8.00 before Viktor got to bed. He slept late, heavily and headachily at first, but towards midday he was on the Dnieper, alone, walking anxiously around a pool of unfrozen water edged with footprints, waiting vainly not just for Misha to surface but militiaman friend Sergey as well. As if to spite him, there were no fishermen, just the dark patches of their iced-over holes.
He woke, still tired, and surprised to hear not a sound. He remembered promising to ring Sonya and Nina, but his watch said it was time for a late lunch.
In the empty kitchen he helped himself to sausage, cheese and butter from the fridge, and made tea instead of coffee.
On the table in the lounge he found the new portrait of Andrey Pavlovich’s opponent.
grazziola cosmetics improve
ot only the face!
read the glaring caption. Heartened, he toyed, as he ate, with ideas for Andrey Pavlovich’s campaign. The President’s lady ran an aid-the-children fund, which prompted thoughts of another possibility – not terribly original, but original was not what voters went for. What appealed was the instantly recognizable. Like charitable concern. That said more about the character of candidate or deputy than any political process or activity. “Charitable” hinted at a possibility of hand-outs, whether deserved or not.
Some proposal for Andrey Pavlovich was what he needed. He could then buy press space for it and win popularity.
His thoughts turned to Tatar Street, Café Afghan, and the young disabled – too young to have fought in Afghanistan – who gathered there. True he’d seen only three of them, Lyosha who had lost his legs here, in Kiev, being one. Still, to be disabled young was both bad and honourable enough to have public appeal.
Andrey Pavlovich returned shortly before five, clearly not having slept, but cheerful, unstressed, unyawning and back stiff as a ramrod. The image makers had given some account of themselves. Zhora and the twins ran a lottery swindle in Zhitomir; Slava, the computer buff, was a simple lad from Kursk. They had decided to cash in on the election, make a handsome profit on the side. Amongst their effects were a silenced automatic, cocaine, and a mobile phone capable of being used as a bug.
“What will you do with them?”
“Slava I’ve let go. The others will suffer. How I’ve yet to decide. We’ll go and visit tomorrow.”
Judging his moment, Viktor ventured a suggestion he had inmind.
Andrey Pavlovich showed interest.
“How many disabled? What do limbs cost?”
“I’ll find out how many. Maybe Pasha could look into cost.”
Andrey Pavlovich nodded. Charitable concern – he was all in favour of. And instructing Pasha to wake him in two hours, went to put his head down.
20
In Central Universal Stores, Kreshchatik Street, he treated himself to a cheap Chinese umbrella against the drizzle. The cheerful bustle of the place provided a pleasant distraction from the little-relished prospect of visiting Lyosha at Café Afghan. He had a sudden urge to find Svetlana and go again to the kindergarten at night. But reality, or more accurately his sense of it, won the day, and opening his umbrella, he made for a pedestrian underpass, hitched a lift, and fifteen minutes later mounted the ramp to the café, which this time was busier.
“Fetch yourself a chair, so I don’t get neck-ache looking up,” Lyosha said. “Like a coffee?”
“I would.”
“Hey, Whiskers, how about my cappuccino?” a voice complained.
“On its way.”
Viktor’s idea was coldly received.
“I’ll ask around,” Lyosha said dully. “But what does he get out of us, this candidate of yours? Our vote?”
“No more than that there should be a journalist and a photographer there when the limbs are handed over, if it gets that far. So the electorate becomes aware.”
“Never thought
you
would worm yourself into politics.”
“Other way round. Trapped in a bog of them, and soon to get out.”
“Really?” Lyosha sounded
He woke, still tired, and surprised to hear not a sound. He remembered promising to ring Sonya and Nina, but his watch said it was time for a late lunch.
In the empty kitchen he helped himself to sausage, cheese and butter from the fridge, and made tea instead of coffee.
On the table in the lounge he found the new portrait of Andrey Pavlovich’s opponent.
grazziola cosmetics improve
ot only the face!
read the glaring caption. Heartened, he toyed, as he ate, with ideas for Andrey Pavlovich’s campaign. The President’s lady ran an aid-the-children fund, which prompted thoughts of another possibility – not terribly original, but original was not what voters went for. What appealed was the instantly recognizable. Like charitable concern. That said more about the character of candidate or deputy than any political process or activity. “Charitable” hinted at a possibility of hand-outs, whether deserved or not.
Some proposal for Andrey Pavlovich was what he needed. He could then buy press space for it and win popularity.
His thoughts turned to Tatar Street, Café Afghan, and the young disabled – too young to have fought in Afghanistan – who gathered there. True he’d seen only three of them, Lyosha who had lost his legs here, in Kiev, being one. Still, to be disabled young was both bad and honourable enough to have public appeal.
Andrey Pavlovich returned shortly before five, clearly not having slept, but cheerful, unstressed, unyawning and back stiff as a ramrod. The image makers had given some account of themselves. Zhora and the twins ran a lottery swindle in Zhitomir; Slava, the computer buff, was a simple lad from Kursk. They had decided to cash in on the election, make a handsome profit on the side. Amongst their effects were a silenced automatic, cocaine, and a mobile phone capable of being used as a bug.
“What will you do with them?”
“Slava I’ve let go. The others will suffer. How I’ve yet to decide. We’ll go and visit tomorrow.”
Judging his moment, Viktor ventured a suggestion he had inmind.
Andrey Pavlovich showed interest.
“How many disabled? What do limbs cost?”
“I’ll find out how many. Maybe Pasha could look into cost.”
Andrey Pavlovich nodded. Charitable concern – he was all in favour of. And instructing Pasha to wake him in two hours, went to put his head down.
20
In Central Universal Stores, Kreshchatik Street, he treated himself to a cheap Chinese umbrella against the drizzle. The cheerful bustle of the place provided a pleasant distraction from the little-relished prospect of visiting Lyosha at Café Afghan. He had a sudden urge to find Svetlana and go again to the kindergarten at night. But reality, or more accurately his sense of it, won the day, and opening his umbrella, he made for a pedestrian underpass, hitched a lift, and fifteen minutes later mounted the ramp to the café, which this time was busier.
“Fetch yourself a chair, so I don’t get neck-ache looking up,” Lyosha said. “Like a coffee?”
“I would.”
“Hey, Whiskers, how about my cappuccino?” a voice complained.
“On its way.”
Viktor’s idea was coldly received.
“I’ll ask around,” Lyosha said dully. “But what does he get out of us, this candidate of yours? Our vote?”
“No more than that there should be a journalist and a photographer there when the limbs are handed over, if it gets that far. So the electorate becomes aware.”
“Never thought
you
would worm yourself into politics.”
“Other way round. Trapped in a bog of them, and soon to get out.”
“Really?” Lyosha sounded
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