‘Yes,’ said Sheremetev. He carried the tray to the table and set it down. ‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Here’s something to eat.’
‘It is time already?’
‘It’s time. You’re hungry, remember?’
‘Is it breakfast?’
‘Lunch.’ Sheremetev smiled. ‘It’s easy to forget. You had your breakfast, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’ Sheremetev raised him from his chair. ‘Come. Let’s eat.’
Sheremetev guided him to the table and put a napkin around his neck. He tied it cautiously. ‘Is this okay? Not too tight?’
‘It’s okay,’ said Vladimir.
There was a bowl of chicken soup on the tray. Sheremetev put a spoon in Vladimir’s hand.
Vladimir fidgeted with it. After a couple of minutes, Sheremetev gently released it from his hand and raised a spoonful of the soup to Vladimir’s lips.
‘How is that? Is it good?’
Vladimir smiled. ‘It’s good.’
Sheremetev raised another spoonful. Vladimir sipped at it noisily.
6
STEPANIN HAD ABOUT AS much ability to hide his feelings as a Russian bear trying to hide itself in a snow field. That night he sat brooding in the staff dining room, stubbing out one cigarette and lighting another, throwing back one glass of vodka and reaching for the bottle to pour himself the next. Whatever it was that had had him fuming outside the dacha that morning was still eating at him.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Sheremetev eventually.
The cook grunted. He got up and opened the door to the kitchen and yelled at one of the potwashers, then came back and slumped disconsolately in his chair, fingering his vodka glass with a look of disgust.
‘Vitya?’
Stepanin looked up. ‘What’s the boss been like today? Okay? Give you any trouble?’
‘I was going to take him out, but the cars were broken down.’
‘Both cars?’ said Stepanin disbelievingly.
Sheremetev shrugged.
‘An S-class Mercedes and a Range Rover?’
Sheremetev shrugged again.
‘What fuckery! Broken down? Sure. Eleyekov! What a gangster.’
‘He’s a gangster?’ said Sheremetev.
‘No, I don’t mean a gangster. Not a gangster.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
Stepanin gave Sheremetev a look, the kind Sheremetev had been accustomed to receiving ever since he first confided to one of his fellow conscripts in the army his belief that their captain would soon be exposed and punished for hiring them out like slaves. ‘Eleyekov’s okay,’ muttered Stepanin. Everything’s okay for him.’ The cook angrily stubbed out his cigarette, picked up the box, toyed with the idea of lighting another one, then threw it down in disgust.
Sheremetev watched him.
‘It’s the chickens,’ growled the cook.
Sheremetev was none the wiser.
‘The chickens! Barkovskaya, that slut, suddenly has a cousin who sells chickens. Where has he come from, this cousin? From under which stone has he crawled? Yesterday there was no cousin – today there is. They’re probably stolen chickens, if you ask me.’
‘Stolen from where?’
‘Who knows?’ Stepanin fixed Sheremetev with a furious glare. ‘Do you have any idea how many ways there are to steal chickens? Do you even know how many places you can steal them from?’ Stepanin poured himself another vodka, watching the liquid cascading into the glass. ‘Not only chickens! Ducks, pheasants, geese. Anything with feathers.’ The cook threw down the vodka, swallowed hard, and grimaced. ‘Put a feather on it,’ he rasped, momentarily hoarse, ‘give it wings, put a beak on its face – and Barkovskaya’s cousin, the shit, has it.’
‘Aren’t they fresh?’ inquired Sheremetev.
‘They’re fresh!’ retorted Stepanin. ‘Why shouldn’t they be fresh?’
‘What about the quality?’
‘The quality’s fine!’
‘Then . . . ?’
Stepanin sighed, and gave Sheremetev another one of those looks, but worse this time, as if he was gazing upon a fool whose imbecility was of a depth so extraordinary, whose innocence was of a simple-mindedness so complete and so utterly unsullied by knowledge or experience, that in the five billion years of its existence the world had never witnessed the like. ‘Today, my chicken supplier calls me and says he’s been terminated. Half an hour later, this other one turns up with chickens and grouse and God knows what. Now, Kolya, tell me, who’s the chef? Stepanin or Bolkovskaya?’
