Penguin Lost

by Andrey Kurkov

  “Disabled Arm-Wrestlers Club?”

  “No, trendier – Chechnya Veterans, say.”

  “Except that Chechnya’s Russia and we’re Ukraine.”

  “How about Afghan Veterans? Should be the odd veteran there.”

  “Sounds better, certainly.”

  “Got a team yet?”

  “I’ve got a captain. Knowing the pay would help.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Captain $150, team $100 each.”

  “Let’s call it $300 and $200, leaving my indebted trainer till later. Let me have the team list by tomorrow. I’ll then register us as a club and get us legal for the coming championship.”

  94

  Hearing that he might well find himself team captain, Lyosha was a changed man. Viktor carried him, then his wheelchair, down to the ground floor, and hitched a lift to Tatar Street and Café Afghan in a car with room for the chair in the boot.

  Viktor let Lyosha go in alone, giving him half an hour to recruit a team before himself turning up, and duly found him sitting with six other wheel-chairers over a bottle of cognac at two tables pulled together. Taking the guest wheelchair from behind the counter, Viktor was received wide-eyed as he joined them.

  “The boys are happy,” said Lyosha, “but they’ve one or two questions.”

  They were simple enough. Would expenses be paid? Their hostel places kept safe for their return? Their pensions affected?

  Viktor didn’t always know the answer, but did his best to keep his end up.

  “Do we get a uniform?” asked a one-legged man with a crew cut.

  Viktor nodded.

  “Advertising what firm?”

  “Don’t know yet, but something good.”

  Lyosha finished by making a list of their names. There were seven in all, including himself. Still, one extra wouldn’t break Andrey Pavlovich, and the team would have a sounder look about it.

  Nagornaya Street being something of a dead end, traffic was sparse, so instead of trying to hitch, he used his mobile to call a taxi to take them home in comfort.

  He carried Lyosha up first, went down for his wheelchair, and by the time he’d removed his outdoor clothes, Lyosha had broken the good news to Nina and Sonya, and Viktor felt somewhat mortified by Nina’s manifest joy.

  Sonya, more matter of fact in her reaction, pouted. “Will this mean your going off every day to compete?”

  “Not every day,” Viktor said, answering for him. “Sometimes it’ll mean travelling, sometimes flying.”

  “Can I go and fly too?” she asked, turning to Nina.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Viktor.

  “Who can, then? Misha?” she demanded, unwittingly touching on the secret plan he was reluctant to confide to her and Andrey Pavlovich, and reminding him that it was high time to solve the problem of getting Misha to Split with the team.

  After supper, Nina made herself coffee, using the cup Viktor gave her for Christmas, and spent some time studying the grounds with a thoughtful, mildly flirtatious expression unusual with her, but not unbecoming.

  Seeing that Misha was not with them, Viktor fetched him from his bed to a plate of frozen fish.

  “Still no cat,” announced Sonya. “I expect the dogs have eaten her.”

  At the word “dogs” Misha perked up and took an interest. But conversation flagged. Lyosha swung round in his chair, and with Viktor and Sonya looking on, Nina got up and helped him through the door. In the ensuing silence, Misha returned to his fish and his own thoughts.

  95

  Two days later, clearly enthused by the way their plans for the club were progressing, Andrey Pavlovich invited Viktor to dinner, asking him to come on the early side so that they could talk. The table was laid in the sitting room, with an orderliness suggestive of a woman’s touch and to that extent surprising. And no sooner were they settled in armchairs, than a woman of about fifty in headscarf and voluminous faded dress tied round with an apron looked in.

  “Andrey Pavlovich, I’ve done my best to crack it,” she complained, “but …”

  “Let me have a go,” he said, getting up.

  An almighty crash, a woman’s scream, then silence, and Andrey Pavlovich came back to his seat.

