The Senility of Vladimir P

by Michael Honig

  The gardener leaned across him, putting his face closer to the ex-president’s. ‘You were corrupt, weren’t you, Vladimir Vladimirovich? Corrupt on a scale no one could have imagined.’

  ‘Me?’ said Vladimir.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  Vladimir laughed.

  Goroviev sat back. ‘See, Nikolai Ilyich? He’s not upset. He’s laughing.’

  ‘Still, we should —’

  ‘Your nephew is right, Nikolai Ilyich. He crucified us, and the Russia we live in is his. The question is, was it only because of him, or was it inevitable in some way that this would happen to us? Can one man alone do what he did to us? If he had tried to do the opposite, would the KGB boys have brought him down and put someone else in his place?’

  ‘I really don’t know, Arkady Maksimovich,’ replied Sheremetev, wanting only for this conversation to end. He made to stand, but Goroviev pulled him back.

  ‘I’ve asked myself, a thousand times,’ he said earnestly. ‘And the truth is, I don’t know. It would be easier if the answer was yes, that everything is his fault. It would be easier if he was the only one we had to hate. But one man can’t do everything, he can’t be responsible for every ill. And yet . . . he could have made a start. If he was different, more of a democrat – or not even that, but if he was honest, at least, and not so greedy for wealth, if he had the minimum of human decency – he could have nudged us away from authoritarianism and corruption. A nudge from him, then a nudge from someone else, then more of a nudge, and by now, we would be a free country with a true leader at its head instead of a vaudeville thief like Lebedev. But instead of holding us back, nudging us away a little, he opened the floodgates and we were swept away. So for that, he’s guilty. Yes. Guilty as charged.’

  For a moment, Sheremetev’s curiosity overcame his discomfort. He gazed at Goroviev, thinking of what the gardener had told of him of his life. ‘Do you hate him, Arkady Maksimovich?’

  Goroviev smiled slightly. ‘There was a time, Nikolai Ilyich, if had been sitting this close to him, I would have strangled him with my bare hands. And if I’d had to have strangled you to get to him, I would have done that too. But now . . .’ Goroviev shrugged. ‘Yes. I hate him. I hate him for what he was, what he wasn’t, what he did, what he didn’t do but should have done. I don’t forgive him. He’s beneath forgiveness. But the thing is, Nikolai Ilyich, for how long did he rule us? How many decades? The thing your nephew is really saying . . .’ The gardener stopped himself. ‘How old is he, by the way, your nephew?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  Goroviev nodded. ‘Of course. You told me. That’s young. Very young. Well, what he’s really asking is the question every one of the young generation should be asking of us: how did we let this man do this to us? This small fearful personality who aspired to be a Chekist even when he was a boy. How did we put such a man, a man of so few attainments, such limited vision, at the top? Why did we tolerate him? How did we give him the time and opportunity to put Russia against a cross and put the nails through her hands, like your nephew said? It didn’t happen in one night – it took years. Where were we?’

  A smile crept across Vladimir’s lips.

  Goroviev leaned forward. ‘Isn’t that right, Vova? All those things you did, bit by bit, one after the other, and we were like blind men, sleepwalking, watching you do it but not seeing. How could we let you?’

  Vladimir sneered at Trikovsky, who for some reason was wearing a pair of overalls now. ‘You didn’t let me do anything, Leva. I saw what had to be done and I did it in the only way it could be done.’

  ‘And that’s it, is it? For how long? Where does it end, Vova?’

  Vladimir narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Control us, control the duma, control the press. And then?’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Does it go on forever? Is this Russia? Is this all there is?’

  ‘All there is? First, I’ll put order and stability into the country. Then we’ll see. That’s the only way.’

  ‘The only way? To take twenty percent off every contract in the country? To have men who spent twenty years sitting behind a desk in the KGB supposedly running the nation’s biggest companies, when all they’re really doing is siphoning off the profits into bank accounts in Switzerland? To send the tax prosecutors after honest Russians while telling them to ignore the biggest crooks in the land? To whisper into the ear of a judge what the verdict and sentence on a young journalist will be before the trial has even begun? What kind of a Russia is that, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’

  Vladimir didn’t reply. One of the benefits of power, he had discovered, was the prerogative of silence, and the implicit threat it carried.

