Penguin Lost (26 page)

At Borispol, the coach swung right past the lifted barrier to stop at the VIP Terminal behind its screen of snowy trees. Andrey Pavlovich handed their passports to a smiling and attractive brunette in smart Border Guard uniform. A young steward appeared, and they were conducted into a pleasant lounge with tables and armchairs, where two waitresses offered a choice of tea, coffee or spirits. Two of the team looked to Lyosha for a lead. Viktor ordered a gin and tonic, Andrey Pavlovich a whisky, the others suitably confined themselves to fruit juice or tea. One of the waitresses paused in passing to stroke Misha, who was standing beside Lyosha’s chair.

“Is he your mascot?”

Lyosha nodded.

“The Lugansk basketball team always have their tortoise.”

Andrey Pavlovich handed back the passports, and the team was called to the boarding gate. Their flight being under the aegis of a People’s Deputy, customs formalities were dispensed with, the disabled members of the team attentively helped to their seats, and their chairs folded and taken to the hold.

Viktor and Misha had the comfort of three seats between them. He and Misha had a long journey ahead of them, the crossing of Drake Passage the toughest part of it. Last time it had been comparatively calm. But how about this time? The
Horizon
had been a large vessel, a yacht would be different.

“What would you like to drink?” inquired the stewardess with the bar trolley.

“A gin and tonic, please.”

“And for the penguin?”

“Mineral water.”

“Bubbly or still?”

“Still, please.”

Misha gazed into the glass on the little table before him, as if hopeful of spotting a fish, then calmly lowered his beak and drank.

Five hours in another special coach took them from Zagreb to Split, and just as the sea and high-rise buildings came in sight, Viktor’s mobile rang.

“Good flight?”

“Splendid. The coach is just coming into Split.”

“See you win! Otherwise don’t come back! Talk to you soon.”

*

The second floor of the hotel, where the team were accommodated, was well adapted to their special needs. Viktor and Isayev, who found themselves sent to the 13th floor, did not have a great deal to say to each other. Regarding him as the long arm of Igor Lvovich, Viktor had at once erected his own private and invisible Berlin Wall against him. The others he trusted completely.

Sun was streaming through the window of his room. Split was much warmer than Kiev. Here it was spring already. He set about running a bath, but when Misha made plain that he expected to take precedence, turned the hot tap off and the cold on.

From his balcony he had a splendid view of the sea. A snow-white liner lay at anchor a little way out. Down below, handsome yachts
were moored at long jetties. He dialled Mladen on his mobile.

“Yes?” was the stern challenge.

“Viktor Zolotaryov from Kiev. About our trip to the Antarctic.”

“Ah!” The voice softened, “Good to hear you.
Dobro do
š
li!
Welcome! Where are you at the moment? Right. I’ll drive down. Be outside in ten minutes. Old dark blue Mercedes. Oh, and bring some cash – we need to buy stores.”

Viktor recovered his gold brick from Lyosha’s bag, and as he slipped it into his own, it encountered something metallic which, to his amazement, proved to be his Pooh Bear mug.

He dialled the flat.

“Was it you put Pooh Bear in my bag?” he asked, when Sonya answered.

“A present from me. I know it means a lot to you.”

“Well, thanks,” he said gently.

“How’s Misha? Was he airsick? Auntie Nina says everyone is.”

“Tell her everyone was, except me, Misha and Lyosha.”

“Really?”

“Really. But I’ve got to go. I’ll ring you.”

“Big kiss for Misha.”

Misha was playing happily in the bath, and before hurrying out, Viktor kissed him from Sonya.

It was indeed an old Mercedes, a ’70s model, but Mladen, in tracksuit trousers and football shirt, had a lean and powerful look, although clearly a man of 60.

A short drive brought them to a small picturesque village over-looking
the sea. Drawing up before light green gates, Mladen hooted, and soon a tall girl in jeans and sweater emerged, together with a man in a grey suit and blue bow tie, looking even older than in the Internet photograph, who introduced himself as Radko.

“Vesna,” said the girl, giving him her hand.

“We’ll go to the yacht, then to the ship’s chandler’s,” said Mladen getting back into the car. “You’ve got some money?”

“I’ve got a credit card.”

