The Senility of Vladimir P

by Michael Honig

  He remembered the thoughts he had had in front of Vladimir’s watch cabinet the previous night. But that was a fantasy, like a child dreaming of walking up to a hated teacher in front of the whole class and giving him a poke in the eye. Sheremetev knew himself too well. It wasn’t possible that he would actually do it.

  THAT MORNING, WHEN HE took Vladimir for his walk, Sheremetev kept him away from the charnel pit. It was an unusually mild day for October and the smell was high. If Stepanin did find a way to finish the stand-off with Barkovskaya, at least they could fill in the hole and that would be the end of the stench. Sheremetev didn’t want to go towards Eleyekov’s garage either. He steered Vladimir in another direction.

  Between the long plastic tunnels that covered this part of the estate, out of the breeze, the day felt almost warm. Vladimir was muttering something to someone with whom he was apparently holding a conversation. Sheremetev brooded as he walked alongside him, caught up in his sense of impotence about Pasha. Tomorrow was his day off and he had told Oleg that he would come to visit, although Sheremetev knew that he would have nothing new to say. He wanted to see his brother, of course, but going empty handed in Oleg’s hour of need made him dread it as well.

  Vladimir had spotted one of the benches that still stood amongst the greenhouses – or the commercial farm, as Sheremetev now understood them to be. Normally, he kept Vladimir walking on their morning outings, since the ex-president spent enough time sitting the rest of the day. But today he felt so demoralised that he didn’t care. It was a dereliction of his professional duty, but when they reached the bench, and Vladimir said that he wanted to stop, he let him sit.

  Sheremetev stood beside him. Still muttering to himself, Vladimir hardly seemed aware of him. Sheremetev hesitated a moment longer, then sat.

  Inside the greenhouse in front of them, silhouettes of labourers worked at the plants. Sheremetev glanced at Vladimir. The ex-president sat, arms folded, his gaze somewhere in the middle distance.

  Sheremetev wondered if Vladimir’s hallucinations and imaginings were getting worse. Living with him day to day, it was hard to tell, as it is hard to tell if someone’s skin colour or weight is changing because of an illness when you’re constantly with them – much easier to tell if you see them six months apart, and then the change hits you like a bolt. He could remember once, as Karinka became really ill, coming across a picture of her that had been taken a year earlier, and suddenly realising how much she had deteriorated. It was a shock. Only a year?

  He glanced at Vladimir again. The old man lived decades in the past. Sheremetev doubted that he recognised anyone at all in the dacha now, while only six months ago he had still been able to come up with a name from time to time. He tried to imagine what it must be like, to live surrounded entirely by people you took to be strangers. The idea was terrifying. But Vladimir at least felt a familiarity with him, Sheremetev was certain, and often mistook the other people who served him in the dacha for long-past friends – and enemies – so perhaps the world in which he was living, even if utterly distorted, was not as cold and alien as he imagined. True, it was fantasy, a memory confection that existed only in Vladimir’s head, but Vladimir no longer had any insight into that fact, so as far as he was concerned, it was real. In a sense, thought Sheremetev, it was as real as the world in which he or anyone else lived.

  Goroviev appeared out of the greenhouse, pushing a long, flat barrow laden with seedlings. The gardener stopped when he saw them. He left the barrow and came over.

  ‘Good morning, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ he said politely, as he always did.

  Vladimir glanced at him and then looked away again.

  ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich is somewhat preoccupied this morning,’ explained Sheremetev.

  Goroviev smiled. ‘Indeed? Affairs of state, no doubt. You have quite an injury to your face, Nikolai Ilyich.’

  ‘Just an accident,’ said Sheremetev. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  ‘I hope it heals quickly.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Sheremetev didn’t know what to make of Goroviev now. He had formed an impression of him as a good, gentle soul, and yet it turned out that he was taking his cut, just like everyone else.

  The gardener continued to stand there.

  ‘I’m afraid Vladimir Vladimirovich isn’t in a great mood for conversation this morning,’ said Sheremetev eventually.

