Y.T.

by Alexei Nikitin

  It was late autumn and already cold. I had stopped by a tea shop on Kreschatik. These days it bakes and sells incredibly delicious apricot and prune buns straight from the oven, but back then there was nowhere on all of Kreschatik where you could have a hot tea and bun. At the time the shop was offering swill of some sort and petrified-cheese sandwiches. I stood in the queue warming myself and looking around, expecting to see familiar faces. You see familiar faces all over Kiev; the more you look, the more you see. I didn’t notice Sinevusov immediately. The queue was snaking its way between the little tables, and for a while the major was hidden in a bend. I didn’t see him until I was nearly upon him, although I still didn’t recognize him. He had aged noticeably. His cheeks sagged, his face was grey and he had grown out what little hair he had left and gathered it into a ponytail—a dirty-grey ponytail. Before, he had looked youngish and blond—albeit blond with bald patches—and he had considered himself a blond beast.

  The major was at the counter chatting with a tall, stout man in an old brown windcheater.

  I overheard Sinevusov’s tenor saying, ‘You keep going on and on about Faulkner, Faulkner …’ His voice hadn’t changed. Which is when I realized—no, realized isn’t the word; I felt who he was, and I was badly shaken. ‘Faulkner was a student of Dostoevsky who didn’t finish the course. He was running around Yoknapatawpha in short trousers with a Nobel Prize medal dangling around his neck, but he was still peering out from behind his fingers at Dostoevsky … What? What’s the matter?’

  The stout man in the windcheater was muttering something quietly. Obviously he disagreed with Sinevusov.

  ‘What sources? Forget it. The sources are all the same, trust me. And people don’t have such Karamazovian depths either. The Karamazovs are a fiction—the creation of a brilliant writer, all three of them. What? Well, yes, of course, all four. I was, that is I … Look, they’re demonstrating on the square. Don’t you want to go see? Two hundred meters from here. I’ve had enough of it. Democrats. No one knows them better than me.’ He took a sip of tea. Beads of oil mixed with venom oozed on his brow and upper lip. ‘But, if you will, I’m the number-two democrat in this city. Everyone else was still standing at attention and reporting to the Party Congress as usual, but I—’

  At this point the stout man apparently asked about the number-one democrat. Sinevusov named someone I’d never heard of before—the name meant nothing to me.

  I didn’t approach Sinevusov then. I had no desire to chew the fat with him about the past. We had no common past.

  ‘Recognize him?’ asked Kurochkin as we crossed the room to the table. Sinevusov had been waiting a while—we were more than an hour late.

  ‘Thanks a lot. I’ve been dreaming of this meeting all my life.’

  ‘Ho-ho!’ He raised his hand and stopped. ‘Don’t get carried away now.’

  ‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘We don’t fight old men.’

  Writing Sinevusov off as an old man was stretching it a little. If he had been around forty back then, he was sixty now. That didn’t exactly make him old. And my major was looking great. He hadn’t cut off the ponytail; on the contrary, he’d let it grow even longer. The ponytail had briskly silvered to a cold bright grey, and the folds and wrinkles on his face created a unified picture. Sinevusov had at last grown into his own face. It wasn’t much, but it was his.

  Lunch, or dinner as far as I was concerned, was all business. No one showed any surprise or any particular emotion. No one said, ‘It’s been ages!’ or ‘Hasn’t time flown?’ or any other formulaic nonsense. We shook hands briefly, as if we’d just met the night before. That was all. Only once did I catch Sinevusov appraising me with a brief sideways glance. All evening Sinevusov said nothing. He said nothing and ate. Kurochkin spoke.

  It seemed that I no longer knew Kurochkin—or, rather, I’d never got to know the Kurochkin of today. Sometimes you can just tell what kind of an adult a child will become. But back when I knew him well, when we were close, Kurochkin had been different. If you accept that a person is the sum of his experience, back then the Kurochkin of today hadn’t begun to develop. He was the only one of us who managed a fresh start at university after the army. Although ‘all of us’ is misleading. By then we were only three of the original five: Kurochkin, Kanyuka and me. Sashka Korostishevski didn’t come back from Afghanistan, and Mishka Reingarten was spending his third year in room 103 of the Frunze Street Hospital. Mishka had tried to evade the army on the grounds that he was nuts, but the doctors evaluating his case determined he wasn’t just a draft dodger and his ailment really did require urgent treatment. If Mishka was still alive, then they were treating him to this day. I hadn’t seen him for a long time, around ten years.