The yacht, moored in a nearby bay, was smaller than he had imagined, or seen call in at Vernadsky Base. From the bay they drove back to Split and a ship’s chandler’s on the waterfront.

Ropes and tackle depleting Bronikovsky’s credit card account to the tune of $3,800 were duly loaded into the boot of the Mercedes and transferred to the yacht.

“Leave me the card and I’ll see to the stores,” said Mladen examining the signature on the card. “That’s your hotel, over there,” he added, pointing. “0600hrs on the 8th is when we sail. I’ll look you up tomorrow at about 11.00”

“Could you make it 2.00? My team’s in for the arm-wrestling, and I’ve got to be there.”

Mladen and Radko exchanged meaningful glances.

“I could,” said Mladen.

“One other thing,” said Viktor, his voice trembling. “I’d like to bring my penguin and let him loose in Antarctica. I’ve been there before.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” said Mladen impassively.

They shook hands, and Viktor, crossing to his hotel, imagined them staring mistrustfully after him. Maybe the credit card would help redress the balance.

The Championship opened with dinner at 8.00 and a speech by the Senior Umpire, a Dutchman with an unpronounceable name. The Deputy Sports Minister of Croatia read out a list of the countries competing, the team leader of each rising in acknowledgement. Lyosha, when it came to mention of Afghan Sports Club, shot both arms up, as did the rest of the team, Viktor and Isayev with them, waving in response to a great surge of applause in genuine, and generous tribute to the one disabled team competing. It was easy to be moved but at the same time hard not to regret the subterfuge –
his
subterfuge – that had much to do with their presence here. Still, if Ukraine were to emerge champions, subterfuge would be offset by Ukrainian verity. Andrey Pavlovich, a success as politician, might do something useful for the country. Igor Lvovich might turn his electioneering rag into a decent and objective newspaper.

One glass of astringent Dalmatian wine all round, after which, to Viktor’s relief, Lyosha insisted on Pepsi.

Dinner was soon over. Tomorrow, at 0900: Ukraine v Rumania.

*

Viktor lay listening to the gentle Adriatic through the open balcony doors, when there was a knock.

Getting up, putting on the light – it was, he saw, 11.00 – he opened the door and there, to his amazement, was Vesna, in a short lilac-coloured dress.

“May I come in?”

He turned to the chair with his discarded clothing for something to put on.

“No need,” she said, “I’m not staying. Get back to bed. Where’s
your penguin?”

“On the balcony.”

She went out, and squatting beside Misha, spoke to him in Croat. Returning, she slipped out of the little she was wearing and into Viktor’s bed.

“Don’t get the idea that I like you,” she whispered, as they lay together afterwards. “Whatever people say about my father, he gave me a proper upbringing, and I can’t tell a lie.”

“Then why all this?” he asked, turning to face her.

“This?” Vesna repeated with a note of surprise. “For you, to keep you alive …”

Getting up, she slipped into her clothes and left without another word.

In a vast school sports hall hung with sponsorship posters and banners, the Ukrainian arm wrestlers faced the Rumanian at six sturdy tables under their national flags, the eyes of the other teams, and no few spectators.

The competitors were awaiting the signal to begin, which came in the form of a single hand clap by the Senior Umpire. Instantly arms tensed and strained, and somehow the spectators became tense and strained with them. The umpire darted this way and that, keeping all six duels under observation. At the table furthest from the entrance the Rumanian began to force the Ukrainian’s arm back, then the latter recovered and exerted pressure on his opponent.

To Viktor, absorbed in watching the duel on the first table, it
didn’t seem quite fair to pit the able-bodied against those unable to bring their full weight to bear, being legless.

But as if to allay his doubts, a tow-haired Afghan Veteran forced the Rumanian’s hand back until it lay palm uppermost on the table. The umpire raised the victor’s arm, shouted something, and the spectators who were nearest applauded. In his excitement Viktor got to his feet, looked around for someone to share his delight with, and looking beyond Isayev with his camera, spotted Mladen sitting talking to a young man in a fashionable denim suit.

The final score was 5:1 in favour of Ukraine. A half-hour followed, in which two tracksuited young men changed the table flags to those of Holland and Poland. For no good reason Viktor expected the Dutch to win, but in the event, the Poles did, and Viktor was almost as pleased for them as for his own team.

