Sicilian Defense

by Andrey Vasilyev

  “No, my dear,” Vika replied, tugging at my ear. “It’s because now you’re their boss, and not one of them—and you’ve always been their boss. The first party didn’t count, since it was different. We were debuting the paper. But the gap will only widen with time, so your life will be much easier if you can just come to terms with that.”

  Suddenly, everything fell into place. That was why I’d been tense the whole evening: I hadn’t noticed that I’d been subconsciously holding myself back, while the rest of the group had been doing their best to look good in front of me. Okay, so everyone besides crazy Yushkov, maybe.

  “I kept hinting at it,” Vika said with a smile. “But you didn’t listen to me.”

  “Wait, but I party with Zimin and Valyaev, and it’s fine,” I said, surprised. “Nobody tried to put me in my place, and they’re way bigger bosses than I am.”

  “You don’t party with them; they let you drink with them and feel normal around them because they’re smart people and they need something from you for some reason,” Vika noted wisely. “I think something will happen eventually, but it’ll be like that until we get to that point.”

  I didn’t say anything for a minute, mulling over what she said and realizing that she was right again.

  “So how is it that I’m however many years older than you, and you understand some things better than I do?”

  “Because you never wanted to build a career, you never tried, and you’ve never been a boss before,” Vika explained. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, so I read all the books and did everything I could to learn about it. I just didn’t think I’d meet you, and my career is kind of… Well, that’s not important.”

  “Did I make a lot of mistakes today?” I asked my little know-it-all.

  “No, though you should have rapped Shelestova over the knuckles for the way she talked to you a couple times,” Vika said with a frown. “She tried to get you going a couple times, but you didn’t even notice, so nothing came of it. The most important thing is that you learned the right lessons. Well, did you?”

  “I did, I did,” I replied honestly. “The most important lesson is that I need to listen to you in situations like that.”

  “Bingo,” Vika said proudly. “We’ll make quite the man out of you!”

  “Without a doubt,” I assured her. “By the way, sunshine, did you happen to notice who the first one to suggest going to the club was?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  In which a vow is fulfilled.

  “Nah,” Vika replied. “I was talking on the phone then—somebody had the wrong number. Then all of a sudden they flipped on the lights and everyone ran off. Why?”

  “Oh, I’m just wondering which of our people took that kind of initiative right off the bat,” I replied carelessly.

  It really was a shame that Vika hadn’t noticed who our busy bee was. Ah, well. I figured we could just ask everyone, let the rat feel the heat, and wait for him to give himself away. Although, to be fair, that wasn’t a given: it was only in old Soviet movies that the spies were stupid and clumsy, with the colonels in counterintelligence all gray-haired, respectful, and wise-eyed. How did everything end up in real life? Those wise, gray-haired colonels started letting the spies in through the front door. Their generals went off to work as heads of security in banks and holdings, chasing down bad debts and listening in on the phone conversations employees were having. In other words, our rat could actually be too smart to fall for a trick like that.

  The car braked to a halt—Vika and I were there.

  “Ah, nice,” Vika sighed. “Home, sweet home! I don’t know about you, but I’m going to grab a shower and hit the sack. Well, I may try one of those treats in the box. Or maybe two?”

  “Just eat them all,” I replied. “You go ahead up—I’m going to pay and then make a call.”

  “Got it.” Vika pursed her lips and grabbed the box. “You make your call, I’ll head up.”

  She popped out of the car and walked into the building entrance.

  “Give me a minute or two, boss,” I said to the driver.

  He nodded and settled back in his seat.

  “Good evening, Kif,” Zimin said, picking up the phone almost immediately. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s just that I was asked to say hello to you from someone, and I decided not to put it off.”

  “So I guess I’m supposed to ask who this amiable person was?”

  “A Jeremiah, someone I gather you’ve known for a while. Strange name, isn’t it? I thought my parents were crazy, and it turns out they have nothing on his.”

  Zimin didn’t say anything for a few seconds.

