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Authors: Andrey Kurkov
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doubtful. “Still, hang on, I’ll see what the boss man says. It’s a good thing he’s here.”
He returned five minutes later.
“In principle,” he said, “the boss man’s pro, but he’d like something from your man in return. Artificial limbs are like evening dress, not something we wear every day. Get us a low-level billiard table, and he can hand over as many artificial limbs as he likes, so long as we don’t have to wear the damned things.”
Viktor laughed.
“You could be on, he’s keen on billiards.”
“Try him, and let me know. Have this card – my number’s changed – and it’s got my mobile. Give me a ring. We’ll have to meet, with your boss and mine there. It’s not long to polling day. Like a cognac?
“Do you know,” he went on, raising his glass, “I remember those funerals of ours as the best time of my life … You won’t understand … But here’s to the past! It always is better than the present …”
“And worse than the future.”
“Who can say?”
He tossed back his cognac.
“What is it?” Viktor asked, savouring his.
“Martell. Friendly humanitarian aid. Once made me dream I was walking again. I woke to find my legs still aching … Still, drink up and get moving – this lot’s rather anti the sound of limb.”
21
No sooner had he arrived back, feeling he’d done well and expecting praise, than Viktor found himself speeding through Kiev with Andrey Pavlovich and Pasha, both equally taciturn, in the 4 × 4.
“Stop!” Andrey Pavlovich ordered suddenly. “Let’s you and I have a look see, Viktor.”
They were on Victory Avenue opposite the stone animals guarding the entrance to the zoo from which he’d rescued Misha.
“Forget the zoo, this is what we’ve come to see.” It was a hoarding displaying the variant portraits of Andrey Pavlovich’s opponent, plus caption.
“What do you think?”
“It works!”
“Damned good idea for which my thanks, and these,” said Andrey Pavlovich, handing him a wad of $100 bills.
“Drive on, Pasha.”
“Where now?” asked Viktor.
“The Dump. How about your disabled?”
“They’ve come up with a counter-request.”
“Is it expensive?”
“They’d like a billiard table of a height for players in wheelchairs.”
“No problem. Mine’s due for replacement. We’ll run it over to them, cut the legs down …”
*
The Dump lay deep in a private estate off the Pushcha-Voditsa road. It was surrounded by a tall metal fence topped with coils of barbed wire, and comprised a metal hangar and a three-storeyed brick-built building with windows emitting warm, cheery light.
A man in combat fatigues opened the forbidding metal gates, and announced their arrival over an entry phone. The metal door ofthe building buzzed open and they were received by three similarly clad guards.
Andrey Pavlovich was taken aside for a
sotto-voce
conversation, and five minutes later, all three of them were conducted down steep steps into a broad, brightly-lit corridor with to right and left rusty iron doors at regular intervals.
“Who first?” asked their escort.
“The twins,” said Andrey Pavlovich.
Leaving Pasha outside, Andrey Pavlovich and Viktor entered a prison cell with two wooden benches, a table and a slop pail. Handcuffed together, the twins were sitting up, evidently woken from sleep by the clang of the door.
“So, how are my cagebirds?” inquired Andrey Pavlovich. “Any complaints?”
They shook their heads.
“Who was it you were talking to in the sauna?”
“Zhora knows him, we don’t.”
“We’ll go and ask him then.”
Next door they found Zhora, visibly battered and chained to a ring so low in the wall that he was forced to kneel.
Andrey Pavlovich squatted in front of him.
“Remembered yet who you were talking to in the sauna? Time – like money for your board,
my money
, $50
per diem –
is short. No sense in wasting it. Infringing Snail’s Law’s bad enough. Refusing to talk’s
He returned five minutes later.
“In principle,” he said, “the boss man’s pro, but he’d like something from your man in return. Artificial limbs are like evening dress, not something we wear every day. Get us a low-level billiard table, and he can hand over as many artificial limbs as he likes, so long as we don’t have to wear the damned things.”
Viktor laughed.
“You could be on, he’s keen on billiards.”
“Try him, and let me know. Have this card – my number’s changed – and it’s got my mobile. Give me a ring. We’ll have to meet, with your boss and mine there. It’s not long to polling day. Like a cognac?
“Do you know,” he went on, raising his glass, “I remember those funerals of ours as the best time of my life … You won’t understand … But here’s to the past! It always is better than the present …”
“And worse than the future.”
“Who can say?”
He tossed back his cognac.
“What is it?” Viktor asked, savouring his.
“Martell. Friendly humanitarian aid. Once made me dream I was walking again. I woke to find my legs still aching … Still, drink up and get moving – this lot’s rather anti the sound of limb.”
21
No sooner had he arrived back, feeling he’d done well and expecting praise, than Viktor found himself speeding through Kiev with Andrey Pavlovich and Pasha, both equally taciturn, in the 4 × 4.
“Stop!” Andrey Pavlovich ordered suddenly. “Let’s you and I have a look see, Viktor.”
They were on Victory Avenue opposite the stone animals guarding the entrance to the zoo from which he’d rescued Misha.
“Forget the zoo, this is what we’ve come to see.” It was a hoarding displaying the variant portraits of Andrey Pavlovich’s opponent, plus caption.
“What do you think?”
“It works!”
“Damned good idea for which my thanks, and these,” said Andrey Pavlovich, handing him a wad of $100 bills.
“Drive on, Pasha.”
“Where now?” asked Viktor.
“The Dump. How about your disabled?”
“They’ve come up with a counter-request.”
“Is it expensive?”
“They’d like a billiard table of a height for players in wheelchairs.”
“No problem. Mine’s due for replacement. We’ll run it over to them, cut the legs down …”
*
The Dump lay deep in a private estate off the Pushcha-Voditsa road. It was surrounded by a tall metal fence topped with coils of barbed wire, and comprised a metal hangar and a three-storeyed brick-built building with windows emitting warm, cheery light.
A man in combat fatigues opened the forbidding metal gates, and announced their arrival over an entry phone. The metal door ofthe building buzzed open and they were received by three similarly clad guards.
Andrey Pavlovich was taken aside for a
sotto-voce
conversation, and five minutes later, all three of them were conducted down steep steps into a broad, brightly-lit corridor with to right and left rusty iron doors at regular intervals.
“Who first?” asked their escort.
“The twins,” said Andrey Pavlovich.
Leaving Pasha outside, Andrey Pavlovich and Viktor entered a prison cell with two wooden benches, a table and a slop pail. Handcuffed together, the twins were sitting up, evidently woken from sleep by the clang of the door.
“So, how are my cagebirds?” inquired Andrey Pavlovich. “Any complaints?”
They shook their heads.
“Who was it you were talking to in the sauna?”
“Zhora knows him, we don’t.”
“We’ll go and ask him then.”
Next door they found Zhora, visibly battered and chained to a ring so low in the wall that he was forced to kneel.
Andrey Pavlovich squatted in front of him.
“Remembered yet who you were talking to in the sauna? Time – like money for your board,
my money
, $50
per diem –
is short. No sense in wasting it. Infringing Snail’s Law’s bad enough. Refusing to talk’s
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