Penguin Lost (20 page)

*

Back at the flat, Sonya was taking Lyosha a cup of tea. She liked serving him in his helplessness, and he, though really far from helpless, was not averse to acting up.

“Two spoons, please. Though better three.”

“Sugar’s bad for you. One and a half’s what you’re getting, and you be thankful it’s not just one. Have you any idea how many illnesses are due to sugar?”

“Diabetes for one.”

“Is that in the tummy?”

“No, the blood.”

“Tummy ache’s another – you get that from the sugar in chocolate.”

Drinking his tea, Lyosha looked out of the window. He was not very comfortable sitting at the kitchen table. He and Sonya were then of a height.

It was snowing. Lights were going on in the block opposite. Their light in the kitchen was on already. Turning to Sonya, who was sitting by the stove, he noticed the green urn on the window ledge.

“What’s in that pot?”

“A friend of Uncle Viktor’s, who died somewhere in Moscow. Auntie Nina put him out on the balcony, but when Uncle Viktor came home, he put him back here.”

Lyosha fell silent, gloomily recalling the funerals that were once his job, the wakes, expensive coffins and the wonderful peace of the cemetery. Joyless beauty. Tranquillity.

“Drink up before it gets cold!” ordered Sonya. “Like me to make you a sausage sandwich? It’s good sausage.”

“Yes, please.”

That evening, when they had eaten and were sitting in front of the television, the phone rang, making Viktor jump.

Nina answered.

“For you,” she told Viktor.

“Viktor?” asked a man’s voice. “Got something for you … 10K and it’s a swap.”

“10K?”

“$10,000. Ring you where at noon tomorrow. And don’t try anything. Cheers!”

“Who was it?” Nina asked anxiously.

“Misha’s back.”

“Hooray!” shouted Sonya, then saw Viktor’s look of dismay.

“What’s wrong?” Nina asked.

“It’s the money. I thought they’d bring him free.”

“You mean Misha,” said Lyosha.

“Yes.”

And suddenly Viktor saw what to do.

“I’ll be late,” he said, leaving the flat.

Roofs blanketed in snow, the odd fir tree hung with fairy lights,

Goloseyevo was pure fairy tale.

At Andrey Pavlovich’s, a good three metres of fairy-light fir. Pasha’s 4 × 4 parked on the gravel suggested that he would be in if Andrey Pavlovich wasn’t, and Pasha it was who opened the side gate in response to his button press.

“The Chief was only just talking about you!” he said happily.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

“He’ll be back in half an hour,” said Pasha as they sat together in the kitchen. “Now he’s a Deputy, he’s almost always home before midnight.”

“Deputy? Last time he was just an aide.”

“Got in on the by-election. And really chuffed. Nice people there, he says, as well as a few, as there are everywhere, to drop by night over some bridge.”

A car hooted and Pasha dashed out to open the gates for an official black Mercedes from which Andrey Pavlovich in a smart dark, almost ankle-length overcoat emerged.

The Mercedes drove off, and Pasha shut and locked the gates.

“Aha!” cried Andrey Pavlovich, looking into the kitchen. “Pasha said I’d a visitor. Welcome back! We must celebrate, like men!” he declared divesting himself of his overcoat and standing in his dark smart suit.

“Coffee’s for the morning, for now it’s cognac. Here or upstairs?”

“Here’s more democratic,” said Viktor, thinking the kitchen more appropriate to the favour he was about to ask.

“Cognac, Pasha!” he called, joining Viktor at the corner table. “And well said, now I’m a Democrat! National Demo’s what I started as, but all that matters to that lot is talking Ukrainian – independence, economics, they come second. But what have you been up to in Moscow all this time?”

Viktor told him the whole story.

“Ten thousand, eh? Why don’t we knock them off, free your penguin and give the money to charity?”

Viktor said nothing. Andrey Pavlovich bit his lips thoughtfully.

At this moment Pasha appeared with a bottle of Hennessy and suitable glasses, poured and quietly retired.

“Well, what do you see it as – loan or gift?”

“Loan.”

“I take it you’ve something to secure it with?” he said with a mischievous smile. “Shares? A controlling interest preferably.”

“I’ve a credit card, but don’t know how much is in the account. And I’ve a great deal of gold.”

“Is it clean?”

“No.”

