished cigarette with the fingers of his right hand.
Viktor nodded at the old man. “He is.”
“What’s the trouble?” The paramedic scanned Pidpaly’s face.
“My stomach … Here.”
“Give him Papaverine?” queried the paramedic turning to the orderly, who was gazing sourly around at the walls.
“No need. Won’t do any good,” said Pidpaly. “I’ve had some.”
“Well, that’s all we’ve got,” said the paramedic helplessly. “So we’ll be on our way.” Beckoning to the orderly, he turned to go.
“Hang on!” said Viktor.
The paramedic looked back.
“What?”
“Could you get him to a hospital?”
“We could, but who’d take him in?” he asked, heaving an almost genuine sigh.
Viktor produced $50.
“Isn’t there somewhere?” he asked.
The paramedic dithered, looked again at the old man, as if gaugeing his value.
“The October might,” he shrugged, sidling up, awkwardly taking the proffered note and thrusting it into the pocket of his grubby smock.
Leaning over the table and locating a pencil and piece of paper, Viktor jotted down his telephone number.
“Ring and let me know how he is and where he is,” he said, handing it over.
The paramedic nodded.
“Come on then,” he flung at the old man.
Pidpaly flapped around, went unsteadily to the kitchen, and came back jingling something in his shaky hand.
“Have these keys, Vik,” he said, “and lock up when you go.”
The paramedic and the orderly waited patiently while the old man dressed, then led him away, more like a prisoner than a patient.
Alone in the strange flat, Viktor sat for a while at the table, breathing stuffy, dusty air overlaid with an irritant odour of humid warmth. He didn’t feel right. Eventually he got to his feet, but was reluctant to go. It was a home in ruins, this flat, and it moved him to genuine pity. The very walls bore the stamp of their owner’s helplessness, as did everything within them, together with an air of total isolation.