‘You are, of course.’
‘So who decides on the suppliers? Stepanin or Bolkovskaya?’
Sheremetev, not knowing the protocol amongst chefs and housekeepers, guessed. ‘Stepanin?’
‘So what’s Bolkovskaya doing? Hmmm?’
‘It’s her cousin. Perhaps she thought —’
‘Exactly! Her cousin. Okay, so let’s say, in this one case, I say, it’s Bolkovskaya’s cousin, it’s fine. Let’s get the chickens from her cousin. Not to mention the fact that my chicken man is a friend who goes back with me twenty years. We stood guard duty together in Crimea. Even then he was stealing chickens. He stole – I cooked. What feasts we had! Okay, but let’s forget that. Let’s say Bolkovskaya’s cousin is more important than twenty years of friendship and guard duty on some shitty base in Crimea.’ Stepanin leaned closer, his eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know what else happened today?’
Apart from both cars being broken down – and Sheremetev had a hunch that wasn’t what Stepanin was talking about – nothing out of the ordinary, as far as he was aware.
‘A certain restaurant in the town didn’t get their chickens either. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘No,’ said Sheremetev. He was utterly confused. What restaurant was Stepanin talking about? Did the friend from his days on the Crimean base supply it as well? And why should it make a difference if he did?
Stepanin stared at him, then shook his head and sat back in the chair. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it.
Sheremetev had a feeling that there was something the cook wasn’t telling him. But what? There seemed to be more to this, he sensed, than mere loyalty to an old army buddy.
‘What about everything else you’re responsible for buying? Has Barkovskaya done anything about the rest?’
‘Look, first, there’s the principle!’ retorted Stepanin angrily. ‘It’s as old as the ages. The cook chooses the suppliers. Without that principle – chaos! And second . . .’ He hesitated, gazing shiftily at Sheremetev.
‘Second . . . ?’
‘Second . . . Second . . . This is the thin end of the wedge! If I let her do this, it’s exactly as you say. Next, it’ll be the fishmonger. Then the butcher. Then the cheesemonger. Then the fruit and veg man. Then the dried fruit merchant. Then —’
‘Dried fruit? Do we eat a lot of dried fruit?’
‘A lot! You’d be surprised.’
‘I never see any.’
‘Well, most of it . . . there’s a confectioner I know in town. Anyway, the point is, this is only the start.’
‘Vitya, how many cousins could she have?’
‘Cousins? In Barkovskaya’s position, if you’re looking for cousins, you’ll find them everywhere!’
‘But for a cousin you need an uncle and an aunt,’ pointed out Sheremetev. ‘You can’t just —’
‘If I let Bolkovskaya do this, the bitch will do it with everything, just you see. And that, Kolya, isn’t right. It’s not just. Things should be as they were. She’s happy, I’m happy, everyone eats well, and there’s peace in the world.’
‘I still don’t understand about the dried fruit,’ said Sheremetev, deciding to forget about Stepanin’s theory of endless cousins, which made no sense to him, whichever way he tried to look at it. ‘Where does it go, this dried fruit? I can’t remember the last time I had a piece.’
‘What do you like?’
‘Apricots.’
‘I’ll get you a packe
t. Look, can’t you see how dangerous this is? If I let Barkovskaya win on this, it’s all gone. Everything! Let someone like her take an inch, and she’ll take the whole mile.’
‘Maybe you should go to Barkovskaya and say . . . you know . . . let’s have some kind of arrangement. Maybe one time your friend, one time her cousin. Share.’
‘Share?’ The cook’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. ‘Kolya, there’s the principle, and there’s . . . there’s . . .’ Stepanin’s voice trailed off. He stubbed out his cigarette, and again, and again, until it wasn’t only stubbed but broken, flattened, smashed, destroyed.
‘Vitya, is there something you’re not telling me?’
Stepanin looked up at him sharply. ‘What am I not telling you?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I just asked you.’
‘Kolya, you know what my dream is.’
