Read Online Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrey Kurkov
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her arms and puffing out her cheeks, Sonya would rush at them and off they would run, leaving her happy.
Viktor had read the whole of Pidpaly’s manuscript. A lot ofit was beyond him, but he had still discovered useful things. He made a note of the most important pages and had them photocopied at the nearest bookshop, after which he put the manuscript in a prominent place in the kitchen, to be returned in the near future.
Work was also advancing. The folder he had received from the Chief had been duly processed, and twelve new
obelisks
lay on the window ledge awaiting their appointed hour. They had given him trouble, the Chief’s underlinings having proved too extensive for the
obelisk
as elaborated and perfected by Viktor. It had meant altering the rhythm, adding pace, and presenting the underlinings as brief biographical inserts, which made them look more like quotes from an indictment.
With this batch completed, he was struck for the first time by the thought that only one of his obituaries – an unplanned one -had had as subject an unsullied victim, with no fact or hint suggestive of a dubious past. Yuliya Parkhomenko, the singer, was who he had in mind. But now he had his doubts. He recalled the allusion to involvement in the disappearance of another artiste … And her love for the late Yakornitsky … No. The pure and sinless did not exist, or else died unnoticed and with no obituary. The idea seemed persuasive. Those who merited obituaries had usually achieved things, fought for their ideals, and when locked in battle, it wasn’t easy to remain entirely honest and upright. Today’s battles were all for material gain, anyway. The crazy idealist was extinct – survived by the crazy pragmatist …
District Militiaman Sergey had phoned a number of times, and the previous Sunday they had been for another picnic on the Dnieper ice, only now with Sonya. A pleasant time had beenhad by all. Misha swam to his heart’s content in the broad ice-hole. Viktor and Sergey drank cognac-laced coffee, lying on the same quilted blanket. Sonya had the Pepsi Cola and sweets that had been bought for her. And all three watched the ice-hole from which Misha would leap as if bitten, becoming airborne for a metre or so before landing, comically, on the ice, and hurrying back to the blanket. Sonya would towel him solicitously, and he would then comically pick his way back to the hole.
They sat there almost till dusk, then had to hurry across the grey-blue ice of the frozen Dnieper to the
Zaporozhets
, parked as before, by the lower Monastery Gardens.
After which the week began again as usual, except that Viktor was conscious of additional concerns now that he was responsible for Sonya, and they began to eat better as a consequence. He took to buying German fruit yogurts and fresh vegetables, and the penguin’s fare included frozen shrimps, which he relished.
“Why haven’t you got a telly?” Sonya asked one day. “Don’t you like cartoons?”
“No, I don’t,” said Viktor.
“I do,” the little girl answered gravely.
New Year approached. Trees decorated with toys appeared in the shops. In Kreshchatik Street they were assembling the National Tree from smaller firs. People were looking more relaxed, and the papers contained hardly anything about shootings or bomb blasts. It was as if the whole of Kiev, regardless of profession, was on holiday.
Viktor had already bought Sonya’s New Year present and hidden it in a cupboard. It was a Barbie doll. Together they selected a little fir tree with a base, took it back to the flat and decorated it with ribbons and old toys found in the attic.
“Do you believe in Grandfather Frost?” he asked once.
“Yes,” she said in surprise, “don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Viktor.
“Wait for New Year – he’s bound to bring you something,” she promised.
29
Leaving Sonya at the flat, Viktor shopped at the food store, and travelled out to Pidpaly’s.
Again it was a
Viktor had read the whole of Pidpaly’s manuscript. A lot ofit was beyond him, but he had still discovered useful things. He made a note of the most important pages and had them photocopied at the nearest bookshop, after which he put the manuscript in a prominent place in the kitchen, to be returned in the near future.
Work was also advancing. The folder he had received from the Chief had been duly processed, and twelve new
obelisks
lay on the window ledge awaiting their appointed hour. They had given him trouble, the Chief’s underlinings having proved too extensive for the
obelisk
as elaborated and perfected by Viktor. It had meant altering the rhythm, adding pace, and presenting the underlinings as brief biographical inserts, which made them look more like quotes from an indictment.
With this batch completed, he was struck for the first time by the thought that only one of his obituaries – an unplanned one -had had as subject an unsullied victim, with no fact or hint suggestive of a dubious past. Yuliya Parkhomenko, the singer, was who he had in mind. But now he had his doubts. He recalled the allusion to involvement in the disappearance of another artiste … And her love for the late Yakornitsky … No. The pure and sinless did not exist, or else died unnoticed and with no obituary. The idea seemed persuasive. Those who merited obituaries had usually achieved things, fought for their ideals, and when locked in battle, it wasn’t easy to remain entirely honest and upright. Today’s battles were all for material gain, anyway. The crazy idealist was extinct – survived by the crazy pragmatist …
District Militiaman Sergey had phoned a number of times, and the previous Sunday they had been for another picnic on the Dnieper ice, only now with Sonya. A pleasant time had beenhad by all. Misha swam to his heart’s content in the broad ice-hole. Viktor and Sergey drank cognac-laced coffee, lying on the same quilted blanket. Sonya had the Pepsi Cola and sweets that had been bought for her. And all three watched the ice-hole from which Misha would leap as if bitten, becoming airborne for a metre or so before landing, comically, on the ice, and hurrying back to the blanket. Sonya would towel him solicitously, and he would then comically pick his way back to the hole.
They sat there almost till dusk, then had to hurry across the grey-blue ice of the frozen Dnieper to the
Zaporozhets
, parked as before, by the lower Monastery Gardens.
After which the week began again as usual, except that Viktor was conscious of additional concerns now that he was responsible for Sonya, and they began to eat better as a consequence. He took to buying German fruit yogurts and fresh vegetables, and the penguin’s fare included frozen shrimps, which he relished.
“Why haven’t you got a telly?” Sonya asked one day. “Don’t you like cartoons?”
“No, I don’t,” said Viktor.
“I do,” the little girl answered gravely.
New Year approached. Trees decorated with toys appeared in the shops. In Kreshchatik Street they were assembling the National Tree from smaller firs. People were looking more relaxed, and the papers contained hardly anything about shootings or bomb blasts. It was as if the whole of Kiev, regardless of profession, was on holiday.
Viktor had already bought Sonya’s New Year present and hidden it in a cupboard. It was a Barbie doll. Together they selected a little fir tree with a base, took it back to the flat and decorated it with ribbons and old toys found in the attic.
“Do you believe in Grandfather Frost?” he asked once.
“Yes,” she said in surprise, “don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Viktor.
“Wait for New Year – he’s bound to bring you something,” she promised.
29
Leaving Sonya at the flat, Viktor shopped at the food store, and travelled out to Pidpaly’s.
Again it was a
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