Had he known the full scale of the cash generated by the arrangement between Stepanin and Pinskaya, Sheremetev would have been flabbergasted. After what Eleyekov had told him, he would have imagined it was a few hundred dollars a month – which to him would already have been a substantial sum – not a racket involving more than doubling the total value of all the food and alcohol that came into the dacha to feed the forty people who nominally lived there.
It was into the middle of this comfortable situation that Barkovskaya plummeted, like a goose crash landing on a lake, after Pinskaya ran off with her ill-gained riches to Cyprus. Unlike the lawyers in Petersburg, she did take the ten minutes required to compute one thing and another, and the two minutes – in fact, sixteen seconds, with the aid of a calculator – to do the division, and being well practised in all the arts of housekeeping, immediately put two and two together and got the eight that Stepanin was extracting. It was this about which she had spoken to Stepanin on the memorable day that he had felt moved to make chicken fricassee for her delectation. Confronted with the invoices, he made no attempt at denial. Not only was the evidence incontrovertible, but he guessed – correctly, as it turned out – that Barkovskaya’s objective wasn’t to cleanse the Augean stable of kickbacks and commissions that the dacha had become, but to ensure that she knew where to dip her bucket in the sludge of filthy money that seeped out of its every crevice. Stepanin explained the arrangement he had had with the suppliers, his friend’s restaurant and Pinskaya, which he thought was perfectly fair to all involved. In response, Barkovskaya was non-committal about the terms of the deal, leaving him worried and disturbed – hence the chicken fricassee that evening, which he had made in an all too transparent attempt to curry favour. The housekeeper wasn’t easily curried. When Barkovskaya made her move against the chicken supply a few days later, Stepanin knew that the fricassee was too little, too late.
But how far was she planning to go? By switching the poultry supply to her so-called cousin – and Stepanin had his doubts about the family relationship, because the cousin, as far as he could see, was as much a Kazakh as the monstrous thug who accompanied him each day – she was cutting him out. Certainly, it was only chickens, but if Barkovskaya could find a Kazakh to deliver chickens, surely it wouldn’t be beyond her to find Kazakhs – or others, for that matter – to deliver everything else, and where would he be then? If he let her get away with this, he was finished.
Each day the chickens arrived, and each day they were thrown into the stinking hole. Stepanin hadn’t even meant seriously that such a hole should be dug, but how was he to know that the idiot of a potwasher, who normally couldn’t put the lid on a pot without being reminded and instructed three times over, would actually follow his orders this time? By now, taking the chickens out there each morning had become an established ritual in the kitchen, one which the potwashers carried out with a degree of ceremony and even relish. The situation made Stepanin ill, and not only because of the choking off of his cashflow that it portended. As a chef, it offended his sensibilities to throw out two dozen perfectly good chickens every day, not to mention the other birds which Barkovskaya’s cousin added to the nonexistent orders that he was fulfilling, all of which were of top quality and priced, no doubt, accordingly. Whoever he really was, Barkovskaya’s cousin had access to fine fowl, Stepanin had to give him that. Barkovskaya, as the cook had realised soon after he decided to stop ordering chickens, could withstand this situation a lot longer than he could. She probably wasn’t perturbed in the slightest by the latest turn of events. After all, she was now earning a cut of the chickens whether he used them or threw them into the charnel pit. He, on the other hand, had lost his portion of the revenue, and the fear that Barkovskaya would soon move onto another part of his business filled his sleep with nightmares.
At worst, Stepanin feared that she would try to oust him entirely. The housekeeper was responsible for hiring the maids, the gardeners, the house attendants and the driver. The security men came from he didn’t know where. He himself had come by his job through a connection of an in-law of one his cousins, who had some kind of relationship with one of the lawyers at the firm in Petersburg which was responsible for disbursing the funds that paid for Vladimir’s staff and living expenses. Stepanin had met the lawyer, a pale man with a mop of red hair called Lepev, only once, after which he had paid fifteen thousand dollars – every last cent of his savings, plus a hefty advance from a local loan shark – to a numbered bank account, and the job was his. He sent the lawyer a box of cakes as well. Barkovskaya, he assumed, had come by her job through a similar route, although who her patron was and how much she had paid him, he had no idea. Depending on the situation between Lepev and Barkovskaya’s supporter, and who was stronger than whom – and which of them, if either, even cared – she might try to use her patron to push him out. Stepanin didn’t know how far he could trust Lepev to back him. As a precaution, to remind him of his existence and the fact that he had paid good money for this job and the right to the plunder that came with it, he sent Lepev another box of cakes, and then, in what he thought was a masterstroke of irony, a box of chicken pies made from a delivery from Barkovskaya’s cousin.