  “Yes, it’s an interesting name, and the guy himself, believe me, is a fascinating character as well. So you had a chat with him?”

  “I did,” I replied honestly. “We had tea, and he gave me a good-sized box of eastern treats for Vika.”

  “He’s always had a sweet tooth,” Zimin grunted. “Where are you? At home?”

  “Yes, though I kept the car here waiting.”

  “Good work. I appreciate a lot about you, but how sharp you are is right there at the top of the list. The roads are empty right now, so you’ll get here quickly.”

  “Sounds good, just give me a minute to let Vika know. Calling her wouldn’t be–”

  “I’ll tell her,” Zimin cut in. “I don’t think you’ll have any problems at home on my account. Don’t waste time—hit the road.”

  At night and against a background of large, fall clouds blocking out the stars, the Raidion building looking like a castle from the Middle Ages: looming, imposing, and impregnable.

  “Harriton,” a girl wearing a company uniform said, walking over as soon as I opened the door, “they’re waiting for you.”

  In the previous two days I’d had more people use my full name than I’d ever had before that. Vika was right: I needed to start feeling like Harriton, boss, head editor, and the somewhat influential person that I was. I needed to cut ties with fun-loving miscreant Kif, who was always up for a laugh with some unassuming cutie from the mailroom or a drink with the sports department drunks. It wasn’t even that I needed to, really; it was time—I wasn’t a kid anymore. Oddly enough, I was even starting to enjoy that. It feels good to be an arbiter of fate, even if there is a dark side to that position.

  “Kif, buddy boy, how’s it going?” As I walked out of the elevator, I bumped into Valyaev, who gave me a warm hug and even sniffed touchingly. Then he cringed. “Whoa, what crap have you been drinking?”

  “Moonshine,” I replied darkly. “It was nasty.”

  “Max,” Valyaev yelled. “Ma-ax! What, are you holding this guy’s paychecks?”

  “Why do you say that?” Zimin peeked out of his waiting room. “Hey, Kif. What’s he shouting about?”

  “He’s been out somewhere drinking moonshine, and the disgusting kind, too. Ew-w…” Valyaev whined.

  I glanced up at the ceiling in shock at the midnight carnival going on in front of me, noticing as I did that the girl was still standing there. Her eyes were the size of tea saucers—she apparently hadn’t seen anything like that either.

  “Kif, what are you waiting for? Come on in.” Zimin pushed open the door before taking his turn grimacing. “You really do smell like a distillery.”

  “That’s what I’m saying—you can’t be paying him much if he’s drinking that garbage,” Valyaev repeated.

  “Maybe he’s a cheapskate?” Zimin said. “Or he could just be careful with his money.”

  “That’s no reason to ruin your health with those kinds of drinks,” Valyaev countered. “Even the Scots didn’t make anything that bad, and they skimped on everything!”

  “Wait, but Scottish whiskey is one of the best out there,” I jumped in, covering my mouth with my hand.

  “Now it is, sure,” Valyaev replied. “But if you knew the kind of junk they made three or four hundred years ago… Though I think even it would h
ave been better than what you drank today. He’s no cheapskate; he just doesn’t know his drinks!”

  “There may be something we don’t know,” Zimin said, not giving in. “Maybe someone made him drink that stuff!”

  “Miss, could I get a coffee and a few sandwiches?” I asked the frozen girl.

  She nodded, not taking her eyes off the discussion.

  “And a coffee for me, as well, please. No sandwiches,” Azov’s voice said from behind me.

  I turned around to see Raidion’s security chief looking different than he usually did: he wasn’t wearing a tie.

  “What?” He stared at me, then dropped his gaze down to his chest. “I was already at home when they called me.”

  “No worries,” I said with a shrug. “Good to see you, Ilya.”

  “Good evening, Kif. Been hitting the moonshine? Lay off that stuff if you want your liver to stay in one piece. It always has a lot of fusel oils.”

  I’m going to kill Shelestova tomorrow, I thought to myself. Next week, at the latest.

  “Should I go get everything?” the girl asked.

