“I’ll get them to do it now, if you like,” offered Arkady, gesturing towards the door as Galina departed.
“No, no, it will be easier in the morning when the room is a bit warmer. I will lock up for the night. No one will disturb him. We can disinfect tomorrow. The portable autoclave is not big enough to do everything in one load. For now, we may sleep.”
Arkady shrugged and followed Galina out of the clinic.
By night, the resort felt even emptier; disquietingly so, in a way which made the hairs on Arkady’s neck prickle. Outside, a moaning wind assaulted the plateau, dashing itself against the Zubgorai and falling back in a million eddies and vortices. It picked up snow and sent flurries of it whirling past the darkened windows. As he passed into the reception area, the only other sound was the buzz of a flickering wall light, stuttering above the sofas.
Something moved in the darkness behind the reception desk, making him jump—but it was just Votyakov. The Ogre was reclining, full-length, in the receptionist’s chair: ankles crossed, hands on his chest, face hidden in shadow.
“If you’re looking for Dr Yelagin, she went into the restaurant,” said the Ogre, speaking precisely as loudly as necessary for Arkady to hear him. “I assume, from her demeanour, that your tests were a success.”
“Thank you, but I’m going to bed,” said Arkady, not liking the attempt to elicit information from him. It was not Votyakov’s job to worry about the tests. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good. We need to talk about the transplant donor.”
“Is there a problem?” Arkady took a step forward, trying to see the other man’s face, the better to gauge his attitude.
“No—no problem. He remains on life support until we are ready. I would simply like to discuss contingency arrangements.”
“Fine,” said Arkady, after a pause. He gave up trying to read the other man and turned away. “Sleep well,” he added over his shoulder.
“Oh…you too!” replied Votyakov, his tone too-earnest and slightly mocking, as if the pleasantry amused him. “Soft pillows!”
Arkady could feel the Ogre’s eyes burning into his back as he climbed the stairs, until he turned the corner at the top.
*
The following day dawned murky and threatening, the sky a pool of rancid milk. Creamy, unbleached clouds stretched to the horizon, shot through with veins of black and grey.
Arkady woke from a dream of Ana. It evaporated even as he tried to fix it in his memory, slipping completely from his grasp by the time he’d brushed his teeth, leaving him disconsolate. If his mind could conjure her in the delusion of dreams, why not at least let him remember it? A wave of fatigue broke over him, and he leaned on the washbasin for support, watching water burble down the plughole for a full minute, then two, before finding the will to push himself upright and return to the bedroom.
There was a television mounted on the wall. He turned it on while he dressed, hoping the murmur of voices would restore his equanimity. The news was replaying footage from the night before: knots of marching, shouting people; police in riot gear; windows shattering, tear gas billowing; all the usual clichés of protest. It was in Moscow, at the Manezhka. He recognised the Four Seasons hotel in the background as the camera tracked a flare’s unsteady arc toward the police lines.
A new camera angle now, low and unsteady, jolting around as the operator walked backwards, trying to keep pace with his subject: Maslok, flanked by other men in suits and armed police, striding through the square. Arkady stopped buttoning his shirt and reached for the remote control, bumping up the volume until he could properly hear the commentary.
Maslok was of only average height, he knew, but he was a good few inches taller than the men walking with him. Had they been hand-picked for the cameras? Arkady wouldn’t rule it out. The Chief of Staff’s tone as he responded to the questions of trotting journalists was one of grim good humour, but his expression was stern. Arkady sank onto the edge of the bed to watch. What was going on?
He scanned the shots of protesters, looking for banners or slogans that might provide clues to the cause of the disturbance. There were only a handful. ‘Rights For Russians’, ‘End Corruption Now’, ‘Stand Up To Europe’: generic expressions of dissatisfaction from across the political divide, nothing particularly specific or informative. Arkady realised he was watching a scripted event, stage-managed to preserve the illusion of spontaneity. He narrowed his eyes and muttered at the television:
“What are you up to now, you rat?”
