Y.T.

by Alexei Nikitin

  Kurochkin, too, had been sure he was holding all the reins when—bam!—the ultimatum from his youth arrived by e-mail and everything was turned upside down. Within two weeks he was a fugitive hiding in Israel and an exile … But what about our fellow Yarik? The time was coming when Vakha would say, ‘Move over, Yarik, you’re taking up too much room. I’m feeling hemmed in with you on my land,’ and he’ll start shoving Yarik. First he’ll push him out of Crimea, and next … we’ll see what’s next. And then what? His politically correct mate on the district council will suggest observing the right of nations to self-determination up to and including secession, and his brother the traffic cop would love to help, but he’s getting old, and it seems he’s got nothing left but his truncheon …

  I roamed the city not thinking about anything. The thoughts came and went of their own accord, melting away into the fresh air of approaching spring. Empty thoughts.

  Suddenly I found myself in front of the building where our firm had its tenth-floor offices. Although I hadn’t meant to, somehow I’d ended up here, and the sooner I got away the better. But, as fate would have it, at the very moment I was trying to slip past the front door, a familiar automobile came to a halt right beside me. Steven Malkin in person climbed out of the car and took several brisk steps along the Kiev pavement. Half a second later we were standing eyeball to eyeball. I was not prepared to have a conversation with him and not at all happy about running into him. But Malkin, who wasn’t expecting to bump into me either, seemed even less pleased.

  ‘Well, well, Mr. Davidov,’ he bleated, swiftly leaping back a bit. ‘Have you decided to honor your place of employment with a visit?’

  Malkin shouldn’t have done that. He should have walked right on past without even noticing me or with only the slightest of nods, so that I would spend the rest of the day wondering whether he had actually nodded or whether it had just seemed that way.

  I didn’t know what to say to my infuriated boss. That I was out for a walk in the middle of the workday while the rest of the office was laboring as one to increase profits? I had nothing to say to him. An unpleasant pause hung between us. People were staring. Malkin was on edge. An abnormal situation had developed, a situation not addressed in the NLP textbooks. The textbooks left no room for chance, but chance had turned up right before their eyes, right on the steps to the main entrance.

  ‘During your absence,’ said Malkin suddenly, grinding his teeth, ‘during your prolonged absence, our situation, and yours, has undergone certain changes.’ He tried to take himself in hand and worked his mouth into a smile. ‘I’m taking advantage of this meeting to inform you that you can stop coming to work. As for details, you’ll be informed in writing.’

  Finally he feigned the slight nod he should have begun with and hastily disappeared behind the door.

  Poor Malkin. He’d gone and broken yet another rule: never give bad news in person. The boss can congratulate you on your success or inform you of a promotion or pay rise, but the boss never tells you you’re getting the sack or any other nasty news. That’s the responsibility of the secretary who will write in evasive terms on headed paper: ‘In the circumstances the company regrets to inform you that it will no longer require your …’ But perhaps he wasn’t poor Malkin, after all. Perhaps he had been dreaming about this moment, what he would say about the circumstances and the company no longer requiring … If so, one might feel a little sympathy for Malkin. Let’s say he’d imagined all the details and fine points of what he would say to me, how my face would fall, how right before his eyes I would be transformed from a colleague in a major international firm, for less than five minutes the head of the Department of Microstrategic Planning, into your typical jobless Ukrainian. But being aware of his power wasn’t enough for him; he wanted everyone around him to feel how powerful he was. And what had happened? There in the damp wind at the door to the office building, beneath the surprised glances of the guards and chance passers-by, he hadn’t managed more than a couple of pitiful sentences. He had missed a splendid opportunity. What a shame.

  I wandered slowly onwards, contemplating Malkin’s plight. I didn’t know what had happened at the office over the past week. Perhaps I’d been sacked because of Kurochkin, or perhaps Kurochkin had nothing to do with it. In any case, Malkin had been a great help. I couldn’t imagine returning to my desk, sitting down at the computer and commencing to draw up a strategy for selling cola. I simply couldn’t imagine it. I’d already wasted five years on cola. Enough. And another thing. For some reason Malkin hadn’t mentioned William F. Hume. There had been no reason to do so. But when had he ever needed a reason? That meant he was well and truly shaken.

  At last I judged the protracted farewell with Malkin to be closed, and found myself walking along Bolshoi Zhytomyr Street. It was drizzling lightly, and dusk was approaching. I ran across the road, turned on to a back street and came out in the direction of Old Kiev Hill. Before me was Gonchari-Kozhumyaki. After a twenty-year hiatus development here had resumed in this old quarter. Beyond loomed Castle Hill. I breathed the damp spring air in deeply. It felt like it was starting to get warmer.

  ‘It’s warming up. Have you noticed?’ said a voice behind me that I couldn’t fail to recognize.

  ‘The wind is changing. Are you still following me?’

  ‘I haven’t been following you, Alex, and I’m not going to start now.’ Sinevusov came up and stood beside me.

  ‘Then I suppose it’s just your habit to walk here in the rain.’ I nodded knowingly.