  “Don’t forget about the coffee,” Azov replied with a sharp look. “And bring those sandwiches for our young friend.”

  By that time, Zimin and Valyaev had agreed that I wasn’t a cheapskate, though I was stingy and less than selective when it came to my choice of drinks.

  “Yes?” they asked simultaneously, turning to look at me.

  I opened my mouth and caught Azov’s eye as he silently ordered me to agree with them.

  “That’s pretty much it,” I responded. Zimin and Valyaev walked happily into the waiting room followed by Azov and me.

  “I’ve gathered you gentlemen to hear some news you will find highly interesting,” Zimin began, having waited for us all to sit down. He preferred to stay standing.

  “What’s that?” an annoyed Valyaev asked. “What did I give up an evening with a very appetizing blonde for?”

  “I was already home,” Azov added softly. “Just getting ready for dinner.”

  There was nothing for me to say yet—my turn was coming.

  “Kif, my friend, could you remind me who asked you to say hello to us a couple hours ago?” Zimin asked in an angelic voice.

  “Jeremiah,” I said. “I don’t know his full name. Not that tall, about my age, likes to laugh…”

  “…has a small scar over his left eyebrow,” Azov continued. “A pleasant-looking guy, knows how to draw you in…”

  “…and with a very old debt he still owes me,” Valyaev snarled. “So can we just call him Jeremiah now? Jeremiah works.”

  “I didn’t see a scar, though I didn’t look very closely.” I was stunned to see my second transformation of the evening. First, Vika had showed off another side (or maybe that was her main one?) of herself, displaying the kind of seasoned wisdom I wouldn’t have expected from her…

  On the other hand, what was there that was so unexpected? The idea that women aren’t intelligent was made up entirely by men. Even way back when we started living in caves with them, we didn’t like when they showed off their brains. I’m the one killing mammoths, slaughtering them, and dragging them over here, I guard the cave, I mastered fire—and you’re going to get smart with me! And that’s how it went, century after century… Too many smart women had their heads chopped off (primarily royal women; the nobler, the better), were burned at the stake to cries of “she’s a witch!”, or were stoned to death, banished, or drowned—there really are plenty of good ways to keep women quiet about what’s going on in their heads. Things got a little better for the weaker sex in the 20th century, though they traded their usual problems in for a novel one: men went into decline. And all women, even the strongest, need to feel weak sometimes. So that’s when women started once again trying to appear less intelligent.

  And why do they do that? It’s not just because of their in-born sense of self-preservation. They feel bad for us men, and they feel bad for our pride—even if it often has no basis in reality whatsoever. That’s just the kind of strange creatures they are. They hide a half-smile when they hear men say things like “I picked her.” Who did you pick, you doofus? If the woman in question is a prostitute, then sure. But in all other cases, we should be shouting from the rooftops that women always pick their men. Always. Then, to keep our fragile ego intact, they let us think that we picked them. Also, this has nothing to do with sex; it’s about life. Although, even when it comes to sex, the man can get everything he’s looking for—but only if the woman wants it. They quietly shepherd us toward good ideas, letting us know, tactfully or otherwise, who we should talk to, who we shouldn’t talk to, what we should buy, and what we don’t have the least use for. We just don’t see that because they’re, well, smart. And we live with those smart women. We live with the smart ones, but we sleep with the dumb ones. And that’s because the smart ones know everything, while the dumb ones will do anything.

  Anyway, that was a bit of an aside. Back to the subject at hand, Vika’s transformation was followed by Valyaev’s. It was a day of discoveries.

  “Cut back on the emotion, Kit,” Zimin said gently, “or you’ll scare our friend.”

  Valyaev spat a phrase in a language I didn’t know, though the odd, clanking syllables did sound a bit Germanic.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I asked trepidatiously.

  “No, you’re fine,” Azov explained. “It’s just that they have old scores to settle—there was a girl involved, too.”

  “By the way, Kit,” Zimin said, snapping his fingers, “You owe Kif a certain something. You made the vow, and it was heard and confirmed.”

