‘You can have this one for yourself,’ he said derisively, and he tossed it to Sheremetev. ‘In the whole collection, this was the only piece of shit.’
He snapped the briefcase closed.
Rostkhenkovskaya was already heading for the door. Belkin went with her.
Vasya gazed at his father, who stood helplessly, arms by his sides, his face with its lacerated cheek torn between confusion and despair. For a moment, their eyes met.
Vasya shrugged and followed his clients out.
Sheremetev slumped to the floor. He looked at the watch that Belkin had thrown him. You didn’t have to be an expert to recognise this one. Even he knew what it was – a plain old Poljot from Soviet times, battered, scratched and worn.
DISBELIEF. HUMILIATION. HOPELESSNESS. SHEREMETEV felt like an old rag that someone had picked up and wiped themselves with and thrown away. He was nothing: Nikolai Ilyich Sheremetev, a worm, a slug, a mushroom, a little man who knew nothing about how anything worked, a fool who had been taken advantage of all his life in this Russia which was a paradise, above all, for those who took advantage of fools. Well, here he was, unable to find a way to get even a few hundred thousand dollars to save his nephew when for six years he had had a cabinet of watches worth – How much? Ten million dollars? Twenty million? – at his sole disposal.
He keeled over and lay flat on the floor in self-hatred and misery.
Eventually the sound of Vladimir’s mumblings and grumblings, growing in volume, penetrated his consciousness. He lay listening for a while. He had to get Vladimir up, get him into his pyjamas, get him into bed… And for what? So he could do the same thing tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, as he had done for the last six years… And in the meantime, his son had turned into a gangster, and not just any kind of gangster. A gangster who would stand by and watch as his own father was cheated and abused.
He got wearily to his feet and put the Poljot watch with the others that Belkin had left on Vladimir’s bedside table. The laceration in his cheek, which had been partially reopened the previous day, throbbed a little, just enough for him to be conscious of it.
He went to the sitting room.
‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Sheremetev quietly, feeling that he didn’t have the energy even to hate this man any more, as he had started to do. ‘It’s time for bed.’
Vladimir scrutinised the face that had suddenly loomed up in front of him. He could smell the Chechen. He was definitely somewhere here. Vladimir tried to peer around the small man in front of him to see if the Chechen was behind him.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Sheremetev, almost in tears, ‘please.’
He pulled gently on Vladimir’s arm. After a moment, the old man got up and Sheremetev led him to the bedroom.
As Sheremetev got him changed, Vladimir kept scanning the room. Sheremetev slipped him an extra sedative tablet with his pills. Vladimir lay in bed staring straight up, as always, in that pose of his that made him seem so alone as he went to sleep.
‘Goodnight, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ murmured Sheremetev, and left.
He felt numb, not knowing how even to start to understand what had happened to him that evening. He had had no food since he ate Vladimir’s leftovers from lunch. Maybe, he thought, having something to eat would make him feel better – it certainly couldn’t make him feel worse. He remembered Eleyekov saying that Stepanin had made it up with Barkovskaya. The thought didn’t do much to lift his spirits, but it was something. At least he could go down without having to hear about another firebombing or arm-breaking or shooting.
In the dining room, Sheremetev found Lyosha and half a dozen of the security men gathered around the table with bottles of vodka, looking as if those weren’t the first ones they had opened.
The conversation stopped.
‘Good evening,’ said Sheremetev.
A couple of them grunted in reply.
Sheremetev glanced at his watch. Normally, at this time, the dining room was empty.
He spotted a big dish of chicken fricassee on the sideboard, still warm. Sheremetev took a helping and sat down.
No one said a word.
He took a mouthful of the fricassee. Over the past couple of weeks, he had come to realise that you could tell Stepanin’s mood from the quality of his cooking. The cook had obviously cheered up.
He ate more. The guards around him drank.
‘How’s Artur?’ he said.
Lyosha shrugged. ‘Not too bad. Not too good,’ he muttered. His shaven scalp gleamed with a slick of alcohol-induced sweat. He had obviously put a lot away since Sheremetev had glimpsed Stepanin with him earlier in the evening.
‘Any news on whether he’ll walk again?’
There was no reply.
‘Shouldn’t you boys be out terrorising someone?’ Sheremetev asked, only half jokingly.
‘How do you know we aren’t?’ retorted one of them, slurring his words.
Sheremetev ignored that, thinking it was just a smart-aleck remark, as he took another forkful of the fricassee.
‘So Stepanin has made it up with Barkovskaya, huh?’ he said, chewing on the chicken.
The guards exchanged glances. There were a couple of smirks.
‘He made it up with her, didn’t he? Eleyekov told me today.’
‘Oh, yes, he made up with her alright,’ said one of the guards. ‘She had a big dish of fricassee to celebrate.’
The sniggers were turning to laughter.
‘What is it?’ said Sheremetev. ‘What’s so funny?’
One of the guards, drunker than the rest, giggled. ‘Stepanin’s—’
‘Shhhhh!’ hissed Lyosha, but he had drunk as much as the others and was struggling to keep a straight face.
‘What?’ said Sheremetev, taking a mouthful of fricassee.
The giggling guard threw back his head, laughing. ‘The chickens will have company.’
‘What chickens?’
‘The chickens outside.’
Sheremetev didn’t understand. The guards were laughing so much now they were almost crying. Lyosha made a last, vain attempt to stop them, and then, throwing a vodka down his throat, joined in.
‘The chickens outside?’ repeated Sheremetev uncomprehendingly.
‘In the pit,’ squeaked one of the guards.
‘The pit? What do you mean? The pit outside where—’
‘You’ve got to watch what you eat with a cook like Stepanin,’ blurted out another, before collapsing in amusement.
‘What’s he done?’ demanded Sheremetev.
The guards around the table, doubled up, didn’t even hear him.
Sheremetev jumped up and pushed open the doors to the kitchen. Stepanin stood by a stock pot, spoon to his lips. ‘Vitya,’ demanded Sheremetev, ‘what’s going on?’
The cook looked around. ‘Have you tried the fricassee, Kolya?’
Suddenly Sheremetev’s blood ran cold. He clutched at his throat.
Stepanin laughed. ‘It’s okay. You didn’t get the special batch. Only Barkovskaya got that.’
‘What have you done?’
‘Not so loud.’ He glanced around at the potwashers.
‘What?’
‘The only thing I could do.’
‘Vitya, you can’t kill her!’
‘Not so loud!’ hissed the cook. ‘Whatever happens to her, it’s her own fault. She left me no choice. She knew that herself.’ Stepanin turned calmly back to the pot and tasted with his spoon again. ‘Needs seasoning,’ he murmured to himself, and he threw in a big pinch of salt.
Sheremetev watched him for a moment. The cook had been drinking, that was obvious, but there was something eerie about the way he was behaving. He seemed to be both completely insane and perfectly rational at the same time.
‘Where is she?’ demanded Sheremetev.