Penguin Lost (17 page)

Refolding the poster, he tucked it away in his pocket, and instantly forgetting it, now joined in waiting for Misha. Eyes fixed on the deck, he missed the gradual dissolving into thin air of Seva and Sergey, leaving him completely alone.

“Where,” demanded someone surfacing in the warm sea, “does the ash go?”

He shrugged, a hand seized him by his right shoulder throwing him off balance, and overboard he went, hitting disconcertingly solid water.

“Give him a slap,” said another voice.

He opened his eyes. Standing over him were the two Chechens, one holding the raking tool.

“Where does the ash go?”

“Carrier bags – behind the metal drum,” he said, pointing.

“What’s wrong with a bucket?”

“Who’s coming to collect?”

“Dump it under a tree, we were told.”

“Well, do that,” said Viktor, puzzled by such indifference to the disposal of Chechen ashes.

*

The tiny bead of gold in the last of the three buckets of ash and charred bone he emptied next morning, which set him thinking of Seva and his dream of a good life. At that moment a green Russian jeep appeared, with Khachayev driving, Aza beside him, and two young Chechens bristling with weapons in the back. Motioned to get in, he sat with the Chechens, and the discomfort of a hand grenade pressed against his thigh.

For a long while they followed the winding forest track, climbing steadily, coming at last to a deserted village and open iron gates.

Aza and the bodyguards jumped out, and Khachayev turned to Viktor with the bleak expression appropriate to addressing the condemned.

“Well, I trust that today we shall finish our conversation. As you can see, I’m not now in the mood for cock-and-bull yarns.”

“What’s happened?”

“Seems you were right. Some Fed regulars raped and beat up a Chechen girl, and shoved her in my furnace. Alive. Chechen guerillas caught up with them, got the truth out of them, chopped their heads off, then burnt your friend Seva alive. So we shot the guerillas. You burnt the bodies. And I’ve enforced my neutrality. All very logical.”

At that moment Aza appeared and came over to them.

“One’s a write-off – TB. The other’s not fit, but they’re offering good money.”

“How much?”

“A thousand.”

Khachayev thought for a minute.

“Fetch him. They’ve a week to pay, tell them.”

The bodyguards returned with a lean, ginger, whispy-bearded, hook-nosed young man in tattered army uniform, looking, under
his stubble, much like an Ingush or a Dagestani.

For the return journey he was squeezed in with Viktor and the two Chechens on the back seat. It was impossible to talk to him across the Chechens. He seemed dead to the world, and for the latter part of the drive he slept.

By the time they reached Aza’s hut it was dark. Aza and the soldier got out. The rest of them drove on.

At Khachayev’s

But for the candlelight, wartime iron-plated door with spy hole, two impressive locks and armed guard, it might have been a first-floor flat room in any city.

Khachayev said something that sent the guard scuttling down the wooden stairs, then lit a fat candle in the middle of a massive round table. Later, a generator roared into life. The bulbs of the chandelier flickered feebly, then grew steadily brighter, finally lighting the whole room.

Snuffing out the candle, Khachayev sat down at the table, motioning Viktor to sit opposite.

Viktor looked with surprise at the piano, the sideboard-cum-drinks cabinet, the portraits of Gorky and Shamil. The one jarring note was provided by the automatic and two Kalashnikovs reposing on an occasional table.

“How about a spot of Dutch courage?” said Khachayev, removing his camouflage jacket, throwing it on the couch and making for the drinks cabinet. Wearing jeans and a grubby blue sweater, he looked most unlike a Chechen or guerilla.

“Let’s, to make it easier for you, start at the beginning,” he smiled, returning with a bottle of Martell and cut-glass tumblers. “Who are you?”

Viktor told all, from advance-obituary writing and funerals-with-penguin to Banker Bronikovsky. Of the latter’s widow and his own meagre existence he made no mention, but enlarged on the events of Andrey Pavlovich’s election campaign and their experience of image makers.

Khachayev listened, nodding, pouring cognac, and when the bottle was empty, fetched another.

“Not a dull life you lead,” he said, going over to the couch to retrieve a ringing walkie-talkie from his jacket and respond to the call.

“And all very interesting,” he continued, returning to the table and placing the walkie-talkie beside the bottle. “But can you substantiate any part of it?”