  ‘I hope one day you’ll know, Vladimir Vladimirovich, one day before you die, what you’ve done —’

  Vladimir laughed. ‘That’s what they all say when they know I’ve won. “Just you wait, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Your turn will come.” But it hasn’t, has it? Your turn has come.’

  ‘No, your turn has come. You know, inside, don’t you? You must know . . .’

  Vladimir kept laughing. He couldn’t hear, wouldn’t hear. The sound of his laughter drowned out the other man’s words.

  Then he was silent.

  Vladimir could see a strange sadness in Trikovsky’s eyes, as if the oligarch could see his own future now, the life that he had envisaged for himself that he was about to lose and the life that would replace it: the arrest, the trial, the cage in the courtroom, the confiscation of his businesses, the years in a Siberian jail, the release, many years later, only through Vladimir’s clemency, a final act of humiliation tainting the sweetness of liberation with an indelible bitterness.

  In his triumph, Vladimir felt an unexpected, unattributable unease, an unaccountable and troubling sense of doubt.

  ‘Get out,’ he murmured, suddenly sickened. ‘Get out!’

  Goroviev stood. ‘I should go,’ he said to Sheremetev. ‘You were right. I’ve upset him. Forgive me, Nikolai Ilyich, it wasn’t my intention. I only wanted to say, as I said at the start, that I’m sorry for your nephew. I hope he gets out soon.’

  Sheremetev stood as well. ‘I don’t understand. How did you get this job here if you have this record of being such an oppositionist?’

  ‘I had a job here long before Vladimir Vladimirovich arrived. That’s already eight years ago. To be honest, back then, I don’t think anyone bothered to check. I’m just a gardener, right? And how many mansions did Vladimir Vladimirovich own? This was just one of many. Back then, he never came here. It was only Mitya Zaminsky and me, looking after the estate. Then when they brought Vladimir Vladimirovich here to stay, we added a third gardener, and then, of course, everything else . . .’

  ‘Is it true what I heard, that all these greenhouses grow produce that you sell for your own profit?’

  ‘And the profit of a few other people,’ said Goroviev. ‘Yes, it’s true.’

  ‘But it’s not legal?’

  Goroviev shrugged. ‘Legal? Illegal? Is there a difference in Russia, Nikolai Ilyich? All that matters is whether something is possible or impossible. That’s the correct question.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Arkady Maksimovich. From what you tell me, this corruption, this thievery . . . this was exactly what you fought against.’

  ‘But Nikolai Ilyich . . . I lost’ Goroviev shrugged, a helpless smile on his face. ‘I couldn’t change the world. I tried, in my way, but by the time I was twenty-six, I had failed. And I discovered then that I wasn’t very brave, and that was actually a surprise to me. I thought I had enough courage to face up to anything. But when people were being murdered around me, when the man who had been my editor one day was shot to death in front of our office the next, I found out that I didn’t, not enough to go on trying. I didn’t want to die as well.’

  ‘Is that really how it was?’ whispered Sheremetev.

  Goroviev nodded. ‘Your nephew, Nikolai Ilyich, get him out of jail and send him far away, out o
f this country. If he has a voice, it will only be silenced here, one way or another.’ The gardener gestured towards Vladimir. ‘In the Russia that this man made, you can’t exist in opposition. In the end, either you give in, or they put an end to you.’

  ‘Do you think he made it? I thought you said no man can do everything alone?’

  ‘No, but he used the others to do what he wanted. This is his country, Nikolai Ilyich. Everything about it is his. Nothing is an accident – whatever you see, he wanted.’

  Sheremetev gazed at the gardener, frowning, shaking his head slightly.

  ‘Look, Russia is what it is, and he did what he did. What really matters to me now is what he thinks. Does he believe this is his creation? Is there anything he would have changed? If not, whether he could have done it alone or not, it’s the same as if everything is his responsibility.’

  Sheremetev turned to look at the ex-president. So did Goroviev. They both stared down at the old man on the bench, who gazed blankly at the plastic sheeting of the greenhouse in front of him.