The police cordon redeployed to form a defensive perimeter as Maslok planted one foot on a waste bin and sprang, with impressive agility, onto one of the large, polished-brick air conditioning intakes which stood at the corners of the terrace. Around five feet high, it was built to serve the shopping centre beneath the square, and made for a suitable stage from which to address the surging protestors. An obliging police helicopter lit the scene from above, aiming its spotlight directly at Maslok’s plinth and then withdrawing to an altitude from which its rotors would not drown out his words.
Nothing had been left to chance. Arkady marvelled as one of the protest’s leaders surrendered his microphone and amplifier so the President’s Chief of Staff could address the crowd. Surely, no one was falling for this. He knew, though, that they would.
What followed had been heavily edited by the news station, reduced to inspirational sound bites which targeted all the core concerns of United Russia’s grass roots support. Assurances about employment, security, the economy, and law enforcement—Arkady gave a hollow laugh at the sight of the supposed mob cheering Maslok’s pronouncements on the latter—were interspersed with shots of approving members of the crowd. An attractive woman holding a beaming baby; a wheelchair-bound veteran in uniform, complete with medals; environmental activists; even a priest: they could all have come from central casting. The only giveaway, thought Arkady, was the unusual preponderance of shaven heads amongst their number. Ex-military, perhaps, or some right-wing street gang mobilised for the occasion.
The coverage ended with Maslok raising his hands to acknowledge the crowd’s applause. He dismounted the plinth and shared a few humorous, ostensibly off-the-cuff observations with the swarming journalists, while protesters chanted his name and stretched through the police lines to shake his hand. He had been working late, he explained above the din, and felt moved to come and address the rioters. It was his duty.
Arkady waited to see if the coverage would challenge any part of the carefully constructed narrative, knowing it wouldn’t. Sure enough, the producer cut away to a weather forecast, and then on to sports news, leaving viewers with the impression Maslok had single-handedly dispersed an angry mob. Someone had done a fine job of choreographing events, Arkady was forced to admit. He could only begin to imagine Zolin’s reaction.
He turned off the television and finished dressing, his dream quite forgotten.
Sophia Molchanov was emerging from her room as he left his. She looked tired and moody, hugging herself as she walked, head-down, pouting, towards him.
He waited for her at the top of the stairs.
“Good morning. How did you sleep? Not well, I would say.”
“No,” she snapped, scowling. “It’s too quiet here. It gives me the creeps. I stayed up hoping you’d stop by to tell me how things went last night—since you wouldn’t let me be there.”
She was blocking the stairs now, waiting for him to apologise, chin raised in childish defiance.
“The test operation went very well,” said Arkady. “I am sorry for the oversight. It was very late when it was completed. I did not wish to disturb you. It was thoughtless of me.”
It was what she wanted to hear and it cost him nothing to say. Mollified, she held his gaze a few seconds longer until she was sure her point was made, then turned and trotted down the stairs.
“I did a lot of thinking while you were all in the clinic,” she said, her tone less sullen now. “Things I’d n
ot considered before, about…all this.”
Arkady’s leg was tormenting him again, pulses of pain flowing up his thigh and buttock with every step. She waited for him to reach the bottom before continuing.
“I still wonder…is it really right, what we’re doing here? Everything’s moved so fast, but it feels like there are questions somebody should ask.”
“So, ask them,” prompted Arkady, grimacing with relief as he reached ground level.
“Well, I don’t know…the donor, for example—the heart donor. Who is he? I don’t want to be involved with some black-market heart taken from a Third World country or anything.”
“The donor has a right to confidentiality,” said Arkady. “But he is Russian. He is a registered organ donor and he has no further use for the bits he is giving away. I promise you that.”
“Yes, but does he know what you’re planning to do with it? I mean, there’s no guarantee this procedure will work. People keep telling me that, and hearts don’t grow on trees. Aren’t we depriving another patient, a living patient, of a transplant which could save their life?”