  “Of course, what kind of person do you think I am?” Valyaev replied with genuine emotion. “What did I promise?”

  “A stallion, I think,” Zimin squinted. “Or a house?”

  “No, a stallion—it was while we were in England,” Valyaev nodded. “Here, buddy boy, this is yours.”

  Suddenly there was a keychain lying in my palm.

  “What’s this?” I asked, confused.

  “The key to my, and now your Avendator. Black, tiny, zippy, and waiting for you in the managers’ parking lot. We’ll figure out the paperwork later.”

  “Um-m…” I understood what he was saying, but still had no idea what was going on. “And why are you giving it to me?”

  “What are you um-ing about?” Valyaev asked with a frown. “Where am I supposed to find you a stallion right now? I mean, if you need one, or just a regular horse, then fine—but that will have to wait for later. We have more important things to deal with right now. Cars are also a form of transportation, and, incidentally, they have plenty of horses under the hood.”

  “No, I just don’t get the whole thing…”

  “Kit, stop,” Zimin said. Valyaev was starting to turn red. “Kif, it’s like this. Once upon a time, my friend here and Jeremiah,” he continued, with Zimin snorting when he heard Jeremiah’s name, “got into a bit of a tiff. It isn’t important what it was about, but Jeremiah got out of England, where everything went down, and went into hiding. Kit was furious, and he made a very old and serious vow to give a horse–”

  “A stallion,” Valyaev corrected him.

  “…a stallion to whoever gave him information on where Jeremiah is. We were at a racetrack, and Kit was drunk, which is why he promised something that unusual. There are no horses around, but tradition is tradition—that’s why Kit is giving you his car, and a very good one. It’s a good trade for you, I’d say. What would you do with a horse?”

  “A stallion,” Valyaev corrected him again.

  “Right,” Zimin agreed.

  A good trade. I’ll say—a late model Lamborghini. But what am I supposed to do with it?

  “Well?” Valyaev stared at me.

  “What?” I asked, confused. “Oh, thanks!”

  “Has he always been this much of an idiot?” Valyaev asked the others.

  “Say ‘I thank you and accept yo
ur gift,’” Zimin advised me. “The oath is an old one, a bit archaic and funny-sounding, but there are centuries of customs and family values surrounding it…”

  I said what he’d told me to say and even kind of cringed, expecting a bolt of lightning to slam into me. It had been that kind of night…

  Nothing like that happened—all I heard was the door creak open as the girl walked in wheeling a cart. It was loaded with bread, sausage, cheese, large plates full of caviar, lemon slices, and other delicacies. A second girl was behind her pushing another cart, that one carrying a large coffee pot and cups.

  “Thank you, you can go,” Valyaev said to them.

  “You don’t need it poured?” the one with the coffee pot asked timidly.

  “We’ll pour it ourselves,” Valyaev said, cutting into her babbling and ushering them out of the office.

  I stood, picked up the coffee pot, and started pouring the coffee into the cups. Vika had been right: none of them made the slightest move to help. They let you. She had been on the money once again.

  “None for me,” Valyaev said. He went over to the cabinet where, as I recalled, Zimin kept his supply of alcohol.

  “Three sugars,” Azov said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “The same for me,” Zimin chimed in.

  We drank our coffee in silence, and I threw decorum to the wind and scarfed down three sandwiches. I was about to start on a fourth when Valyaev started talking.

  “And now, my friend, tell us what happened from the very beginning, giving us every last detail you can remember.”

  I did exactly that, starting with our party at the office. They listened attentively without interrupting or asking questions—all they did was exchange glances every once in a while.

  “Then I took Vika home and called Maxim right away,” I said in closing.

  “Well done, Kif. You were flawless from beginning to end,” Zimin said, cracking his knuckles after the group was silent for a few moments. “Both in the way you acted and how you called immediately.”

  “You just shouldn’t have drunk that crap,” Valyaev noted. “Where can you find decent moonshine in Moscow? Anyway, Azov, what are you thinking?”