“I could by ringing Andrey Pavlovich.”

“Ring the US President, if you like. What’s this Andrey’s number?”

Khachayev crossed to the phone and dialled.

“Answerphone,” he said wearily, replacing the receiver.

“Try my flat,” suggested Viktor. “Nina will vouch for me. She knows about my penguin.”

“Number?”

He dialled.

“Hello, Nina? … Where? … Who are you, then? Sonya?”

He passed the phone to Viktor.

“Sonya, it’s me, Uncle Viktor!”

“In Moscow?”

“No, a long way away. I’ve found Misha, but they may not let us go. It’s not easy to explain.”

“Not let you go? How do you mean?”

“Speak to the other uncle here. Perhaps he’ll believe you.”

He passed the receiver to Khachayev.

“Sonya, this uncle you’ve been talking to,” he said, eyeing Viktor, “do you know him well?”

“He’s my Daddy.”

“Daddy or uncle?”

“Daddy. So
you’ve
got Misha.”

“Yes. But which: uncle or Daddy?”

“Are you going to let them go?”

“Who?”

“Uncle Viktor and Misha.”

“Hang on, first you tell me–”

“No. You promise you will let them go. Misha’s got a bad heart, in case you didn’t know.”

“All right, I promise, but–”

“Give your word, swear on the head of your mother!”

“I give my word, I swear on the head of my mother I will let them go! Now will you answer my question!”

“Viktor’s my second Daddy. My first went away and disappeared. But where’s Misha? Is he with you?”

“No.”

“When will you let them go?”

“Soon. But that’s it for now. Goodbye, Sonya.”

“Can I speak again to Uncle Viktor?”

“Not at inter-city rates!” he snapped, replacing the receiver, then felled Viktor with a punch.

“You have set me up,” he said, with no special rancour.

“How?”

“She – that little girl – got me to give my word.”

“But will you keep it?” Viktor asked warily.

“The word of a Chechen is worth a hundred of your promises … 
Do you understand?”

In fear of another outburst of temper and hopes of relieving the tension, Viktor reached into his inner pocket, took out Sonya’s poster and laid it on the table.

Picking it up, Khachayev examined Sonya’s penguin under the far from steady light of the chandelier, then spoke into his walkie-talkie.

“Aslan will take you back,” he said.

Viktor made as if to retrieve the poster, but Khachayev shook his head, opened the door and returned him to the care of the guard.

Aslan yawned. “Give him half an hour in the dog cage, then take him to Aza’s,” Khachayev had said. A funny sort of order, but as he’d learnt in the Red Army, an order was an order, and still was. Just that the amount of ferrying involved left so little time for sleep. But should the Alsatians make a meal of this Russian – as might be the idea – the run to Aza’s would be out, and sleep back on. But no, he’d have the body to take, to Aza’s, blood and all. Without Khachayev’s furnace there’d be Fed graves and headstones in the Chechen forests, there’d be monuments – such as he’d stood guard over in Treptow – federalizing Chechnya, destroying it. Khachayev had the right idea.

Another half hour and they were there. The main gates were shut, but as there was a side gate giving access to the cage, he saw no need to rouse the place and go into explanations.

At Aslan’s approach the dogs pricked up their ears, sniffed the air, but did not bark. They, like Chechens, were cunning. Without a sound they’d get you by the throat, and that was it.

Aslan opened the door a little and squatted down. Dzhoka trotted lightly over, sniffed him, looked him in the eye.

“How about some nice Russian meat?” Aslan asked, resisting the urge to stroke him. He and Dzhoka were equals. Told to seize, they seized.

Aslan woke Viktor and led him to the cage, which was, Viktor saw though half asleep and through a flurry of snow, a metal cage about the size of Khachayev’s sitting room containing a number of roughly-fashioned dog kennels. Aslan jostled him through the door, and sleepily he took several steps forward. The door closed behind him, and turning he was in time to see Aslan glance at his watch and light a cigarette before heading back to the jeep.

Viktor stood alone in the falling snow, hardly daring to breathe, rooted almost tree-like to the spot, with five Alsatians regarding him from their kennels. If one charged, the others would follow. Had he time to escape? He didn’t dare look round at the door to see how it was fastened – the slightest movement might be his last. This, then, was how Khachayev kept faith. But similarly placed, might not he have done the same?