  ‘Nikolai Ilyich . . . may I sit?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sheremetev hesitated for a moment, then moved up along the bench, managing to preserve a sliver of space between himself and Vladimir. The gardener sat beside him.

  ‘I wanted . . .’ began Goroviev in a low voice, and then he paused, glancing at Vladimir, who was mumbling again. ‘I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about your nephew.’

  Sheremetev looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Everyone knows what’s happened. I read the blog, Nikolai Ilyich. It had been taken down, of course, by the time I found out about it, but there are ways to find things. Nothing ever really disappears from the internet, does it? It was a bold thing to write, I’ll say that much.’

  ‘And now they’re punishing him.’

  ‘Yes.’ The gardener sat silently for a moment. ‘Nikolai Ilyich . . . I suppose people have told you about me?’

  ‘Told me?’

  ‘About my past.’

  ‘No.’

  The gardener looked at him knowingly.

  ‘Well, people say there was something,’ confessed Sheremetev, ‘but I don’t know more than that, and why should I want to? What may have happened isn’t any of my business, Arkady Maksimovich.’

  Goroviev smiled. ‘I’m sure whatever you’re imagining I did is worse than the reality.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Shall I tell you?’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘When I was young, after I left university, I was a journalist. Things were different back then, of course. Your patient over there and his cronies hadn’t yet taken control of all the newspapers and television stations. Foolish as we were, we thought Russia had changed, become like every other civilised nation, and that this was the way it would be forever. We were wrong, of course. Some of us stuck our necks out too far. Some stuck them out so far they lost their heads.’

  ‘You?’ said Sheremetev. ‘Is that what happened?’

  ‘No. I mean, really – lost their heads, Nikolai Ilyich. Me, I lost my job and a few years of my life in prison. What does that amount to, by comparison? Some of us died. There was Anna Stepanovna, of course. Everyone remembers her, but there were others, plenty of others. In those days, to kill a journalist was like a sport. When I look back on it now, I realise that I was lucky to have got out alive.’

  ‘So you became a gardener?’

  ‘Not immediately. Things happened, but one way or another . . . the ins and outs don’t matter. The thing is, there’s something very peaceful and true about gardening, Nikolai Ilyich. Things live, things grow, things die. If you give them the right conditions, they thrive, if you give them the wrong ones, they wither. If you allow the weeds to grow, they’ll choke off everything, if you cut them back, there’s room for others. Isn’t that the truth of life? What other truths are there, after all?’

  Vladimir murmured something. Goroviev listened. Then the ex-president was silent again.

  ‘I’d love to know what he’s thinking,’ said the gardener quietly. ‘I’ve always wondered what went on in his head. He was such a liar, to Russia, to the world. You wonder, a man who tells such lies, for so long, to so many people, in the end, does he even know the truth himself?’

  Sheremetev glanced at Goroviev in astonishment, amazed to hear such things coming out of his mouth. And with Vladimir sitting only a metre away! The gardener was gazing across him at the old man, but instead of condemnation in Goroviev’s face, Sheremetev saw only curiosity, as if he really was pondering the question.
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  ‘What did you write about when you were a journalist?’ asked Sheremetev, trying to change the subject.

  Goroviev looked back at him. ‘All sorts of things. But the really big thing, the thing that did for me, was when he went after Trikovsky.’

  ‘Trikovsky!’ muttered Vladimir.

  ‘He was one of the oligarchs,’ explained the gardener to Sheremetev. ‘Look, Trikovsky wasn’t perfect, I’ll be the first to admit it. To become one of the oligarchs meant by definition that you had committed economic crimes. And personally, he was somewhat of an egomaniac. But I do think, by the time your patient here went after him, he had developed a kind of democratic vision, maybe some kind of personal conversion, and . . . who knows? Maybe, he could have made a difference. In any case, they had no right to do what they did to him. He wasn’t a saint, but he wasn’t the devil, either.’

  ‘You think you’re a saint,’ said Vladimir.