Still, his fears weren’t assuaged. Chicken pies, he knew, would go only so far, and he wondered whether another helping of cash would be required. And even if Barkovskaya didn’t try to oust him, would the lawyer do anything about the money Stepanin had already lost or the other revenues that the housekeeper, in her insatiable greed, probably coveted?
Each night, as Elena, who never seemed to have any trouble sleeping, lay snoring beside him, the cook’s mind ran away with anxiety and frustration. Why had Barkovskaya come? Why her? Why now? The fifteen thousand that he had invested had been repaid many times over through the arrangement with the previous housekeeper, but he needed still more. Why couldn’t that thoughtless bitch Pinskaya have stayed for another two years, by which time he would have had enough money for his restaurant? But no, all she could think about was running off to Cyprus with that fat turd of a husband who drank so much it was a marvel he hadn’t killed half of Russia from behind the wheel of his truck. Two more years, that’s all he needed, and then he would be off. Two years, and the restaurant would be his.
STEPANIN, NORMALLY SUCH A talker, was in no mood for conversation when Sheremetev found him drinking in the staff dining room that night. Sheremetev was in no mood for conversation either, depressed by what he had discovered about the reason for Stepanin’s fight with Barkovskaya and by the thought of Pasha being locked up while he was unable to do anything to help him. Stepanin pushed a glass towards him and silently poured him a vodka, then sipped glumly on his own.
The two men brooded in silence.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich liked the fish pie tonight,’ said Sheremetev eventually.
‘It wasn’t my best.’
‘Well, he liked it. He ate more than normal.’
Stepanin nodded. Not even that piece of information, which would normally have put a smile on his face, could cheer him up.
‘Eleyekov told me about your arrangement with Pinskaya,’ said Sheremetev after a while.
‘My arrangement?’ Stepanin turned towards him. ‘Well, he’s one to talk, isn’t he? The gangster. Let me tell you about Eleyekov. How often are the cars needed for the boss, huh? What do you think Eleyekov does all day, Kolya? Sit there and polish them?’
‘Well, actually, he was —’
‘No,’ continued Stepanin, who had apparently meant the question rhetorically. ‘Our friend Vadim Sergeyevich Eleyekov has a nice little business, him and his son, driving bigwigs around in two very fine cars that would cost two hundred thousand dollars each if he had to buy them. Cars which he could never afford to buy even if the Kazan Cathedral fell on his head. But does he have to buy them? No. Because they’re sitting here in the garage all day and he can do what he likes with them. And he does! He’s booked out every day two weeks in advance.’
�
�Not every day,’ murmured Sheremetev. Suddenly the performance with the notebook made sense.
‘Close enough. But can Barkovskaya get her claws on his business? No, because he takes the cash and she has no way of knowing how much it is. All she can do is demand thirty percent. He’ll give her ten percent, maybe five, and tell her it’s thirty, and how will she know the difference? She knows that herself. Whereas with me . . .’ Stepanin stopped, gazing at Sheremetev, the vodka loosening his tongue by the minute. ‘You really don’t know, do you? Everyone around you is taking, Kolya. It’s a fuckery, a grand fuckery with a cock on top. The maids steal whatever they want – linen, soap, towels, even furniture goes missing. Pinskaya never cared. The more they stole, the more she had to buy. The more she had to buy, the bigger a cut she took. The only things off limits are the boss’s things. Fair’s fair. We all agreed those were your domain.’ Stepanin laughed. ‘Like you’d steal, huh? And what’s he got to take, anyway? A few old suits.’ He laughed again. ‘You really got the short end of the stick, Kolya!’