  ‘Listen, Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Goroviev. ‘You ask me how I can do what I do. At my second trial, when I was found guilty – actually, I had been found guilty the day they decided to try me, so I should say, the day I was pronounced guilty – the judge, who was not such a bad man, really, and in sending me to jail for five years was only doing what he had been told to do by this man here, which was his job, after all . . . He said to me, Arkady Maksimovich, you’re obviously a man of talent. You must learn to adapt your talent to reality. As our president, Vladimir Vladimirovich has often said, we must all do what we can to build the new Russia.’ Goroviev glanced at Vladimir, who was still sitting on the bench, gazing at nothing obvious. ‘What did he do to build the new Russia? I’ll tell you. He gouged us every way he could. He took our money by the truckload and sent it to his banks all over the world, and he let his friends do the same. That was the way he showed us. Now, obviously, I’m not in his league. I’m nothing but a gardener. But I have to do my bit, as we all must, like the judge said. It’s our patriotic duty. So I do. Every time I send a tray of vegetables from here to the market, grown on his land, in greenhouses that he paid for, by labourers that he pays but for money that I keep, I like to think that Vladimir Vladimirovich would be proud of me, even in a small way, for gouging him back.’

  11

  JUST AS STEPANIN HAD promised, chicken Georgian style arrived on Vladimir’s lunch tray the next day. Sheremetev wasn’t there to witness this miracle of modern peacemaking. It was his day off, and he had gone to visit Oleg. Vladimir was being looked after by the relief nurse, Vera. Vladimir had no recognition of her, although she had been coming for almost two years now. He usually thought she was his mother.

  Vera worked occasional shifts in a hospital in Odintsovo, as well as doing private work, such as the weekly shift covering for Sheremetev. She was a single mother of two, abandoned by a husband who, from her account, was a drunken womaniser with bad breath and strong body odour. From the stories Vera told, Sheremetev had built a picture in his mind almost of a beggar lying in a gutter with a bottle of rotgut and his hand out trying to cadge a kopeck or two from the people stepping over him. It had been a genuine surprise when Vera let slip one day that he was a pharmacist with a shop in Odintsovo. It also eventuated that his abandonment involved an orderly divorce, support payments for the children and regular contact with the kids, aged eleven and eight.

  Still, Sheremetev was quite fond of Vera – who was more than fond of him. She was loud, over-made up, and opinionated, but funny, warm and generous, and the hair-raising stories about her ex-husband were always told with a certain knowing, tongue-in-cheek humour. Early on, she had coyly admitted to Sheremetev that she found small men attractive, even batting her eyelids as she spoke, and each week, when she took over from him, she always insinuated that he must be off to visit a lady love, while at the same time managing to convey that she knew perfectly well that he wasn’t, but that if he was interested in such a thing . . .

  Sheremetev was supposed to have a full twenty-four hours off, with Vera staying to cover for him overnight, but he always came back after dinner, or even before, and let her leave. Vladimir’s disorientation was greater at night, and if he was to awake and find an unfamiliar face trying to calm him, it was likely to send him off into a full blown episode that only the security men and an injection of tranquilliser would be able to quell.

  Vera had arrived at ten. ‘Where are you off to today, Kolya?’ she asked. ‘Just once, I’d love to come with you. But I suppose,’ she said, her eyes twinkling with innuendo, ‘that would be inconvenient.’

  ‘Particularly because if you did come with me, there’d be no one to look after Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ replied Sheremetev drily.

  Vera laughed.

  ‘I won’t be late, Verochka.’

  ‘With you, it would never be too late,’ she said suggestively. She paused, letting the double entendre sink in, then laughed.

  There was no bus on the road that led to the dacha. Sometimes Eleyekov or his son, if they were heading to town, gave Sheremetev a lift. Otherwise it was possible to call for a taxi. On pleasant days, he sometimes walked the two kilometres to the main road and waited there for the bus that ran to Odintsovo.

  This time, Artur took him. He was driving a dark blue BMW with darkened windows and a smell of fresh leather. Artur took a look at Sheremetev’s face as he got in and said: ‘That was really a nasty cut. Is it healing alright?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Not hurt, really. It’s tight, for instance, if I smile.’