  ‘So what if it’s raining. I live here.’ He waved towards Volodymyr Street. ‘I’m walking my dog.’

  I saw that Sinevusov had a lead in his hand.

  ‘Which one’s yours?’ Near by a band of dogs was gamboling joyfully.

  ‘No, mine’s over there.’ He pointed at a sad, solitary terrier negotiating the incline with difficulty. Sinevusov whistled and slapped his hand against his thigh. The terrier made as if it to race over to his owner, but it didn’t gain any speed.

  ‘A venerable old dog,’ I concluded.

  ‘No. Just cunning and lazy,’ sniffed Sinevusov.

  Slowly we made our way towards the History Museum.

  ‘Well, seeing as how we’ve accidentally bumped into one another, it would be a shame not to ask you—did you let Kurochkin down, too?’

  ‘What gives you that idea?’ asked Sinevusov with genuine astonishment. ‘That’s not my style. Absolutely not. On the contrary, I’d have helped him for old times’ sake. Although, like you, I could see early on that it was better to keep my distance. He let himself down, Alex, and that’s the literal truth. It’s all his own fault. Why do you think he called on a couple of old lags like you and me to help him? Do you think we two are uniquely qualified? You can be sure he’s met far more qualified specialists in his time. Don’t you reckon?’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  ‘And you shouldn’t. There’s just no one left he can trust. Kurochkin has managed to play the swine for everyone. For some he’s just been a little piglet, for others a whopping great hog. Everyone except you and me, although … You, too, but you still don’t seem to realize.’

  ‘Leave it. If he were that much of a swine his true colors would have shown by now. I’d know if he’d done anything.’

  ‘Brace yourself, then.’ Sinevusov laughed softly. ‘You’re about to witness a showing of the colors, as they say. Anyway, it’s an old story that has nothing to do with what’s happening now—or maybe just a bit …’ He laughed again.

  ‘Go ahead, then.’ I shrugged. ‘Let your skeleton out of the closet and into the light of day.’

  ‘You can call it a skeleton if you like, although I prefer something more neutral such as the history of an acquaintance, yours and mine.’

  Sinevusov paused and stole a glance at me. I’d caught the hint. I’d understood him, and for a moment it took my breath away. It was impossible.

  ‘Don’t talk crap, Sinevusov. Kurochkin wa
s detained for two months just like me. Just like all of us. We were both expelled from university, and we were both sent into the army—him, too. Can’t you come up with a better story than that? Do you really think I’m that stupid? I’m genuinely insulted.’

  ‘He turned out to be a hulking fat boar of a swine.’ He nodded contentedly. ‘In fact it’s incredible that he didn’t manage to ruin things for you, Davidov. How have you ever managed to preserve your almost virgin purity and your trust in an old student friendship? You might have learned by now …’

  ‘That’s what I thought. You don’t have any facts.’

  ‘Facts, facts … Do you really need to see papers, eh? I don’t carry them around with me, and I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation, as I’m sure you can appreciate. But put your brain in gear, Davidov, and perhaps you can figure it out without documents. Let’s begin with the fall-out. Kurochkin was the only one of you who managed to get back into university. And not just into a radiophysics department but a law department, after all that had happened … Moving on to your two years in the army. Those were two lost years for you but not for Kurochkin. He was working on his career. Can’t you see? Even then. Step one: inform on a group of apolitical students who were quantitatively simulating the partition of the Soviet Union; step two: the army; step three: a law degree. He maintained contact with the KGB at all times. So, moving on … Although it’s true that it had nothing to do with you personally. Incidentally, Davidov, have you ever played Civilization?’

  ‘No, I’m not interested.’

  ‘I suppose you had your fill when you were younger. I ask because your game was more fun to play. On the computer I’m building civilizations at 300-percent settings. Can you believe it? It draws you in, but it’s not the same. You had real people playing. Psychology. A battle of minds …’

  ‘Why did you let us go then if we were quantitatively simulating?’

  ‘The winds were changing.’

  ‘I thought we’d already talked about the weather.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the weather. The first two or three weeks we were working you in the usual way when we got a command to slow down. So we slowed down. A week passed, then two, then three, then a month—how long could we keep it up? Then we got another command—let the pups go. And we let you go.’

  ‘It would seem Kurochkin’s efforts were in vain.’

  ‘What’s he got to do with it? He did his bit, there’s no question about that. But the situation changed. You just got lucky.’

  We had got as far as the History Museum. The rain intensified. Sinevusov’s terrier marked a pagan temple unearthed by the archaeologist Vikenty Khvoika more than a hundred years before and sat down for a good scratch. Spray flew from his withers in a wide arc.

  ‘Step back,’ said Sinevusov, taking me by the elbow. ‘He’s about to shake himself.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said without comprehension. ‘Let’s say Kurochkin was responsible for what happened. But the four of us were the only ones affected. We were the only ones who even knew about it. So who’s responsible for the letter? And the nienty million he can’t account for?’