  “All’s well,” he said, “I’ve got us sponsors. We get our strip in a few days’ time. The paperwork’s complete. We’re as good as legal already. I’ll get off notice of our intention to participate to the Jugs direct from our Supreme Council Sports Committee.”

  “Croats, not Jugs.”

  Airy wave of the hand. “Same thing! Passports. The boys will need passports. We’ll have a journalist accompany you to write you up. How about an emblem? Thought of one? What have Dynamo got?”

  Viktor shook his head.

  “Well, get thinking. We’ve the souvenir stuff still to do, and there’s not much time.”

  “How about Misha?” suggested Viktor brightly.

  Enter the housekeeper with a bowl of salad, which she placed in the middle of the table. “Bring the cold hors d’oeuvre, too?” she asked.

  “Please,” said Andrey Pavlovich, then, turning to Viktor, “A penguin! Yes! Your penguin! And a big red A for Afghan Sports Club! Oh, by the way, I forgot to say, we’ve a guest for dinner. Sorry. One of those things …”

  The table was, Viktor now saw, laid for three.

  “Marvellous cook, this woman,” said Andrey Pavlovich. “Came recommended, and all for $200 a month!”

  *

  The guest proved to be Igor Lvovich, sometime Editor-in-Chief of Capital News, and central to their repast was real turtle soup.

  “Unnerving, having a new pair of eyes in the house!” said Andrey Pavlovich, holding poised his tumbler of Hennessy. “Got her to start by checking the fridge and freezer. Half an hour later, she brings me a frozen turtle. Hell of a shock, till I remembered: present from Head of District Tax Inspectorate. ‘Make a good soup, this will,’ says she, ‘I’ve got a recipe.’ ”

  “The real thing,” said Igor Lvovich approvingly, having conveyed a spoonful to his mouth and wiped it with his hand. “Had it in Mexico once, though not so fatty. Couldn’t have been fed right,” he added with a smile.

  Andrey Pavlovich smiled also.

  But Viktor, far from at ease, did not smile. Igor Lvovich’s presence was, he suspected, destined to have some bearing on his future, something he could definitely do without. Decide for himself was what he wanted, be sole captain of his fate.

  “You’ll be sending your special correspondent with them, I take it.”

  Igor Lvovich’s nod suggested that the subject had been broached already.

  The alacrity with which Andrey Pavlovich filled Igor Lvovich’s glass, plus his general state of agitation and apology for there being another guest, betrayed a degree of dependence on Igor Lvovich, as well as of inferiority. Viktor’s role, it appeared, was to sit, mark and inwardly digest the discourse of his betters, which he did, drinking cognac and enjoying a remarkably fine pork chop with apple sauce, while absorbing information from circles he did not aspire to.

  “Two years from now we’ll be electing a President,” Igor Lvovich was saying, as if himself determining the date. “Time to unite, form a single powerful block, be a bit more amenable …”

  It would be no bad thing, he continued, if Andrey Pavlovich were to join the founders of his new paper, especially as his aide – big smile for Viktor – was appearing in it already, and free of editorial interference at that.

  The cognac had the effect of extending intervals between words in a delivery that was slow enough already. And at “He’d make a good Editor-in-Chief, your aide here – he’s bright enough …” from Igor Lvovich, with another big smile, it dawned on Viktor that the whole performance – haute cuisine, cognac – had been contrived to create the impression of his having an important part to play in some new game, yet to be revealed, a nod and complete trust in these two infinitely superior entrepreneurial big boys being all that was r
equired on his part.

  Before he knew it, he was drawn onto the thin ice of their conversation. What future did he see for Afghan S.C.? How did he rate its chances? The likelihood of its scaling national heights? How best to popularize it? And as if already Editor-in-Chief of the Ukrainian Courier he let himself be drawn. Split, he explained, was the opportunity to get started, create sporting contacts that would put the team on the international arm-wrestling circuit. They wouldn’t disappoint. No half measures for them.

  He concluded, of course, by mentioning the team emblem sanctioned by Andrey Pavlovich, a penguin, of which the live original would accompany the team everywhere as mascot.