  After the army Kurochkin enrolled in law school and graduated. I, like an idiot, tried to re-enter the waters of our old university’s radiophysics department. The waters rejected me. As for Kanyuka, he didn’t even try. He earned a little money, bought a video recorder, opened a video shop in his apartment and used his brains to go into business.

  In the late 1980s, Kurochkin and I were still getting together regularly, but after he finished his studies he suddenly began appearing on television in the company of some rather well-known figures, and soon he himself became someone of interest to journalists. In other words, he had begun a political career. And he made it.

  This was the first time I had seen Kurochkin at work—that our lunch was work was immediately apparent. Although, of course, on a ministry committee he would behave differently—that’s because the FORMAT was different.

  Once we’d settled around the table Kurochkin gave a succinct and matter-of-fact account of the situation. He said, ‘We’ve been struck,’ followed by ‘We’re being set up,’ and ‘I’m already being asked awkward questions,’ then ‘Solve the problem and get rid of the question.’

  He concluded with ‘We have to find him first. Is that clear?’

  Sinevusov was chewing zestfully. He didn’t raise his head or look away from his plate. Everything was clear.

  ‘I can’t make head nor tail of it.’ I shrugged and looked at Kurochkin. ‘What kind of salad is this? It has such a surprising taste, but it’s delicate, too. It’s like there’s citrus and fish and some Ukrainian fruit—apples, maybe. I can’t figure it out. Do you know?’

  Sinevusov grunted softly.

  ‘Davidov!’ Kurochkin frowned. ‘Stick to business, please.’

  ‘Of course.’ I pushed my plate away. ‘I’ll stick to business. Number one. Yurka, what makes you think you can tell me what to do? I’m not one of your wretched ministers, and I’m not about to bow down and salute you—not for any reason.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Kurochkin with a sweep of his arm. ‘If that’s all—’

  I cut him short. ‘Don’t interrupt me.’ The hatred in my lightning outburst scorched my consciousness and whipped up the shade of Istemi from the depths. I was a little bewildered. I hadn’t expected anything of the kind from myself. After all, I counted Kurochkin among my friends, and he had come to my assistance a few times in a big way. But that didn’t give him the right to decide what I should or shouldn’t do. ‘I’m not done yet. Number two. I don’t intend to go on a manhunt, and I shall not do so. There’s nothing for me to do here. No money has been taken from me. Kickbacks, embezzlement, fraud—that’s your affair. Your affair and your millions. You began without me, and you can carry on without me. If you want to fish your chestnuts out of the fire, find somebody else. I pass. And as far as the game is concerned, we finished in 1984. That’s enough for me. I’m not going to start playing again. Thank you for dinner. We’ve finished.’

  ‘You’re missing the point, Davidov,’ said Kurochkin. In his voice there was nothing but endless patience. ‘Our people think—for the moment anyway—that it’s the Americans. And the Americans are like the elements.’ He recited a line of Pushkin. ‘ “The storm covers the sky with gloom”—remember that? It’s about them, the breadwinners. Either they
’re howling like animals or whining like children, but it’s impossible to understand why or, more importantly, to predict what will happen tomorrow. But as soon as they do find out, and we have to be ready for this, then it won’t be because of the Americans anymore but because of us. I don’t want to scare you, but anyone who’s had anything to do with the game can expect big trouble.’

  ‘They’ll tear you to shreds,’ said Sinevusov, momentarily looking away from his plate before going straight back to his food.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Kurochkin pointed at Sinevusov. ‘They’ll tear us to shreds—me first, then you—if we don’t track him down.’

  ‘If we don’t track who down, Kurochkin?’