  ‘Ah,’ laughed Sinevusov, ‘yes, the letter about the ninety million. It had to be edited somewhat. No, not me, I didn’t tamper with it.’ He waved and caught my eye. ‘I only gave advice, although you can hardly call it advice. I contributed one short sentence to make it sound more plausible.’

  ‘Yes,’ I guessed. ‘The YT at the bottom of the page. Your turn.’

  ‘He was on edge because of the ultimatum, so I played along a little. I “stole the letter from his care and left a different letter there” as Pushkin once wrote.’

  ‘Then the ultimatum was your work.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go ahead and lie if you want to. But why deny it when you’ve already told me everything? You’re the only one who could have done it.’

  ‘Why lie when all I have to do is keep quiet?’

  ‘Then what are you telling me for?’

  ‘I think you have a right to know what really happened. And I always thought you were a decent person.’

  His compliments were lost on me. I didn’t trust him.

  ‘But,’ he went on, ‘am I right to think that you still don’t know who sent the ultimatum?’

  ‘There’s no one but you,’ I repeated stubbornly.

  ‘I see. You don’t know. I’m asking not because it’s important or might change anything but because there’s still one final link missing.’

  ‘You want closure?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  Night was rolling in upon the city, and the rain had begun to pour down more heavily. I watched Castle Hill receding into darkness—and I was back there, one bright day in May. I saw Kurochkin and myself. Only the night before we’d been released from Volodymyr Street, he had left Ryskalov; I, Sinevusov. We’d been victors then, that was obvious, and now Sinevusov was telling me there had been no victory. I gave him a quick glance. He, too, was looking at Castle Hill, but I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was thinking. A large drop of rain quivered on his temple and trickled down his cheek. He used to sweat oil. Oil and venom. His deepest, innermost thoughts surfaced as oil and venom. But now it was water. Nothing but rainwater.

  The rain poured down, washing away the remnants of colors we’d once used to paint over this dismal landscape. The water was ruthless and stubborn in its insistence on absolute truth.

  Suddenly I recalled my previous meeting with Sinevusov.

  ‘Do you remember the café last week in Podol? There was this bloke you were trying to recruit.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to recruit him. I’ll bet he was English.’

  ‘So you remember. I wanted to ask what you said to him after I left.’

  ‘So you noticed, eh? That’s okay. It wasn’t anything major. I said we’d blown his cover a long time ago—and I said you were the Russian FSB colonel charged with liquidating him.’

  ‘Fantastic. What did you do that for?’

  ‘So he’d step more lively. He was acting so lethargic it irritated me just looking at him.

  ‘Well, of course, in that case …’

  ‘We should be getting home,’ said Sinevusov and whistled to his dog. ‘How can I get in touch with you? Have you got an e-mail address?’

  ‘Why don’t you write it down. Have you got a pen?’

  ‘Just tell me—I’ll remember.’

  ‘It’s Istemi at—’

  ‘Is what?’

  ‘You’d better write it down. I’ll spell it. I-S-T-E—’

  ‘Ah, I get it.’ Sinevusov laughed. ‘Istemi, of course … What was it you called yourself? The Khan of the Zaporozhian Encampment?

  I remember now. That’s just what I needed to learn it by. But let me know if you find out who sent the ultimatum.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I’m easy to find. I go for a walk every evening.’ He gave me a slight wave goodbye.

  Sinevusov and his mournful terrier went off towards Volodymyr Street, and I continued to stand there, getting soaked and studying the views of nightime Kiev. It was time for me to go, too.

  When I’d left home that morning to spend a couple of hours wandering undisturbed around the city, I could not have imagined where, when and with whom I would finish my walk. It wouldn’t be hard to ascribe some sort of mystical or symbolic meaning to what happened—if you wanted to. But I didn’t want to. Once upon a time we had brought forth shadows, and those shadows ended up changing our lives—it was our own fault, no one else’s. To this day those shadows had not dissipated. They were still Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire Karl XX, President of the Slovenorussian Federation Stefan Betancourt, President of the United Islamic Caliphates Caliph Al-Ali, Lama of Mongolia Undur Gegen, Istemi Khan of the Khanate of Zaporozhye and Major Sinevusov of the Committee for State Security. And although their hold on us was not what it used to be—it had grown weaker over the years and would grow weaker still—i
t would never completely leave us. The way the memory of one hot day in May 1984 spent by Kurochkin and me on Castle Hill would never leave me. It was the day we had won. If anyone should ask me about the happiest day of my life, I know what my answer will always be.

  I was standing opposite Castle Hill, but the hill was already disappearing into night—I could make out only its silhouette—and beyond the hill, beyond Podol, in the Kurenyovka district, was the hospital where Reingarten was kept, where I hadn’t gone to see him. On that May day, he also believed we had won.

  My mobile was vibrating in my jacket pocket.

  ‘Have you really been sleeping all day?’ Vera asked.

  ‘No, I didn’t sleep in.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you call?’

  ‘I thought you were sleeping. I didn’t want to wake you.’

  ‘Yes, I was sleeping,’ she said contentedly. ‘Until lunch. But now I’ve caught up. And do you know what I did when I woke up?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I called Natasha née Belokrinitskaya.’