  “Good PR!” observed Igor Lvovich.

  At about midnight, his Mercedes S600 turned up.

  Viktor declined a lift on the pretence of having something to discuss with Andrey Pavlovich, and in consequence had to pay some taciturn sod of a taxi driver 30 hryvnas to jump lights at amber, ignore them at red, effing and blinding every time some flashy imported car spattered his with slush in overtaking.

  96

  The nocturnal peace of his flat did nothing to diminish his growing sense of irritation as he sat in the kitchen, too out of sorts to resort to drink. He had an urge to break something, hammer the table with his fist. But why wake the others? What rankled was finding himself again married off without his consent – this time to the editorship of an electioneering rag. And though as editor he’d be less likely to get knocked off than any of his foot soldier reporters, the odds would shorten the more militant his paper became. Which was why Igor Lvovich had had to hide his family abroad and feign death in a car crash. He looked down at his typewriter, for years a true and faithful servant, concerned only to make a writer or at least an essayist of him. Or had it, like woodsman’s axe or mechanic’s spanner, been no more than an essential tool? It would, he judged, just go through the window vent, and standing on Misha’s stool, he eased it into the silent darkness. When at last it hit the asphalt, it made no great noise.

  As the kitchen door squeaked, he turned, expecting to see Sonya, but it was Misha standing staring in the doorway, before advancing on the stool from which he was accustomed to eat.

  “Sorry I woke you,” Viktor said, squatting and stroking his head. “Shall I tell you what I’ve done?”

  Recoiling from the smell of cognac, Misha fixed him with a beady eye.

  “I’ve disposed of my past,” Viktor whispered, “so as not to repeat it.”

  Misha nodded, as if in approval.

  “Soon we sail, but first we fly.”

  97

  Café Afghan was all excitement when it came to trying on kit. Things really were happening, and a feeling of unity prevailed. The round café tables proving unsuitable for training, Viktor quickly got $500 out of Andrey Pavlovich for the purchase of three solid, rectangular ones in oak.

  Conveying Lyosha to the daily training sessions wasn’t easy, but Viktor didn’t complain. During Viktor’s absence in Chechnya, Lyosha had been involved in some sort of money difficulty at the café, which had led to his taking to drink. Now he was team captain, all was forgiven, the small sum of his debt included. It was even suggested that he should return to his old room in the hostel, which was as on the day he left it. Viktor waited anxiously for his response. Yes, and he’d no longer have to carry his bearded friend plus wheel-chair up and down four floors of stairs. But Lyosha turned the offer down, with a plea for the room be kept open for him. All of which, as Viktor saw at once, had its explanation in Sonya’s shrill “keen on Auntie Nina!”

  Andrey Pavlovich kept calling on his mobile to ask after the team. Their passports and visas were ready in his safe. The organisers had faxed confirming the team’s entry and requesting payment in advance for their accommodation, and that had been dealt with.

  From Igor Lvovich he heard nothing further, and was not sorry. The disappearance of his typewriter having passed unnoticed, Viktor wondered if perhaps his old Chief had dropped from his life with it. The notion of ridding oneself of a person by disposing of some object connected with him was appealing, fairytale-ish – provided it was the hero who did the disposing.

  More e-mails were exchanged with Mladen, who was anxious lest Viktor’s ready money for the journey be seized by customs, while Viktor, having no ready money to get through customs, just a gold brick, had that to worry about. The balance of his credit card account, as Andrey Pavlovich had obligingly discovered, was $27,000.

  “Not exactly on the bread line, are we?” had been Andrey Pavlovich’s comment.

  “I’ll give back Misha’s ransom.”

  “No need. Work it off.”

  Which, in his capacity as trainer, Viktor proceeded to do.

  *

  Andrey Pavlovich phoned a few days later to say that TV Channel 1 were coming to cover the team’s preparations.