Sheremetev knew. Russian fusion! Minimalist décor! What that had to do with Barkovskaya ordering chickens from her cousin, Sheremetev had no idea.
‘Is it such a terrible thing, to want to have my own restaurant? What am I asking for? To reopen the gulag? Imagine it. Russian fusion! Minimalist décor! Something totally new. The first night I’m open, you’ll have a table. Is it some kind of crime, Kolya, to want this?’
‘No, it’s not a crime, Vitya.’
‘So?’ said Stepanin.
‘So?’ said Sheremetev, still at a loss to understand what the cook thought was really so terrible about what the housekeeper had done, or what it had to do with his dream of a restaurant.
Stepanin stared at him for a moment, then sat back. ‘What fuckery! Fuckery with a cock on top.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I can’t let this go.’
Sheremetev watched him, wondering for a moment if this was all some kind of joke.
Stepanin eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll do what I have to.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Don’t worry.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Vitya Stepanin always has a plan.’
VITYA STEPANIN DID HAVE a plan, although it wasn’t of the most sophisticated subtlety. In its essence, it consisted of doing nothing – but a special kind of nothing. The next day, when Barkovskaya’s cousin rang to find out what he wanted, he replied: ‘Nothing.’ He said the same thing the next day, and the day after that. Chickens were not required. Nor were ducks, geese, pigeons, partridges, pheasants, snipe, grouse or any of the other feathered beasts that the housekeeper’s cousin purveyed. Stepanin had no idea what was going to happen next, but as far as he was concerned, Barkovskaya wasn’t getting any more chicken fricassee until she backed down.
Chicken fricassee disappeared from the menu. So did chicken soup, chicken kiev, chicken wings, chicken supreme, chicken cacciatore, chicken curry, chicken salad, chicken with mango and all the other chicken dishes that Stepanin was wont to serve up. A cook down to his fingernails, Stepanin grieved for his lost dishes, but he hoped that in time he would send them out of his kitchen again, and for the present there was too much at stake, he told himself, to let sentimentality prevail.
Stepanin asked Sheremetev to apologise to Vladimir on his behalf, knowing how partial the old man was to chicken Georgian style. From the moment he took the job at the dacha, the cook had made it his mission to prepare for the boss, as he called him, the foods of which he was most fond. Not only had he questioned Sheremetev extensively on the subject, but he had researched all he could find about the ex-president’s culinary predilections. Vladimir ate almost all his meals at the table that had been installed for the purpose in the sitting room of his suite, so Stepanin never saw him devouring the results of his labours and consequently had to rely on Sheremetev’s reports of the boss’s reactions. Sheremetev didn’t have the heart to tell him that Vladimir couldn’t remember what he had eaten at the start of the meal by the time he got to the end, much less an hour or a day later, and the cook could have served up beans and brisket, which Vladimir relished, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and Vladimir would have been just as happy as he was with chicken Georgian style, boeuf à la Tversk, sole in butter sauce and all the other immediately forgotten delicacies that arrived on trays from the kitchen.
Accordingly, Vladimir didn’t notice the disappearance of chicken from his diet. To check, Sheremetev asked him if he had had any recently.
‘Yes,’ replied Vladimir. ‘At lunch.’
It was ten o’clock in the morning.
‘What if I was to tell you that there’ll be no more chicken?’
Vladimir laughed. ‘That’s preposterous. I’ve never heard such a stupid proposition. Get rid of the official whose idea this is.’
‘There may be a problem for a time.’
‘A problem?’ said Vladimir. ‘What sort of problem?’
‘With chicken, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘No, there’s no problem with chicken. The problem,’ said Vladimir, waving a finger, ‘is that Russians think chicken is the problem, when in fact, it’s not chickens at all. Chickens are a distraction that our so-called friends in the west would like us to waste our time on, when it is the west itself that has caused the problem by sending us the second rate chickens they themselves won’t eat. Why else would I impose sanctions on them to stop them sending us this rubbish? Yes, this is exactly what Obama, Merkel and the rest of them want to see. This whole thing is a crude attempt to retaliate for our perfectly legitimate restrictions on the distribution of gas through the Ukraine pipelines, when in reality there is no comparison between the two. Chicken is not gas! Gas is not chicken! Is that clear? Russia has no problem with chicken. Russia has no problem with anything. Every problem in Russia is the fault of the west, which can’t bear to see a Russia that is strong and independent. I call on Russians to stop eating chicken and strike a blow against those in the west who would like to put us back into a cold war!’