  ‘Sashka Korostishevski. It’s coming from him. Even if it has nothing to do with him, we have to track down whoever is responsible for this letter. It’s our turn now, can’t you see?’

  ‘It’s your turn now, Kurochkin. Yours. Not ours. Don’t drag me into your affairs.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Davidov.’

  ‘Maybe. I make lots of mistakes. Which is precisely why I don’t want to add your mistakes or anyone else’s to my own. I make enough all by myself. Whether or not I can help you is something else …’

  ‘That’s what we’re talking about.’

  ‘Helping someone isn’t the same as carrying out your or someone else’s orders. I’ll do only what I myself consider necessary.’

  ‘But coordinate with me.’

  ‘Agreed. But if I don’t want to do something I won’t do it.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Kurochkin gave me Sinevusov as my assistant. Or perhaps he just wanted him to keep an eye on me …

  What kind of bloody life is that when you can’t even trust your own friends?

  I’d been glued to my computer screen since morning. It was displaying a complicated table with the results of cola sales in the four northern provinces of Ukraine. By now I’d memorized the contents of the table and no longer even noticed it.

  I was trying to piece together a picture of some sort using the sorry fragments Kurochkin had scattered before me, and I could see nothing would come of it. The fragments were too few—I had no idea where they belonged. And it wasn’t just that we—or I (I wasn’t sure Kurochkin had told me everything he knew)—didn’t have enough information, but the story was also short on characters. The light in the auditorium was switched off, the show had begun and was well under way, but they had forgotten to turn on the spotlights. Or didn’t want to. Perhaps that was part of the concept. The director, a bloody avant-gardist, had staged a show without lights. The action develops, it twists and turns, and from the set you hear, ‘She loves him but not like a husband. It’s a childhood friendship.’ A meaningful-poisonous-skeptical response follows. ‘We know this friendship. If only there wasn’t … an obstacle.’ Pause. The creak of a door, a bang, and the voice again, ‘What are you doing?’ We’re meant to guess that the chambermaid has entered the room. We’re meant to guess what the chambermaid looks like and who Anna Pavlovna is and who’s playing Sasha. You can’t figure out a bloody thing from the voice. When will that twat of a director order the lights to be switched on? We can’t see anything. Or maybe it’s nothing to do with the director at all. Maybe the country is trying to conserve electricity—it’s a periodic power outage, and they’re burning candles in two hospitals, scores of kindergartens, three factories and a strategic missile unit …

  By lunchtime my head hurt. I was still sitting in front of the monitor, and for a moment I fancied I saw Sashka Korostishevski coming up behind me. He was standing behind me and slyly, silently grinning. I whipped around. Malkin was standing there selecting the right smile.

  ‘Hi, Alex!’ A series of deformed smiles flashed underneath his nose. He settled for the Broad Smile. The Broad Smile of the Friendly Boss.

  ‘Hi, Steve,’ I answered with a Ready Smile.

  ‘You sure are working a lot.’ He thrust out his lower lip and nodded his head.

  I wasn’t certain what he meant. That I’d been staring at the same screen all day long? Or that I was looking like crap? I didn’t know. I decided not to say anything.

  ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. Why don’t we get a bite to eat?’

  Right. Now he had me. This was a first.

  ‘Sure, Steve,’ I agreed.

  He who takes a girl to dine also takes her to dance. Yesterday Kurochkin took me to dine, today Malkin. At this rate they’d soon be passing me from hand to hand.

  But Malkin wasn’t interested only in me. He was also interested in Kurochkin. That recent phone call was preying on his mind.

  ‘Alex, have you known Mr. Kurochkin for long?’ We’d just sat at a table in the small room behind his office.

  ‘We were on the same course at university.’

  ‘No kidding!’ Malkin brightened. ‘I bet you’ve heard me say before that I went to school with Bill Hume.’

  Cautiously I said, ‘Yes, I’ve heard something about that.’

  ‘What a great guy—a real American. I’ll tell you about him some time. I’ll be sure and do that. Anyway, I guess that means you and Mr. Kurochkin are …’ Malkin surprised me once again. I didn’t think he was capable of abandoning his Hume as easily as that. ‘I guess that means he knows you’re working for our company?’