‘I’ve never stolen a thing in my life,’ muttered Sheremetev.
‘I’ve heard people say that before,’ said Stepanin, raising his glass, tossing down the vodka and then grimacing, teeth clenched, with a shake of the head. ‘But you, Nikolai Ilyich Sheremetev, I believe. Look around you, Kolya! Have you seen the greenhouses outside? Do you remember when they bulldozed the grounds and built them? What do you think they’re for?’
‘To supply the house?’ said Sheremetev hesitantly, knowing, even as the words came out, that his answer was going to be as wrong as it was the time one of his fellow conscripts, stifling his laughter, had asked him what he thought they were actually building when they were bussed to an unfinished apartment block each day in the middle of Omsk, and he had replied that surely they were building an army barracks.
‘You’re too funny! Do you think for this one dacha you need greenhouses big enough to supply half of Moscow? Look at it! The whole fucking estate. It’s like a farm!’ Stepanin shook his head. ‘Listen, this is what happened. A couple of years ago, the gardeners go to Pinskaya and say, look at all this land. It’s pretty but a waste. We’ll build greenhouses, we’ll grow vegetables, and we’ll sell them. You’ll get ten percent, like everything. She says okay. They find the contractors to build the glasshouses. Naturally, the gardeners get ten percent of the contract. So does Pinskaya – even better. She gives the lawyers in Petersburg the same story you got, that we’re building greenhouses to supply the house. They say okay. Listen, Kolya, the lawyers are probably taking ten percent of everything as well. The more we spend here, the more they take. So the greenhouses get built, and now the gardeners have a business.’
‘Goroviev also? Is he involved?’
‘Goroviev also,’ affirmed Stepanin.
Sheremetev groaned. He would almost have expected it of the other gardeners, but not of Goroviev, the soft-spoken gardener who always seemed so genuine in his interest in Vladimir and appeared to be such a decent man. ‘Is there no one who isn’t taking?’ he cried.
‘Of course there is. You! Only you, Kolya.’ The chef poured himself another vodka and refilled Sheremetev’s glass. ‘Everyone was happy and now this bitch Barkovskaya has to poke her head in. What fuckery! Whatever Pinskaya took, Barkovskaya wants more.’
Sheremetev took his glass and drank the vodka, trying to drive out the feeling of disgust that was overwhelming him.
‘By the way, she fired Elena.’
Sheremetev looked up at him. ‘Elena?’
‘She said she was stealing. That’s a discovery! Why Elena? They all steal, all the maids, everyone knows that. Barkovskaya hasn’t done anything to stop the others. No, it’s me she wants to hurt. Get rid of Elena to make me suffer.’
Sheremetev frowned, thinking of the maid who had been Stepanin’s lover. ‘How did she take it?’
Stepanin shrugged. ‘She came and cried in the kitchen for an hour. Then Barkovskaya marched in with a couple of the security guys and they took her away. They gave her ten minutes to get her stuff together and then threw her out. Left her standing outside the gate on the road. I don’t know what she did. She had two suitcases with her.’
‘Did you help?’
‘How could I? I was cooking.’
Sheremetev imagined the crying maid dragging her suitcases two kilometres to the nearest bus. The sense of misery that he had been feeling totally engulfed him.
Stepanin nodded knowingly, as if he shared the feeling.
‘My nephew’s in jail,’ blurted out Sheremetev suddenly.
Stepanin looked up at him with interest. ‘Really? What did he do?’
‘He wrote something about President Lebedev on the internet . . . and about Vladimir Vladimirovich as well.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Not very complimentary.’
‘How old is he? Six?’
‘Twenty.’
‘So not very smart, huh?’
‘They want three hundred thousand dollars to let him go.’
The cook recoiled slightly. ‘Nikolai, I don’t have —’
‘No, I wasn’t thinking . . . Actually, Vitya, can you help? Even something would be a start . . .’