  ‘Then you mustn’t smile, Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Artur.

  Sheremetev did just that.

  ‘How is Vladimir Vladimirovich?’

  ‘He’s well, thank you.’

  Artur nodded. He started the car and they set off down the drive to the dacha gate. As they turned onto the road, Artur said that he had heard about Sheremetev’s nephew and hoped the situation would soon be resolved. Sheremetev thanked him. He glanced at Artur as the younger man drove. It was odd, he thought, to find someone so well mannered in security.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ he said, ‘how did you end up working in the job you’re doing?’

  ‘It was never my intention, Nikolai Ilyich,’ replied Artur. ‘I was studying electrical engineering at a technical college in Moscow and to earn some money I used to do shifts down here for a security firm my cousin owned. It was very simple – Saturday, Sunday, I would do a shift, then back to the institute for the week.’

  ‘What about your studies?’ asked Sheremetev. ‘Did you finish them?’

  Artur shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, my cousin had an accident.’

  ‘A car accident?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘What can you do? Suddenly, there was no one to lead the firm. I already knew something about the business so I had to take over. Then we got the contract to provide security for Vladimir Vladimirovich, and of course I couldn’t say no. It’s not about the contract, Nikolia Ilyich – it’s a privilege to do this work. One couldn’t refuse.’

  ‘Yes, I felt the same when I was asked to take responsibility for his care.’

  ‘Exactly. I do regret having to give up my studies. I hope one day I can go back and finish my degree.’

  ‘My nephew Pasha is at university as well.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope he can get back to his studies soon.’

  Artur dropped him at the station. From there, Sheremetev caught the commuter train to Belorusskaya station in Moscow and then went down to the connected metro station, with its coffered plaster ceiling and black and grey marble floor. He got off the metro at Dmitrovksaya, near where his brother lived in a Soviet era apartment block. The walk to the apartment took him fifteen minutes. On the way, Sheremetev stopped and bought a box of chocolates.

 
When he arrived, Oleg and Nina stared at his lacerated cheek. Sheremetev told them it was nothing, just an accident, and came inside. Over a glass of tea and a dish of vatrushkas, they reported that Pasha was okay, but they looked worried and unsure. Nina had been to see him once since the time Oleg had seen Pasha’s black eye – each visit in addition to the one officially allowed per month cost a hundred dollars in bribes – and said that Pasha was still in good spirits. She wiped away a tear. ‘They say they treat them alright as long as they think the family might pay up – after that, they treat them worse than everyone.’

  Sheremetev was silent. The guilt that he felt over Pasha was doubled in Nina’s presence. He saw her glancing at Oleg, who sipped at his tea.

  ‘I don’t have the money,’ said Sheremetev. ‘Nina, I’ll tell you what I’ve got. Two hundred and twenty-three thousand rubles. You can have every kopeck.’

  ‘And Vasya?’ said Nina. ‘He’s the businessman. I don’t believe he has nothing.’

  ‘I’ve asked him.’

  She shook her head, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

  ‘Nina, I called him the day Oleg came —’

  ‘It’s him who should be in there, Kolya! Not Pasha. It’s because of Karinka that Pasha’s like this. And who’s Karinka’s son? Who? Not Pasha!’

  Sheremetev bowed his head. After what Oleg had said when they met, he had expected something like this. It wasn’t quite fair. After all, he couldn’t be responsible for the way a person reacted to a tragedy, and he could hardly be blamed if Pasha had gone one way and Vasya another. Still, as a nurse he knew that allowances must be made for someone who is naturally worried sick about a person they love. Nina must have been beside herself. In the current circumstances, she was entitled to say a few things she might regret later.

  ‘Kolya,’ said Oleg quietly, ‘do you really not know anybody? A word from the right person – and Pasha’s out.’

  ‘You mean from Vladimir Vladimirovich?’

  Oleg shrugged.

  ‘Olik, you’ve see him. Nina, did Olik tell you what he’s like? He doesn’t remember anything you tell him. He lives in the past.’