Read Online The Senility of Vladimir P by Michael Honig - Free Book Online Page B

him uncertainly.
    One of the dacha’s three gardeners was there as well. Arkady Maksimovich Goroviev, a man of about fifty with thick greying hair and somewhat pockmarked skin, walked with a slight limp. Sheremetev had heard talk that Goroviev had had some kind of problems with the authorities in the past, but in Sheremetev’s experience the gardener was a kind, gentle man, unfailingly restrained and polite. He was the only other person in the dacha who was uncowed by the ex-president and seemed able to see him as a fellow human being, rather than as some distant and awe-inspiring icon, and to speak to him normally. Whenever Goroviev encountered Vladimir, he always addressed him respectfully and inquired after his health in a fashion that suggested that he was genuinely interested in his condition from a human perspective, as one person ought to be interested in another. Today, after the demoralising visit from the doctors and the disappointment of his hopes of taking Vladimir on an outing from the dacha, Sheremetev was glad to have run into him.
    Goroviev put down his tools. ‘Good morning, Vladimir Vladimiro­vich. How are you today?’
    Vladimir didn’t answer.
    â€˜We’re going for a walk,’ said Sheremetev.
    Goroviev smiled. ‘I can see. And yourself, Nikolai Ilyich? All is well with you?’
    â€˜All well, thank you. Yourself, Arkady Maksimovich?’
    â€˜All well. We have some flowers in the next greenhouse. Roses. They’re in wonderful shape – tomorrow we’ll cut them. Would Vladimir Vladimirovich care to see?’
    â€˜Vladimir Vladimirovich?’ said Sheremetev.
    Vladimir was frowning, as if in concentration, but he didn’t reply.
    â€˜Let’s go and see,’ said Sheremetev.
    He gave Vladimir a nudge and they walked with Goroviev out of a door beside the incoming shaft of one of the heaters. For a moment there was a shock of fresh air – not at all cool for October, but momentarily bracing after the warmth and humidity of the greenhouse – and then Goroviev opened another door and they were inside again. Warmth and humidity hit them. Sheremetev wondered if Vladimir was too hot in the suit in which he had dressed him, but the ex-president ignored the question when Sheremetev asked him.
    An enveloping scent of flowers filled the greenhouse, almost too heady. Roses bloomed. Down the length of the tunnel, sections of one type of flower followed another in banks of colour.
    â€˜These are Empress Josephines, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ explained Goroviev as he led them past fragrant buds of deep pink. ‘A very classical rose. They were first cultivated for the wife of the emperor Napoleon in the nineteenth century. They’re much in demand again.’ He stopped, pulled out a pair of small secateurs, snipped off a stem with a perfect bud and expertly removed the thorns before handing the bud to Vladimir.
    â€˜I’ll give this to Marishka,’ said Vladimir.
    â€˜That sounds like a good idea,’ said Goroviev. ‘Come, Vladimir Vladimirovich, let’s look at some others.’
    The gardener led them past other beds of roses, each time patiently explaining the provenance of the variety and stopping to select a prime bud for Vladimir.
    â€˜Would Vladimir Vladimirovich care to see something else?’ asked the gardener when they came to the end of the greenhouse.
    Sheremetev glanced at Vladimir to see if he was getting tired. If Vladimir reached a certain point of fatigue, he might decide that he needed a nap and would simply refuse to go on. There had been times when he had simply dropped to the ground and Sheremetev had had to call a contingent of security men to carry him back – which Vladimir usually resisted. Then it would be a question of giving him an injection of tranquilliser or letting him sleep where he had dropped for an hour or two. That wasn’t such a bad thing in the summer, but it was a