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Authors: Andrey Kurkov
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even worse.”
“Law? What law?” Zhora mumbled.
Andrey Pavlovich slowly straightened, shaking his head. He looked for Viktor’s response, but Viktor was more or less asleep.
“Due for discharge,” he told the escort. “Pumped full of dope and dumped in the Dnieper … Ignorance of the Law’s no defence. Come on, Viktor.”
They stood outside for a while listening to Zhora’s shouts, then went back in.
“The Godfather,” Zhora confessed.
“Who’s working for Boxer.”
Zhora nodded.
“Good. Sorry to have troubled you.”
“This Law? What is it?”
Zhora croaked.
“Article 5 is what applies: intruding into another’s home for the purpose of ousting him. Punishment: death by drowning.”
The iron door clanged shut again.
“Forget the dope, just bung him over South Bridge one night,” Andrey Pavlovich instructed their escort. “And if he makes it ashore, good luck to him.”
“And the twins?” Pasha asked as they drove back.
“Impress on them – and I do mean
impress –
that the next time they show their faces in Kiev it’s curtains. Let them play smart arse in Zhitomir, or Moscow. Sloppy sort of place, Moscow.”
22
It was three in the afternoon when Viktor woke. His attic window showed the blue sky and bright sun of Indian summer.
Meeting Pasha on the stairs, he asked what was happening.
“The Chief’s gone to bed for an hour. You’re to stay, not go out,” he said.
Viktor brewed coffee, took it to the kitchen table, then went to answer the phone in the hall.
It was a TV presenter exploring the possibility of a debate between Andrey Pavlovich and his opponent on National Channel 1.
He was not available at the moment, Viktor told her, and would ring her back.
The more he thought about it, returning to his coffee, the less he relished the idea of a TV debate. A verbal exchange with Boxer might well become physical.
Andrey Pavlovich was quick to see the point.
“You could suggest having our close advisers in attendance. All of Boxer’s share the same good looks.”
“That should do the trick. Still, in this last week we must get on with promotion.”
Andrey Pavlovich rang a number on his mobile, inquired how canvassing was going, listened, then repeated to Viktor what he’d been told.
“200,000 of your manifesto leaflets distributed; 90,000 rations to pensioners; lists drawn up of all in need and entitled, if I’m elected, to financial assistance; three schools given computer rooms; and lots of less spectacular things. Not forgetting the plus of the artificial limbs. Will that do?”
“Yes, I’m sure it will,” said Viktor, much relieved.
“And while we’re at it, suggest that that TV woman of yours films me handing the limbs over.”
“So we’ve actually got some?”
“In the garage. Four crates from some Swedish charity.”
“But we’ve taken no measurements.”
“No time. And they won’t give a bugger anyway – simply take what fits and leave the rest.”
“How about the billiard table?”
“We’ve settled that. Lay on transport and deliver.”
Half an hour later, freshened by a wash and shave, Viktor rang the TV lady, who declared herself only too happy to film the hand-over of artificial limbs for a slot on the news. An hour later fourhefty men turned up with a covered lorry and loaded the billiard table and crates of limbs. Viktor climbed in beside the driver, and away they went to Café Afghan.
23
Polling Day minus 7
With half an hour to go before the actual presentation, the crates were opened by an undersized creature reeking of vodka and onion to whom Pasha had slipped ten dollars. Viktor kept up-wind until he had finished, then examined the bubble-wrapped, sticky-taped contents. The leg-and-knee-joint he unwrapped struck him as unusually small, and then it dawned on him: child-sized! And so was the whole consignment! Accompanying documents in English showed the limbs to be the gift of the Save-the-Children-of-Rwanda-Fund,
“Law? What law?” Zhora mumbled.
Andrey Pavlovich slowly straightened, shaking his head. He looked for Viktor’s response, but Viktor was more or less asleep.
“Due for discharge,” he told the escort. “Pumped full of dope and dumped in the Dnieper … Ignorance of the Law’s no defence. Come on, Viktor.”
They stood outside for a while listening to Zhora’s shouts, then went back in.
“The Godfather,” Zhora confessed.
“Who’s working for Boxer.”
Zhora nodded.
“Good. Sorry to have troubled you.”
“This Law? What is it?”
Zhora croaked.
“Article 5 is what applies: intruding into another’s home for the purpose of ousting him. Punishment: death by drowning.”
The iron door clanged shut again.
“Forget the dope, just bung him over South Bridge one night,” Andrey Pavlovich instructed their escort. “And if he makes it ashore, good luck to him.”
“And the twins?” Pasha asked as they drove back.
“Impress on them – and I do mean
impress –
that the next time they show their faces in Kiev it’s curtains. Let them play smart arse in Zhitomir, or Moscow. Sloppy sort of place, Moscow.”
22
It was three in the afternoon when Viktor woke. His attic window showed the blue sky and bright sun of Indian summer.
Meeting Pasha on the stairs, he asked what was happening.
“The Chief’s gone to bed for an hour. You’re to stay, not go out,” he said.
Viktor brewed coffee, took it to the kitchen table, then went to answer the phone in the hall.
It was a TV presenter exploring the possibility of a debate between Andrey Pavlovich and his opponent on National Channel 1.
He was not available at the moment, Viktor told her, and would ring her back.
The more he thought about it, returning to his coffee, the less he relished the idea of a TV debate. A verbal exchange with Boxer might well become physical.
Andrey Pavlovich was quick to see the point.
“You could suggest having our close advisers in attendance. All of Boxer’s share the same good looks.”
“That should do the trick. Still, in this last week we must get on with promotion.”
Andrey Pavlovich rang a number on his mobile, inquired how canvassing was going, listened, then repeated to Viktor what he’d been told.
“200,000 of your manifesto leaflets distributed; 90,000 rations to pensioners; lists drawn up of all in need and entitled, if I’m elected, to financial assistance; three schools given computer rooms; and lots of less spectacular things. Not forgetting the plus of the artificial limbs. Will that do?”
“Yes, I’m sure it will,” said Viktor, much relieved.
“And while we’re at it, suggest that that TV woman of yours films me handing the limbs over.”
“So we’ve actually got some?”
“In the garage. Four crates from some Swedish charity.”
“But we’ve taken no measurements.”
“No time. And they won’t give a bugger anyway – simply take what fits and leave the rest.”
“How about the billiard table?”
“We’ve settled that. Lay on transport and deliver.”
Half an hour later, freshened by a wash and shave, Viktor rang the TV lady, who declared herself only too happy to film the hand-over of artificial limbs for a slot on the news. An hour later fourhefty men turned up with a covered lorry and loaded the billiard table and crates of limbs. Viktor climbed in beside the driver, and away they went to Café Afghan.
23
Polling Day minus 7
With half an hour to go before the actual presentation, the crates were opened by an undersized creature reeking of vodka and onion to whom Pasha had slipped ten dollars. Viktor kept up-wind until he had finished, then examined the bubble-wrapped, sticky-taped contents. The leg-and-knee-joint he unwrapped struck him as unusually small, and then it dawned on him: child-sized! And so was the whole consignment! Accompanying documents in English showed the limbs to be the gift of the Save-the-Children-of-Rwanda-Fund,
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