  Sheremetev went to say something, but the gardener quickly held a finger to his lips.

  Vladimir snorted. ‘You’ve turned all holier than thou all of a sudden.’

  ‘We shouldn’t listen —’

  ‘Shhhhh!’ Goroviev leaned forward slightly, one hand holding Sheremetev back, frowning as he tried to catch every word.

  ‘You think, all you have to do is say the word “democracy”,’ said Vladimir, ‘and suddenly you’re the nation’s saviour.’

  Trikovsky shook his head. ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘A real convert, aren’t you?’ said Vladimir sarcastically.

  ‘I’m not saying I haven’t done certain things that I regret, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ replied Trikovsky.

  Vladimir laughed. ‘Certain things!’

  ‘A man can change course. What I may have done in the past as I constructed my business were things that the conditions of the time made —’

  ‘Sure,’ said Vladimir, cutting the oligarch off. He enjoyed doing it. Who else told an oligarch to shut up? Outside these walls, in their mansions and the boardrooms of their corporations, they were king. But not here. Not in the Kremlin. Behind the red brick walls, there was only one boss. ‘There were conditions at the time . . .’ he parodied. ‘Listen to me, Leva. You can be a businessman or a politician, but not both. We have to make a choice in life. One or the other. Riches or public service.’ Vladimir shrugged, not betraying by even the faintest hint of a smile the patent falsity – proven above all by himself – of what he was saying. ‘You’ve made your choice, I think.’

  ‘All I’m saying, Vladimir Vladimirovich, is in a democracy, any person can speak. Anyone can run for office, businessman or not.’

  ‘We saw that with Boris Nikolayevich. Anyone can do anything, say anything. What a fucking disaster! He turned Russia into a living corpse, every day being eaten away a little more by mad dogs like you. Which is why you put him there the second time, you and your friends, so you could keep on eating.’

  ‘We put you there, too.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Yes. What do you think Boris Nikolayevich would have done if we’d told him to choose someone else?’

  Vladimir smiled. ‘The old man didn’t know what day it was.’

  ‘He knew enough to listen to us,’ replied the oligarch.

  ‘Then you should have told him to get rid of me while you still had the chance, because I’m telling you this now, and for the last time, Leva.’ Vladimir wagged a finger. ‘Stay out of politics. It may be true the old man would never have chosen me as his successor if it wasn’t for you and the others. Fine. I couldn’t care less. That’s between you and him. As far as I’m concerned, you were the means, not the reason. The reason I was put in this place was to bring order and stability to Russia, to stop it becoming a place where every mad bird could peck out its eyes. And that’s what I’m doing!’ He slapped a fist into the other palm. ‘I’m putting an end to it. You’ll thank me one day. Even you, Lev Fyodorovich.’

  ‘I think there’s a way we can do this,’ said Trikovsky. ‘You’re —’

  ‘No. There’s no way. I’m not bargaining. I’m not negotiating. You see – you’re thinking like a businessman. That’s why you shouldn’t be in politics.’

  ‘You don’t bargain in politics?’

  ‘You do what I say in politics. And do you know what you’re going to do? You’re going to go to your television station and your newspaper and fire the nest of oppositionists who work there. Then you’re going to make sure the rest say what I want them to say. Monarov will talk to you from time to time so there’s no misunderstanding. And as far as politics is concerned, that’s it. That’s as much as you’re going to do. Apart from that, you’re going to look after your bank and your oil company and your nickel mine and you’re going to make a lot of money, because while you’re taking care of business, I’ll be taking care of politics, and Russia will have order, and when Russia has order, businessmen can make money, those who allow them to do so are rewarded, and everyone will be happy, including you. That’s what you’re going to do, and that’s what all your friends are going to do.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ said Trikovsky quietly.

  Vladimir sighed. ‘Have your companies been audited by a tax prosecutor? Show me a company in Russia that comes out of that clean and I’ll show you a cow that shits gold.’

  Trikovsky shook his head. ‘My companies don’t owe any tax.’