  ‘Of course he does,’ I said.

  ‘Well?’ Malkin took my elbow as if in confidence. ‘Do you ever talk to him about it?’

  I shrugged. ‘Kurochkin has his own sources. Why would he start talking to me?’

  ‘Oh no, that’s not what I meant.’ Malkin lifted his hands. ‘Not at all. Although … well, that, too. And you’re an interesting person to talk to, Alex. I’ve noticed that before, oh yes.’ He waved his hand in front of my face and started laughing.

  I don’t like it when people talk with their hands, and I really can’t stand it when they take me by the arm, pull at my jacket or try to give me a slap on the back. It’s one thing if they just don’t know what to do with their hands, but these days everyone’s got a superficial grasp of NLP—neuro-linguistic programming. People don’t convince you these days, they P-R-O-G-R-A-M you. They drop anchor. It’s become easy to deal with them. Their behavior is predictable and their reactions stereotypical. It’s all incredibly boring and unpleasant.

  ‘Kurochkin often meets with your compatriots.’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s got a really good reputation. In Washington they consider him a big friend of America …’ Now Malkin obviously thought he’d blabbed more than he should. He laughed loudly and gave me an entirely inappropriate thump on the shoulder. And how would he know what they thought of Kurochkin in Washington anyway? He was just puffing himself up.

  ‘Really?’ I enquired with polite surprise.

  ‘Yes. But let’s talk business, Alex. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Whatever your relationship with your friend, you might find a conversation about your career even more interesting, right? After all, you’ve been working for us for almost five years now.’

  ‘Has it really been that long?’ I asked in surprise.

  ‘It sure has. You do a good job—I’ve always had my eye on you—but I can’t shake the feeling we’re not making full use of your potential. You’ve got more to give the company. Isn’t that right?’

  I noticed long ago that Malkin loved to ask slippery little questions you couldn’t give a good answer to. If I had more to give, then why wasn’t I giving it? If I didn’t, then what good was I? NLP is odious—I was supposed to feel guilty before him and the company. In a case like this there’s no need to reply. You’re better off blurting out something meaningless and inoffensive. Let him think I was an idiot if that’s what he wanted.

  ‘I really rate the company’s interests, Steve. That’s something that really matters to me.’

  I thrust out my lower lip and nodded like Malkin himself. Among our own people I couldn’t have got away with it—they would see right through me. Th
e Americans had fattened us on a diet of political correctness that our innermost beings rejected. But they themselves wolfed it down, no problem—the words crackled and crunched pleasantly behind their ears.

  ‘You’ll have an opportunity to give it some more thought. We’re about to carry out a little perestroika of our own. You’ll see some new departments appearing. We’d like you to take charge of one of them—the Department of Microstrategic Planning.’

  ‘How interesting. What are we going to do?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course, that’s what I’m about to tell you,’ said Steve.

  And he told me how you can see a lot from Memphis, Tennessee, but not everything. Which is why the leadership, first and foremost the wise Bill Hume (a real American—I’ll tell you about him some time), had decided to delegate some functions to subsidiary companies. Malkin spent a good ten minutes describing the structural changes that needed to be carried out and then repeated that they were offering me a department. I could see he didn’t know much yet himself.

  Suddenly I had a mad idea. ‘That’s great, Steve,’ I said. ‘Of course, I’ll accept. It’s a great honor for me.’ It was the right thing to say. Poor Malkin didn’t know what was coming. He stuck out his lower lip contentedly and gave me a thumbs up. ‘But before I take on such a responsible position I’d like to take some leave.’

  ‘Leave?’

  ‘Yes, Steve. Two weeks, beginning tomorrow. I really need some time off right now.’

  In the end, Malkin gave me the two weeks, although he had to think about it long and hard. He was probably pondering the enigmatic and incomprehensible Slav soul. When you offer someone a promotion, he should root around with his nose to the ground, straining his blood vessels, groaning and sweating and showing his bosses that they’d been right to choose him and not someone else. But what did he have here? A request for leave? A mad people.