Andrey Pavlovich shook his head.

“Not something to offer a People’s Deputy. Right, we’ll have our drink and think of something.”

He leant forward. “Where did you get that scar?”

“From a Russian soldier’s vodka bottle.”

“Were there any Ukrainian hostages?”

“Just Russians.”

“Pity, or we could have ransomed them. Russians we leave to the Russians. That scar! Wear it with pride! The door to People’s Deputy’s wide open to a scar like that! Now, what do we do about your penguin?”

“They’re ringing tomorrow at noon.”

“You’re a good chap,” said Andrey Pavlovich. “And with your brains it’s high time you had a proper job earning real money. All well at home?”

“Yes.”

“Hang on a minute.”

He left the kitchen, and came back with an elastic-banded bundle of $100-bills which he placed on the table in front of Viktor. He was about to replenish their glasses, but seeing the look of alarm on Viktor’s face, hesitated.

“What’s up?”

“First hand to pour, pours all,” said Viktor with Seva’s birthday and its consequences in mind.

“Superstitious, eh? So be it. Pasha! Refills!”

“My security, when do you want it?” Viktor asked, when Pasha had gone.

“When, naked and hungry, I come to you asking for shelter, that’s when,” laughed Andrey Pavlovich. “No, take it as your first year’s salary as my Assistant for Humanitarian Affairs. After all, you
are
our charity expert. Remember the artificial limbs?”

But Viktor was no longer listening. Misha and the means of ransoming him were what mattered. And why not work for his Andrey Pavlovich again? It would be better than sitting waiting for something to turn up. He must get back into life, earn some money …

“And your first job is to find some run-down orphanage, pick 20 or so deserving kids and have them here by noon on December 30th. For a tree and presents, you having alerted the press. Pasha will have got you phone numbers. Any problem?”

Viktor shook his head.

“Not kids from Kiev, though – the big boys are onto them. Pasha!” he shouted, “take Viktor home, and see the Chechens don’t get him.”

He turned to Viktor, who was stowing away the dollars in his MoES jacket.

“Still got my number?”

“I have.”

“And here’s $300 for clothes. Let this be the last time I see you in
military uniform!”

New Year minus 3

Next morning the cat got under his feet as he was on his way to the bathroom, and again as he was putting on the kettle in the kitchen. Lyosha was getting up from his bed of chairs and into his wheelchair, awkwardly, and sighing loudly. Sonya was lying on the couch switching the TV channels in search of cartoons. Only Nina was quiet, lying gazing at the bedroom ceiling, thinking uneasily about the day ahead, how crowded the flat was with Lyosha, and how much worse it would be when Viktor brought Misha.

Viktor sat in the kitchen in a state of nerves. He checked yet again that the dollars were safe. He looked at the clock. 7.30. Quite early. It was still dark outside, except for the over-bright yellow light of the windows opposite.

Feeling hungry, he decided not to wait for the others. Lyosha was in no hurry to come to the kitchen. He had wheeled himself to the balcony door and was watching the winter morning appear slowly out of the darkness. He was waiting for Nina to use the bathroom, then it would be his turn. Sonya was always last up.

After his fried eggs, Viktor felt a little calmer. Time was advancing, slowly. Three more hours to the phone call.

*

At noon precisely the phone rang.

“Got the money? Then it’s 8.00, Hydropark. Cross the footbridge
below the Mlyn restaurant and wait till you see a car flash twice. Got that?”

“Well?” inquired Lyosha.

“8.00. Hydropark.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Best you wait here.”

Lyosha sighed.

“Mind you pick up something nice for Misha to eat.”

“We’ll do that.”

Viktor then rang Andrey Pavlovich and got Pasha.

“Glad it’s you. I need some help this evening.”

“The Chief said you’d ring about twelve to tell where.”

“So, outside Mlyn Restaurant at six.”

“I’ll be there.”

At Hydropark metro station Viktor was the only one to alight. The train sped on to Left Bank, and for a while he stood by the digital clocks looking about him. Beyond the well-lit platform, all was darkness. One clock said 17.45, while the other indefatigably recorded how many minutes and seconds had elapsed since the last departure.

Checking that the weighty wad of dollars was safe in the inner pocket of his jacket, he headed for the exit. With kiosks and cafés all shut, the desolate little square filled him with sadness and nostalgia for summers spent heedless of the future. The clink of glass betrayed a vagrant checking waste bins for bottles to claim the deposit on.