The days’s events were over by 1.00, and before lunch in the hotel restaurant, Viktor went to a supermarket and bought some Adriatic fish for Misha. This he served him on the balcony, where he could enjoy the sea view as he ate. The team were already at table, but waiting for Viktor before starting, as if in expectation of a toast or a speech. So he praised them for today, wished them five victories tomorrow. For Lyosha, their Captain, he had a special word of thanks, and Lyosha nodded gravely in response.

*

At 2.00 Mladen appeared, and drove Viktor to a little Balkan tavern, where the meal, washed down with raki, proved superior to the celebratory one enjoyed with Lyosha and the team. Mladen asked what Viktor had done in life. Viktor said merely that before entering sport he’d worked as a journalist, then steered conversation to life in Ukraine.

At the end of the meal Mladen plonked down Viktor’s credit card.

“All done, $10,000 stake included, for which
hvala lepo
, many thanks!”

*

On the way back to his hotel, Viktor drank coffee and cognac on a café terrace, and thought of Vesna – her masterful performance of the previous night, and the prospects of a repeat – a woman such as would, as Nekrasov put it, “Stop a bolting horse, or dash into a blaze …” His mobile rang.

“How’s it going? Enjoying the sun?” inquired Andrey Pavlovich.

“We’ve just beaten the Rumanians!”

“Good lads, keep at it! If they come out champs, tell them, I’ll give them a $1000 apiece and up their pay.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Speak to you tomorrow.”

Downing his cognac, Viktor ordered another.

The gentle lapping of the Adriatic provided a pleasant background to the measured, everyday life of the place. Girls and young men strolled past. The next café along was crowded with elderly men drinking raki and watching a football match on television. It was the sort of background his life had lacked. He liked it.

The
Vesna
, with three cabins, saloon, galley, shower and WC, was more spacious than it looked – a home on the water, subject to the winds and the controlling hand of man.

Viktor decided against saying goodbye to the team, and especially to Isayev. But at his request, Mladen got his friend Mirko to bring
Lyosha to the bay in his car. Mirko helped him into his wheelchair and then down to the bay.

“So tomorrow it’s between us and Poland for gold or silver,” said Viktor holding out his hand. “See you keep up the good work.”

Lyosha raised both arms and they embraced.

“And good luck to you,” he said.

Viktor’s eyes filled with tears. This, it seemed to him, was goodbye, not only to Lyosha but to his whole life, Kiev, Sonya, his past …

He turned to the yacht and Misha, standing in the stern regarding them.

“I must go,” he sighed.

*

When they were well out to sea but with Split, the hotel and even, he fancied, the ancient Mercedes still in sight, he called Lyosha on his mobile.

“Fed up already?” asked Lyosha.

“8th of March! International Women’s Day! Best wishes to Nina and Sonya from me.”

“Hell! I’d forgotten. Thanks. I’ll ring them.”

“And ring me tomorrow.”

“If I can get through.”

*

Down in his cabin, he changed his Afghan S.C. wear for a check flannel shirt which he tucked into his trousers. He was now, he felt, free of his homeland, free of his past, but not, with luck, free of a future.

“Childhood souvenir?” asked Vesna, looking in and seeing his Pooh Bear mug.

Viktor nodded.

“Come on deck, I want to show you.”

On deck she pointed to Misha standing motionless in the bows intent on the vessel’s course, for all the world like a little boy playing Skipper.

“Know the story of Wee Rolly Roll?” he asked.

“From school, yes.”

“Well, that,” he said gloomily, “is how I feel. ‘I’ve got away from Grandpa, got away from Grandma, got away from Wolf, got away from Hare …’ The question is, am I going to get eaten by Fox?”

“We’ll see,” she said, going below.

Watching Mladen and Radko sail the yacht, he wondered why they didn’t ask him to help, seeing how far they had to sail.

Misha insisted on staying on deck, as if expecting to sight Antarctica at any minute.

*

Only half asleep, he became aware of someone trying to open his bolted door. “Me,” whispered Vesna.

“So you’re scared,” she said, perching on his bunk.

“What did you mean when you said ‘We’ll see?’ ”

“Dad and Radko have been declared war criminals. We’re Bosnians, not Croats, and it’s not Antarctica we’re bound for, but Argentina, where my father has friends. The plan’s to dump you overboard.”