Arkady stopped limping towards the restaurant and turned to face her.
“Everything comes at a price, Sophia. Sometimes it is not possible to know the best course of action until you have acted. Maybe we revive your father and advance the science of life support a hundred years. Maybe the heart goes to someone else and they die on the operating table. We cannot know. Look, if you’re concerned, talk to Dr Zapad. He’s the expert. He can answer your questions, I’m sure.”
The girl tutted and dropped her gaze. “Sure he can, so long as my questions are about what some dead philosopher would have said about it, or what some gang of mountain wizards would have done. I just want to be sure we’re doing the right thing, you know?”
Arkady laid a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and raised a questioning eyebrow, but didn’t try to shrug it away. “Dr Yelagin, then,” he suggested. “Talk to her instead. I’m sure she can be trusted to give you straight answers.”
Sophia nodded. “But you can’t, is that it?”
Arkady hesitated, unsure how to respond. It was too early to be dealing with her ethical questions. Could she not wait until he’d had some coffee? She was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. What did she think? That he could explain it all away, make everything all right with a few words? How was he supposed to know what the right thing to do was? He’d always relied on Ana to be his conscience. So long as she’d thought he was a good man, he’d been happy to assume it was true—but he had no idea what she would have made of events at the Zubgorai.
“All I can tell you is, that if I had the opportunity to see my wife again, I would take it. If someone…I would just take it. That’s all.”
The sentiment surprised him as much as her. The words had tumbled out unplanned, a momentary eruption from some deep, interior well of sorrow. He drew a long, shuddering breath and fought to retain control, feeling stagnant tears prickle behind his eyes. Get a grip, man. No one wants to watch an old man cry.
Sophia was looking up at him, saw him swallow, and then, before he could react, she had her arms around him and was squeezing him, cheek resting on his chest, firm little breasts jutting into his ribs.
“I’m sorry! It’s okay. I don’t mean to be so selfish all the time.”
Arkady froze, mortified, then quickly looked around to make sure no one else could see them.
“It’s fine. I’m fine. You can let go of me.”
“Not just yet.”
She squeezed him tighter, as if determined to wring the tears from him, but his moment of fragility had passed. He tamped the rogue emotion back down and patted her shoulder until, at last, she released him.
Her own eyes shivered with tears now, and she withdrew with an apologetic sniffle.
“I don’t think you’re selfish,” he reassured her. “If anything, you probably worry too much about what other people think.”
“I just want someone to tell me what we’re doing here is okay—that it’s right.”
“It’s right,” he promised, “and it’s necessary. It’s going to be an emotional few days for you, understandably. But if you walk away, you’ll always wonder what might have happened.”
“Oh, I’m not going to walk away.”
“Then your decision is already made, is it not?”
She smiled. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Good! Then you might as well try to feel good about it. You are contributing greatly to science, and maybe making history. People have sacrificed more for less. Come on. Let me make you some breakfast.”
The smile stayed. “I told you before, I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Today, perhaps, you make an exception.”
She wrinkled her nose, but acquiesced. “Oh, okay. What are you making?”
“How about a little omelette with some fried kolbasa?”
“I told you yesterday, I don’t eat eggs.” She allowed Arkady to usher her towards the kitchen. “Last night, though—it did go well? The tests went as planned, I mean?”
“Sirniki, then—cheese pancakes? Everything went exactly as hoped, yes. Dr Zapad and Dr Yelagin were both very satisfied.”
“Okay, then. That’s a relief. Yes, please. Pancakes sound good!”
She kept him company while he cooked, making small talk and coffee, seemingly eager to please. Arkady wondered how much she really took after her father. She seemed to have little of his self-interest or ambition, or the ruthlessness for which he had been renowned. Her accent had certainly improved after a few days back in her homeland, though she still slipped into English when she couldn’t find the right words. Ana would have liked this fragile, affectionate girl thought Arkady as he flipped the sirniki onto plates. You like her too, you old fool, chided Ana’s voice, unbidden, in his head.