Stepanin shook his head. The truth was that he had the required sum in the bank – in fact, a few dollars more – courtesy of the gargantuan appetite of his staff for overpriced provisions that never even arrived at the dacha and the unquestioning largesse of whoever was paying the bills, but he wasn’t going to postpone his dream of having his own restaurant for the sake of some oppositionist who presumably must want to be in jail if he was dumb enough to have written something insulting about the president – and not only one president, but two presidents – and put it on the internet.
Sheremetev sighed. ‘No. Of course not. I wasn’t asking. I’ve got nothing. A couple of hundred thousand rubles, that’s all. And my brother, Oleg, hasn’t got much more.’
Stepanin gazed at Sheremetev pityingly. All these years with the old man, and he had taken no advantage. ‘I suppose the boss has got nothing worth taking, has he?’ said Stepanin, putting his mind to the problem. ‘Just some old clothes. Nice ones, but still, second-hand clothes, how much would you get for them . . . ?’ Stepanin’s voice trailed off. He frowned, and the frown got deeper, and then he broke into a grin.
‘What?’ said Sheremetev.
‘Vitya Stepanin, you’re a genius!’ said the cook, gleefully congratulating himself.
Sheremetev watched him sceptically.
‘There is something you can sell, Kolya, and it doesn’t involve stealing.’
‘What?’
‘The chance to see him!’ Stepanin raised an eyebrow meaningfully. ‘You know, when he was president, they say, for a businessman it cost a million dollars just to have a meeting with him.’
‘A million dollars?’
‘That’s what they say. Now, say someone wants to meet him now. Who would know if he’s well enough or not?’
‘He’s usually well —’
‘But who would know? Only one person.’ Stepanin raised an eyebrow again. ‘You,’ he said, in case Sheremetev hadn’t made the connection. ‘You’re his nurse. They would have to ask you.’
‘I suppose so . . .’ murmured Sheremetev guardedly.
‘Charge them!’ cried Sheremetev triumphantly. ‘Charge his visitors.’
‘He doesn’t have any visitors.’
‘Then charge the wife! She still comes, right? Charge the wife to see him. If she doesn’t pay, say he’s too unwell.’
‘The wife?’ demanded Sheremetev in horror.
‘She’s not dead, is she?’
‘She hardly comes to see him.’
‘Then charge the children.’
‘The children?’
‘Why not? Kolya, it’s no hardship for them. Quite the opposite. Do you know how much money they must have? Can you imagine? And then they come to the dacha, and the man looking after the
ir husband or their father or whatever – the only man who can stand in their way – asks for nothing. It’s unrussian. I bet their handbags are stuffed with cash they’re expecting to have to give you.’
It was true that once or twice Sheremetev had glimpsed a big wad of cash in a handbag of one of the daughters. But to ask a sick man’s wife or daughter to pay to be allowed to see him . . . The idea of it made him ill.
Stepanin laughed, seeing the look on Sheremetev’s face.
A grunt came out of Sheremetev’s pocket. He pulled out the monitor and put it to his ear.
‘Is he okay?’ asked Stepanin.
Sheremetev listened a moment longer, then nodded.
‘You think it will be a rough night tonight?’
‘Who knows?’ Sheremetev put the device back in his pocket.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Kolya. How many times a night does he wake you up? You know what? You should make him pay!’ Stepanin laughed. ‘That’s it! That’s what you should do! You should tell him, a thousand dollars a time. To him, it’s nothing. I bet he used to pay a thousand dollars for a blow job and not think twice about it. Every time you have to go in, Kolya – a thousand dollars!’
‘I don’t think that would stop him.’
‘You don’t want to stop him! Kolya, that’s the point. You want him to call you ten, twenty times a night.’
‘Who’s going to pay? He has no money himself.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing! What would he use it for? Besides, I couldn’t charge him for such a thing.’
Stepanin ignored the absurdity of Sheremetev’s final statement, mulling over the conundrum of Vladimir’s impecunity. He hadn’t thought of that one – that the ex-president, for all his wealth, might not actually have any money. ‘What fuckery, eh? The richest man in the world, they say he was, or in Russia, or something. And here he is, and he hasn’t got a ruble in his pocket.’ Stepanin paused, flabbergasted at the thought. ‘Is that really true? Nothing?’
The Senility of Vladimir P Page 11