  Drawing 500 hryvnas on his card, Viktor booked a private-visit barber to shave and trim his bedraggled-looking team. Most submitted willingly to his ministrations, impressed by the Mazda he arrived in. The only one to balk, until presented with the choice of losing either his beard or the captaincy was Lyosha. The clean-shaven American superman that resulted, went down well with Nina, as Viktor later saw.

  *

  When Sonya and Nina were in bed, Viktor confided to Lyosha that he, Viktor, would not be coming back from Split, and didn’t know when he would.

  “So it’s back to the hostel for me?”

  “Not necessarily. But who would there be to do the carrying?”

  “Nina?” he said tentatively, as if thinking aloud.

  “Have a word with her. And will you do me a favour? Get something through customs for me at the airport – maybe in your luggage, I don’t know yet.”

  “Fine, so long as no unpleasant consequences.”

  “Not with this,” said Viktor, showing his Aide to People’s Deputy card.

  98

  Two weeks later, with a thaw heralding the approach of spring, Viktor made flight reservations for the team and the Ukrainian Courier correspondent, and learnt that for the conveyance of small animals plastic containers with air holes were available.

  Lyosha announced happily that he had spoken to Nina. He would be staying on at the flat, where he would be more comfortable, and she would help with the stairs.

  “Fine,” said Viktor, though with mixed feelings. “But don’t neglect Sonya, will you? You could try teaching her chess.”

  “She plays already. And she’s good.”

  Next morning, while Nina was showering and Lyosha waiting his turn for the bathroom, Viktor called Sonya, who was quick to join him in the kitchen, closely followed by Misha.

  “Do you remember what I said about going to a café and having a proper talk?” Viktor asked, having served Misha frozen hake. “Well, say where you’d like us to go, and in half an hour we’ll go there.”

  He watched while she thought, certain that it would be McDonald’s.

  “Uncle Viktor,” she said at last, “I’d rather go to a restaurant, where there’s a big choice of ices.”

  “Except that restaurants are shut in the morning.”

  “We can wait till this evening.”

  “I might be busy then.”

  “All right. Let’s go to McDonald’s.”

  An hour later they were there. Viktor ordered a Fishmac and coffee, Sonya a Happy Meal. Her present this time was a little cowboy from some American cartoon.

  “Listen,” Viktor said, “there’s something I want to tell you about, something serious.”

  Screwing up her eyes, she became all attention.

  “Misha and I are leaving and I want you to stay and be flat senior.”

  “But Auntie Nina and Uncle Lyosha are older than me.”

  “In years, yes, but this is different. You’re to go on pretending to be little. Be naughty, demand things, but watch what’s going on. Whether they quarrel or shout.”

  “They don’t any more. Twice
a day they have coffee in the kitchen, and talk. Once they even asked me to go out. But I listened at the door and heard everything anyway.”

  “And what was it? No, don’t tell me,” he added quickly as she took breath. “You mustn’t listen. It’s bad.”

  “Then you don’t ever find out anything!”

  “You must learn how to ask if you want to know something. Anyway, I’m leaving you as flat senior. I shall ring and you’ll tell me what’s what. And another thing – ask them to take you to the puppet theatre and children’s films more often. All three of you should go together. And when you’re there, make sure you get bought an ice.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Don’t know. Not for a while. I’ll ring.”

  “And often.”

  99

  The team was conveyed to Borispol International Airport in a special coach affording lift access for wheelchairs, and bearing the legend “Japan’s gift to the Chernobyl Fund”. Andrey Pavlovich led the way in the black Mercedes 4 × 4.

  The plastic container for Misha which Viktor hoped not to have to use, as it seemed on the small side, stood empty on the floor. Misha was seated by a window immediately behind the driver, and for the moment Viktor’s anxieties centred more on the gold brick reposing in Lyosha’s bag amongst the luggage which Viktor had loaded, helped by Isayev, the Ukrainian Courier correspondent.

  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.