Arriving at the footbridge he was cheered to see the restaurant windows lit. At least someone was about on this winter island of
summer relaxation. He crossed the bridge, and saw the familiar 4 × 4 waiting outside the restaurant.

He and Pasha went in for a snack and a coffee. Pasha proposed to conceal himself on the Mlyn side, watch events, and if they took the money without producing Misha, step in.

“So, not to worry,” he said, showing his silenced automatic, and Viktor felt easier in his mind.

At 8.00 he stood on the far side of the channel, solid darkness behind, before him the odd solitary street lamp, the distant light of the metro platform, and a hum of traffic – life hurtling by, indifferent to the lifelessness of Hydropark at night in winter.

Headlights flashed twice, and reassuring himself that the dollars were in place, Viktor walked to the middle of the bridge.

A car door slammed, two men in sheepskin jackets advanced, collars raised, faces wound with scarves under ski caps.

“The money!” demanded one.

“And my penguin?”

“In the car.”

Viktor handed over the dollars.

“Correct,” said the Chechen, having counted them, then added “How about a couple of thousand for yourself? For the address of someone in petrol or gas.”

“I’ve no friends in that line.”

“They needn’t be friends.”

“Sorry.”

“Please yourself.”

The two strode back to the car. A door banged, the engine started, the headlights went on, and left standing in the snow as the car reversed, was a small figure.

“Misha!” he cried, dashing forward, and slowly, at an old man’s shuffle, the penguin came to meet him.

Squatting and embracing his penguin, Viktor wept, warmly regarded
by Misha’s black button eyes.

*

At a supermarket on the way home, Viktor bought half a kilo of fresh salmon and a bag of king prawns.

“Terribly thin, isn’t he?” said Pasha after several looks over his shoulder. “On TV they’re all so plump.”

“You’d be thin, kept in a kennel and fed on gruel.”

“Bastards!” said Pasha. “Should be shot.”

Having another job to do, Pasha dropped Viktor at his block, giving him his card – “Security Aide to People’s Deputy” – with a mobile number.

Carrying Misha like a child, Viktor made his way up to the 4th floor.

The door was opened by Sonya wearing a denim tunic and white leggings.

“Hooray!” she cried, clapping her hands, “Now we kick the cat out!”

Putting Misha down in the corridor, Viktor removed his jacket and shoes, and squatting beside Sonya, wagged a finger.

“No, we can’t. One because we don’t kick pets out, even if they do scratch. And two, Misha’s a visitor, and sooner or later he’s going home.”

But Sonya wasn’t listening. She was staring at Misha, and Misha was staring back, as if recalling the past.

“Me and Auntie Nina went to the supermarket and got him some cod’s liver.”

“He won’t eat tinned things,” said Viktor, immediately wondering if now perhaps he did.

“If he doesn’t, I will. I like it. Now let’s go to the kitchen – we’ve been waiting half an hour.”

A bottle of champagne, bowls of salad, a smell of roast, something sizzling in a frying pan on the stove – a celebration was in the making.

Sitting in his usual place, Viktor watched Misha make his way hesitantly to his food bowl on its stool beside the stove.

“See, he remembers!” Sonya cried happily.

Lyosha, busy opening the champagne, let the cork escape, hitting the ceiling and dropping behind the stove.

“Some for me!” cried Sonya, as Lyosha poured.

“You’re too young,” said Viktor.

“I’m not. I’ve had it before – haven’t I, Auntie Nina?”

In the end, Sonya was given just a little, and they drank to Misha.

Misha looked round from his bowl of salmon and still frozen king prawns, and stared at Viktor.

29th December

Next morning Viktor rang Regional Social Security, and inquiring as Deputy’s aide – a tip of Pasha’s – got the telephone numbers of orphanages.

The director of one was blunt and to the point: supply of children would involve a fee of $500 plus cost of transport. Downing the receiver on him, Viktor dialled the next number, and this time met with success. The Deputy Director, a woman with a good, clear,
warm voice, was genuinely pleased to hear from him. It would be a real treat for the children, she said, and told him how to get to her. For the last 12km it was earth road, and it would be well to send a good tough vehicle. Viktor said he would be there by nine tomorrow.