They ate in the restaurant. Even the air in there seemed grey, the morning’s dim light sufficient to soften the shadows but not lift them. Outside, the snow didn’t sparkle and the ice didn’t gleam, plateau and valley lifeless beneath the rotting sky.
“Do you think there’s going to be a storm?” asked Sophia, around a mouthful of food. “I think there is.”
Arkady glanced out of the window. “It does seem inevitable,” he said, looking around as the door to the canteen swung open. “I haven’t checked the forecast.”
“I have,” announced Votyakov, stalking into the room. “We’re in for a storm—very bad weather. Poor flying conditions,” he added, with a meaningful look to Arkady.
“Is that so?” replied Arkady, setting down his coffee cup. “Well, I suppose we’ve been lucky with the weather so far. At least we’ve got plenty of supplies, and plenty of work to keep us occupied.”
“I don’t,” Sophia pointed out. “I’ve got nothing to do. I’m bored out of my mind.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will make a valuable contribution, once the real work begins,” said Votyakov with an ingratiating smile which made her fold her arms protectively across her body. “Boss, can I talk to you? We have to discuss…contingencies.”
Arkady sighed and nodded. “I suppose so,” he agreed, wishing he could just tell the Ogre to go away.
“In private?”
“Fine. We can step outside. I’ll get my coat.”
Sophia reacted before he could push his chair back. “No need. I’ll get it for you.” She darted towards the door before he could thank her, evidently keen to avoid being left alone with the Ogre.
The two men were left looking at each other. Small talk seemed unnecessary. Arkady drained his coffee cup and affected a nonchalance he didn’t feel. Votyakov loomed over him, standing too close. There was a trace of something astringent and antiseptic-smelling in the air about him: some kind of sanitiser, perhaps, or a particularly pungent aftershave.
Arkady took his time slipping into the coat Sophia held for him. There was no harm in keeping Votyakov waiting, reminding him who was in charge.
He murmured his thanks to the girl and received a hearty slap on the shoulder for his trouble.
“Go on. I’ll clear up the plates.”
There followed a brief standoff, both men gesturing to indicate the other should go first, out of insincere deference and overweening good grace. Arkady broke the deadlock by marching to the door that opened onto the patio, holding it open for the other man, and following him out.
Votyakov walked to the safety rail above the cliff’s edge, turned round, and leant back against it. He looked like a psychopomp, thought Arkady: black combat trousers, black roll-neck sweater, black boots, black leather coat. He was even pulling on black gloves, and Arkady had the fleeting, horrible idea he was about to be murdered. Part of him had always assumed he would be, one day—a certain incipient paranoia came with the job—but the Ogre didn’t seem the type to worry about leaving fingerprints.
Behind Votyakov, the giant knuckle of ice clogging the head of the waterfall seemed to have grown larger, depending from the precipice like an overripe apple now, ready to fall. A haze of snow particles, whipped from the Zubgorai’s flanks by blustering winds, obscured the mountain’s summit, its three peaks no more than shadows against the boiling, diseased-looking clouds above.
Arkady approached the railing and leaned on it too, looking outwards, down the length of the valley. When he spoke, the wind stole his words and flung them against the mountain, forcing him to face the Ogre and repeat himself.
“When is this storm supposed to hit?”
Votyakov cupped his hands and lit a cigarette before replying, drawling around it when he spoke.
“Sometime tonight. This is a challenging location for helicopters at the best of times. Side of a mountain, unpredictable air currents, altitude…it certainly can’t land here in a storm.”
“Storms pass.”
“They do, eventually. The forecast for the rest of the week isn’t much better, though: snow, fog, ice…not conditions pilots enjoy.”
“Your point eludes me.”
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