Again, there was silence on the phone.
‘Well, watches can be expensive,’ said Oleg. ‘But so much?’
‘I don’t know. I’m saying it’s possible.’
‘And you’re prepared to sell it?’
‘Why not?’
‘It might mean a lot to you.’
‘More than Pasha? Oleg, for God’s sake! It’s a watch. A watch is a watch. I couldn’t care less about it. I care about my nephew. I care about my brother.’
‘I’m sorry about the things Nina said yesterday.’
‘Well, I even care about her as well.’
Oleg laughed for a moment. ‘She said some terrible things. She shouldn’t have asked you to compromise your principles.’
Sheremetev sighed. ‘I don’t know if those principles are right any more. I don’t even know if they are principles, if they ever were. Anyway, in Russia, I don’t know if one can live by them. Maybe I should have taken the money, all those years when I was working in hospitals. People came in with bundles of notes, Oleg. I said no and off they went to someone else. I didn’t even save them anything – they still paid. I could have done it. Maybe I should have.’
Sheremetev listened to himself. The idea of what he was saying revolted him. Thank God, he thought, that he hadn’t had to make this choice back then. But he had, hadn’t he? He did make a choice, not even thinking as he did it, when Karinka was dying. He had been paying the bribe-takers, but hadn’t considered becoming one himself when the money ran out. Not even for Karinka’s sake. What had been wrong with him?
‘Kolya? Kolya! Are you still there?’
‘Sorry. Yes, I’m here.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘This watch, Olik, where would I go to sell it? Who would give me a good price?’
‘You don’t know anyone?’
‘Do I go around selling watches all day?’
‘You want me to help you? You definitely want to sell this thing?’
‘Yes! I dont know how much we’ll get, but whatever it is, it’s yours.’
Oleg laughed. ‘Kolya, I don’t know what to say!’
‘Don’t say anything. We’re brothers. Can you find me someone to buy the watch?’
‘Why don’t you to talk to Vasya? I would have thought this would be his kind of thing.’
‘I don’t want to get Vasya involved.’
‘But Kolya—’
‘No, not Vasya!’ Sheremetev found himself reacting viscerally against the suggestion. ‘Can you find me someone?’
‘I’ll try. If you’re prepared to sell, it’s the least I can do.’
‘Good. Give me a call when you know.’
Sheremetev put his phone away. Suddenly he found that he was shaking. He had done it – and you don’t give up fifty years of honesty just like that. But that wasn’t the thing that had sent a chill through him. It was his immediate, instinctive reaction to Oleg’s suggestion to call Vasya. No, not Vasya! What did it mean, that he felt like that? Sheremetev realised that he didn’t trust his own son.
SHEREMETEV STAYED OUTSIDE for a few minutes more, delaying the moment of going back inside. Two of Stepanin’s potwashers come out, carrying a big black tub between them. They stopped beside the chicken pit, put the tub on the ground, and then raised the wooden lid that covered the hole. Even from a distance, Sheremetev could smell the fetid air that immediately wafted out of it. As he watched, the two potwashers upended the tub and a spillage of fresh pink carcases tumbled in.
He went a little closer. ‘What’s going on?’
The potwashers were putting the lid back on the pit, each holding it with one hand and their nose with the other. One of them glanced at him and shrugged.
In the kitchen, Stepanin sat glumly at one of his steel benches, a glass of vodka in his hand and the bottle in front of him.
‘What happened?’ asked Sheremetev. ‘You’re throwing chickens out again.’
The cook swallowed the vodka and poured another glass without saying a word.
‘Vitya?’
‘They firebombed my supplier,’ muttered Stepanin.
‘They firebombed…?’ Sheremetev was aghast. ‘Who firebombed?’
‘Barkovskaya.’
‘Barkovskaya firebombed your supplier? When? Last night? But I saw her here—’
Stepanin turned to him. ‘Not Barkovskaya herself! Someone did it for her, obviously.’
‘And they told you they were doing it for her?’
‘They didn’t need to.’ Stepanin threw back the vodka and winced at the liquor’s ferocity. ‘There are some things you don’t need to say.’ He shook his head. ‘What fuckery!’
‘Vitya,’ said Sheremetev slowly, ‘what did you do to make Barkovskaya’s cousin stop delivering chickens?’
The cook shrugged.
‘Vitya?’
‘Let’s just say someone taught him a lesson.’
‘What kind of lesson?’
‘The kind of lesson where you break a leg or two.’
‘You broke his legs?’ demanded Sheremetev in disbelief.
‘Not me personally!’
‘You got someone to do it? Are you insane? What were you thinking?’
‘What do you mean, what was I thinking? This is my future, Kolya! My dream! Everything depends on it. You understand? And that bitch Barkovskaya isn’t going to stop me!’ Stepanin picked up the vodka bottle and angrily poured again, sloshing some of the liquor on the steel bench. ‘You want some?’
‘No.’
Stepanin drank. ‘It’s simpler to be like you,’ he said bitterly. ‘Take your salary and that’s it. No complications. Of course, you live a miserable life and die in poverty, but that’s not so bad, I suppose.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sheremetev, feeling like bashing the cook over the head with the bottle.
Stepanin raised his glass in a mock tribute to Sheremetev.
Sheremetev snatched the bottle away from him. ‘It’s nine o’clock and you’re already drunk. You’re not going to be able to cook.’
Stepanin waved a hand. ‘Who gives a fuck?’ He glared at the potwashers. ‘Clean that fucking stove down, I told you! What are you waiting for? I’m going to start in a minute. And you,’ he yelled, turning his ire on one of his assistants, ‘where’s the stock, you fucking idiot?’
‘We used it yesterday, Chef!’
‘And you didn’t make more? I have to tell you every time? You moron!’ Stepanin looked back at Sheremetev. ‘See? Look what I have to work with here. A cook of my talents! Classically trained!’
‘Who did you get to teach Barkovskaya’s cousin a lesson?’ asked Sheremetev.
‘What?’
‘Who did you get to break Barkovskaya’s cousin’s legs?’
‘I don’t know if he broke his legs. It might have been his arms.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? Artyusha.’
‘Artyusha? Our Artyusha? The security guy?’
‘Who else?’
‘But… but…’ Sheremetev stared, utterly lost for words.
Stepanin laughed. ‘You really don’t know anything, do you, Kolya? Have you seen the BMWs he drives? Every six months he changes it – the latest model! Even if you knew nothing, if you saw that, you’d realise something was going on. The Lukashvillis run the biggest protection racket in Odintsovo. It started with Artur’s cousin, who was shot dead in his car a few years ago by another group of gangsters. After that, Artyusha took over. When he was finished with the other gang, no one but the Lukashvillis was left in the town.’