But the dogs had not charged.

Out of the corner of an eye, he saw something move. Without turning his head, he squinted to the uttermost, and saw, waddling to a food bowl by the kennels, a
penguin
. Bending, it picked something from the bowl. It wasn’t at all like Misha. It was some other penguin, shorter, thinner.

“Misha!” he called softly, all else forgotten, and the penguin looked at him through the falling snow.

Still the dogs did not move.

The snow eased.

He called again, louder.

The penguin took several steps towards him, stopped, fixed him
with his tiny button eyes for a while, then advanced and stared up at him.

Seeing the dogs still sitting or standing, Viktor took a deep breath and slowly eased himself down to the penguin’s level.

The penguin came closer.

Heedless now of the dogs, Viktor reached out, stroked its breast, and feeling a long scar, knew at last that it was Misha.

With Misha pressed against his knee, the past with all its warmth and sense of life worth living came flooding back. He reached out to smoothe Misha’s flippers, but drew his hand back, deterred by a sudden growling. Absurd though it seemed, the dogs were being protective. The absurd was here amazingly real. Life here was ruled by it.

“Time to go,” came a voice.

“Are we taking the penguin?” he asked, turning to Aslan. “Khachayev promised to release him.”

“Hasn’t said anything to me about it. Come on.”

Would surprises, the survival of this Russian not least amongst them, never cease?

Viktor straightened up, and watched in amazement as Misha, or what remained of him, shuffled off to one of the kennels, and ducking awkwardly, entered it.

No sooner were they clear of the village than Viktor fell asleep on his back seat. Glancing back at him, Aslan concluded that since the dogs had not set tooth in him, this was a Russian of the harmless sort. They weren’t wolves, Khachayev’s Alsatians – gutless slaves, and the sick were safe from them.

Woken by the cold, Viktor found himself lying fully dressed on his own bed at Aza’s, where Aslan must have deposited him. Seeing the window wide open, he jumped up and shut it. The bed that had been Seva’s was empty. He sat down for a moment on his own, then went and had a wash.

The place seemed deserted, but outside, a fabulous carpet of snow sparkling in the sun sent spirits soaring, and thoughts back to the dog cage, finding Misha, and Khachayev’s promise to Sonya. Well done Sonya!

He smiled. Now he had simply to wait for him to act upon it. Nothing difficult about that. It was like seeing in orders that your discharge was due. Bubbling with energy, he had a sudden urge to turn cartwheels, fling himself down, do press-ups – anything to let off steam, demonstrate that life went on. Passing the half-open door of Aza’s room, he took a peep inside, noting with interest the settee upholstered in leather cracked with age, the file-laden school desk, the occasional table with decanter and glasses, the ancient Sony radio.

On top of the files was Aza’s ledger. Viktor went in and examined it. The names and places of birth were a geography lesson in themselves. Of the recent entries, 856 and 857, had dashes in lieu of both. 857 would have been Seva. To keep records was to breed secrets. He thought back to that dream where he, Seva and Sergey had been together on the yacht. Seva, yes, but why Sergey?

Idly he leafed back through the pages, and there, for 13th of February 1997, in Aza’s round childish hand, he read with incredulity: Stepanenko, Sergey, Kiev.

He banged the ledger shut and for a long while sat at the desk, reliving the picnic he, Sergey and Misha had enjoyed on the Dnieper ice, and their eventful New Year celebration at Sergey’s dacha, when Sonya had been with them.

How very strange that he, having no idea of the existence of this private crematorium, should still have been both directly and indirectly linked with it by the urn on the window ledge in his kitchen in Kiev!

Two hours later as Viktor lay, vitality spent, staring at the ceiling and awaiting demob, Aza returned.

“Up we get! Here’s Ginger to be taught the job. Work’s on its way. So teach him, or burn.”

Ginger, Viktor learnt, as they crunched their way through the snow to the shed, was Vasya from Archangel in the far Russian north.

“How about food?” he asked.

“Vermicelli, and come Fat Friday, army tinned meat.”

“Why fat?”

“Because Thursday night’s a discount burning.”

“Of what?”

“Best I explain when we’re there.”

And when there, Vasya listened open-mouthed, but quickly cottoned on.

“Better a hot furnace than a cold pit,” Viktor threw in at some stage.