‘Yes, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
Vladimir nodded emphatically, a fierce expression on his face.
Slowly the look changed and his face became blank again. Sheremetev tidied up around him.
‘Who are you?’ he said after a while.
‘Sheremetev, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
Vladimir nodded, as if he remembered now. ‘Do you know my mother?’
Sheremetev shook his head.
‘What about my brothers?’
‘No, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
He smiled slyly. ‘How could you? They died before I was born.’
‘I know,’ said Sheremetev.
‘How do you know?’
Sheremetev shrugged. ‘Everyone knows.’
Vladimir narrowed his eyes. ‘How does everyone know?’
‘It’s known, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It’s very sad.’
Vladimir watched him suspiciously for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very sad. My mother has never recovered. She gave me this cross, you know, only last week.’ He fingered a small gold crucifix that hung around his neck.
Sheremetev nodded.
‘Have I had lunch?’
‘No, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
‘You told me there was chicken. Is that right?’
‘No.’
‘I was looking forward to chicken. Have you ever had chicken Georgian style? We should go to Suliko. What a restaurant! They have a special room upstairs – they open it only for me. The boys and I went there to celebrate the war in South Ossetia.’ Vladimir laughed. ‘We stuck it to the Georgians, then we ate their food! Eh? Those fucking Shvillis! Get the boys together. Monarov, Luschkin, the whole gang. Let’s go tonight.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Sheremetev.
‘What is this, I’ll see what I can do? Do it! Go! Now!’
‘Certainly, Vladimir Vladimirovich. At once.’
Sheremetev went to the dressing room and put away some clothes that had been returned from being laundered, then came back in and quietly continued tidying up. Vladimir was having a conver
sation with a sofa. He broke off when he noticed Sheremetev.
‘Was I waiting for something?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t think so, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
Vladimir frowned. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Then you can go.’ He turned to the sofa. ‘What are you talking about when you say Merkel was upset? That’s nothing. If I wanted to upset her, I’d bring the dog!’
ONE DAY FOLLOWED THE next, and still there was no chicken. Stepanin lived in a state of constant anxiety, wondering what to expect. Deep in his heart, he knew that his plan was limited, if not fatally flawed. Barkovskaya could survive without fricassee, and if she could survive without it, what had he achieved but depriving everyone else of poultry dishes? With each day that passed, the cook became more tense. What if the chickens were just the start? What if Barkovskaya found another cousin who could supply meat, one to supply fish, one who was a dry goods merchant? Would he order nothing? Would the inhabitants of the dacha exist on water alone? And what if Barkovskaya had a cousin at the water board?
At night he lay in bed with his lover, staring anxiously into the darkness as she slept beside him. By day, he began to look like a hunted animal, glancing here and there as he moved, as if bracing for the fall of whatever blow Barkovskaya was preparing for him. The apprehension showed in the quality of his food. The seasoning was variable, the flavours in the sauces not quite in harmony. The curses coming out of the kitchen were louder than ever.
Then Barkovskaya made her move. One morning, up drove a van to the dacha and out of it emerged the cousin and his helper, a two-hundred-centimetre Kazakh with a brow like a piece of granite, and proceeded to deliver four dozen chickens, ten ducks and a brace of pheasants.
‘I didn’t order any of this!’ cried Stepanin as they pushed their way into the kitchen.
‘The housekeeper did,’ replied the cousin, as if she was just another customer and there was no family relationship between them. He and his helper dumped the birds on the steel work surface. ‘Best quality.’
‘I don’t want them!’ yelled Stepanin.
‘Well, you’ve got them,’ said the cousin, as the Kazakh stared stonily down at him.
The Senility of Vladimir P Page 7