I was having dinner with him one evening, shortly before he left. Arkady Zelin had joined us. He had returned from Moscow that morning with Sharkovsky, who had flown in from the United States. Mr Brown hadn’t begun drinking yet – at least he’d only had a couple of glasses – and he was in a reflective mood.
“You’re going to have to keep up your languages, Yassen, once I’m gone,” he was saying. “Maybe they’ll let me send you books. There are very good tapes these days.”
He was being kind but I knew he didn’t really mean what he was saying. Once he was gone, I would never hear from him again.
“What about you, Arkady?” he went on. “Are you going to stay working here?”
“I have no reason to leave,” Zelin said.
“No. I can see you’re doing well for yourself. Nice new watch!”
It was typical of my teacher to notice a detail like that. When we were doing exercises together, he could instantly spot a single misspelt word in the middle of a whole page. I glanced at Zelin’s wrist just in time to see him draw it away, covering it with his sleeve.
“It was given to me,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
“A Rolex?”
“Why do you interest yourself in things that don’t concern you? Why don’t you mind your own business?”
For the rest of the meal, Zelin barely spoke – and when he had finished eating he left the room, even though we’d agreed to play cards. I did an hour’s German with Mr Brown but my heart wasn’t in it and in the end he gave up, dragged the bottle off the table and plonked himself in an armchair in the corner. I was left on my own, thinking. It was a small detail. A new Rolex. But it was strange the way Zelin had tried to conceal it, and why had it made him so angry?
I might have forgotten all about it but the next day something else happened which brought it back to my mind. Sharkovsky was leaving for Leningrad at the end of the week. It was an important visit and he much preferred to fly than go by road. During the course of the morning, I saw Zelin working on the helicopter, carrying out a routine inspection. There was nothing unusual about that. But just before lunch, he presented himself at the house. I happened to be close by, cleaning the ground-floor windows, and I heard every word that was said.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said. “We can’t use the helicopter.”
Sharkovsky had come to the front door, dressed in riding gear. He had taken up riding the year before and had bought two horses – one for himself, one for his wife. He’d also built a stable close to the tennis court and employed one of the gardeners as a groom. Zelin was standing in his overalls, wiping his hands on a white handkerchief that was smeared with oil.
“What’s wrong with it?” Sharkovsky snapped. He had been very short-tempered recently. There was a rumour that things hadn’t been going too well with his business. Maybe that was why he had been travelling so much.
“There’s been a servo actuator malfunction, sir,” Zelin said. “One of the piston rods shows signs of cracking. It’s going to have to be replaced.”
“Can you do it?”
“No, sir. Not really. Anyway, we have to order the part…”
Sharkovsky was in a hurry. “Well, why don’t you call in the mechanic… what’s his name… Borodin?”
“I called his office just now. It’s annoying but he’s ill.” He paused. “They can send someone else.”
“Reliable?”
“Yes, sir. His name is Rykov. I’ve worked with him.”
“All right. See to it.”
Maya was waiting for him. He stormed off without saying another word.
I didn’t know for certain that Zelin was lying but I had a feeling that something was wrong. Every day at the dacha was the same. When I say that life went like clockwork, I mean it had that same dull, mechanical quality. But now there were three coincidences and they had all happened at the same time. The helicopter had been fine the day before but suddenly it was broken. The usual mechanic – a brisk, talkative man who turned up every couple of months – was mysteriously ill. And then there was that new watch, and the strange way that Zelin had behaved.
There was something else. It occurred to me that it really wasn’t so difficult to replace a piston rod. I had been reading helicopter magazines all my life and knew almost as much as if I’d actually been flying myself. I was sure that Zelin would have a spare and should have been able to fix it himself.
So what was he up to? I said nothing, but for the rest of the day I kept my eye on him and when the new mechanic arrived that same afternoon, I made sure I was there.
He came in a green van marked MVZ Helicopters and I saw him step out to have his passport and employment papers checked by the guards. He was a short, plump man with a mop of grey hair that sprawled over his head and several folds of fat around his chin. He was dressed in green overalls with the same initials, MVZ, on the top pocket. He had to wait while the guards searched his van – for once, their metal detectors weren’t going to help them. The back was jammed with spare parts. He didn’t seem to mind though. He stood there smoking a cigarette and when they finally let him through he gave them a friendly wave and drove straight across to the helicopter pad. Arkady Zelin was waiting for him there and they spent the rest of the day working together, stripping down the engine and doing whatever it was they had to do.
It was a warm afternoon, and at four o’clock one of the housekeepers sent me over to the helicopter with a tray of lemonade and sandwiches. The mechanic – Rykov – came strutting towards me with a smile on his face.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Yassen, sir.”
“And what’s in these sandwiches?” He prised one open with a grimy thumb. “Ham and cheese. Thanks, Yassen. That’s very nice of you.” He was already eating, talking with his mouth full. Then he signalled to Zelin and the two of them went back to work.
I saw him a second time when I came back to pick up the tray. Once again he was pleased to see me but I thought that Zelin was more restrained. He was quieter than I had ever known him and this was a man I knew fairly well. You cannot play cards with someone and not get a sense of the way they think. I would have said he was nervous. I wondered why he wasn’t wearing his new watch today. By now, the helicopter was almost completely reassembled. I lingered with the two men, waiting to take back the tray. And it seemed only natural to chat.
“Do you fly these?” I asked the mechanic.
“Not me,” he said. “I just take them apart and put them back together.”
“Is it difficult?”
“You have to know what you’re doing.”
“Wouldn’t you like to fly?”
He shook his head. “Not really.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a joystick between my legs. I prefer to keep my feet safely on the ground.”
“That’s enough, Yassen,” Zelin growled. “Don’t you have work to do? Go and do it.”
“Yes, Mr Zelin.”
I picked up the tray with the dirty glasses and carried it back to the house. But I’d already discovered everything I needed to know. The mechanic knew nothing about helicopters. Even I could have told him that a Bell helicopter doesn’t have a joystick. It has a cyclic control which transmits instructions to the rotor blades. And it’s not in front of you. It’s to one side. Zelin had lied about the malfunction just as he had lied about the usual mechanic, Borodin, being sick. I was sure of it.