  ‘No?’ Vladimir laughed. ‘My guess is that if the tax prosecutor comes visiting he’ll find that you owe plenty of tax, taxes you haven’t even heard of yet.’ He laughed again. ‘You’ll owe so much tax that it will bankrupt your whole company if you have to pay it. Of course he’s totally independent, Leva, so I can’t be sure. Call it a hunch.’

  ‘That’s an outrage!’

  ‘The state might be prepared to take the business off your hands in lieu of the taxes, but as for you, Lev Fyodorovich, we don’t tolerate tax cheats in Russia. This isn’t London. Here, we make examples of them! But all of this is so unnecessary. Why are we even talking about it? You’ll stay out of politics, you’ll support me whenever I tell you to, and I’ll support you in your business. You’ll do what I tell you, you’ll make a lot of money, and you’ll be happy.’

  ‘No one would tolerate what you’re talking about!’ retorted Trikovsky. ‘Confiscating an entire corporation of this scale on the basis of falsified investigations? You can’t do it. I have support in the duma.’

  ‘Oh, you have support in the duma?’

  ‘If you do this to me, every other businessman in Russia will be threatened. Do you know what that will do for investment?’

  Vladimir smiled. ‘And where will they take their money, Leva? Where else can they do what they’re allowed to do in Russia? Where else can they make such profits? With order and stability in Russia, they can do even more of it. Do you think they’ll throw themselves after you? No, they’ll watch you go down. And as for your support in the duma . . . you know, I’m a specialist in human relations. In this job, you have to be. One thing I’ve noticed about people with a lot of money, is that they think people are personally attached to them. After a while, after you’ve had enough yes-men around for long enough, it’s easy to mistake subservience for loyalty. Me, when I find myself starting to think that someone is loyal to me, I immediately remind myself that his loyalty only goes as far as the next commission that’s going to land in his Swiss bank account. So let’s remember what you are. You’re a crook. You’re an embezzler. When the Russian state was drowning in debt, when the Afghan veterans and their war widows were starving in the winter, you and your friends, in the goodness of your hearts, paid Boris Nikolayevich ten kopecks on the ruble for your mines and your oil wells and your banks. That’s what people are going to remember when the tax prosecutor comes calling, Lev Fyodorovich. Now, how many of your friends in the duma are going to want to associate themselves with that? And by the way, how many of them would welcome their own visit from the tax prosecutor?’

 
; Trikovsky gazed at him incredulously. ‘Do you really think this is the way to save Russia? To have you and your KGB henchmen deciding everything?’

  ‘Do you think it’s to have you and your fellow crooks doing it?’

  ‘I’ll take my chances with the people.’

  ‘Of course you will. With your newspaper and your television station to tell them what to think, just like any other citizen, huh? You gave an election to Boris Nikolayevich —’

  ‘And to you.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Vladimir sat forward. ‘Do you think – do you really think – I’ll ever take the risk that one day you’ll take one away from me? Use your brains, Leva. By the time he was finished, Boris Nikolayevich was nothing but an alcohol-soaked sponge. Do I look like an alcohol-soaked sponge? What you could do to him, you can’t do to me. That’s why you chose me, remember?’

  The oligarch didn’t reply. Vladimir watched him, letting the silence stretch out, relishing the encounter more and more.

  ‘He seems to be talking to Trikovsky,’ murmured Goroviev to Sheremetev, finally letting go of his wrist. ‘Is that possible? That he thinks he’s talking to him?’

  Sheremetev didn’t reply.

  Vladimir was silent, as if aware that he was being overheard.

  ‘You know,’ mused Goroviev quietly, watching the ex-president, ‘I wonder about him. How did he become what he was? Sure, a Soviet KGB officer, he was never exactly going to be a natural democrat. But to turn out to be so brutal when he got power, and so corrupt . . . Did the KGB make him like that, or was it natural to him from the start?’

  ‘We should go,’ said Sheremetev nervously. ‘If he gets upset —’