Death And The Penguin Read online

“Igor Lvovich,” began Viktor, growing bolder, “I’m a bit short on facts, and to go interviewing everyone will take time. Have we no carded information?”

  The Chief smiled.

  “Of course, I was going to suggest it – in Crime. I’ll tell Fyodor to give you access.”

  6

  As he attuned himself to the task, Viktor’s life regulated itself accordingly. He applied himself with a vengeance … Fyodor from Crime proved a godsend, sharing all that he had, which was plenty – from VIPs’ lovers, male and female, to VIPs’ lapses from virtue and other life events. In short, from him Viktor gleaned precisely those extra-CV details which, like fine Indian spices, transform an obelisk of sad, established fact into a gourmet dish. And each new batch he put regularly before the Chief.

  Everything in the garden was lovely. He had money in his pocket – not a lot, but more than enough for his modest requirements. His one occasional anxiety was his lack of recognition, even under a pseudonym, so tenacious of life were his obelisked notables. Out of more than 100 written-up VIPs, not only had none of them died, but not one had so much as fallen ill. Such reflections, however, did not affect the rhythm of his work. Assiduously he leafed through the papers, noting names, worming his way into lives. Our country must know who its notables are, he kept telling himself.

  One rainy November evening, when Misha the penguin was taking a cold bath and Viktor was pondering his subjects’ tenacity of life, the phone rang.

  “I was put on to you by Igor Lvovich,” wheezed a man’s voice. “Something I’d like a word about.”

  At the name of the Editor-in-Chief, Viktor said he would be glad to see him, and half an hour later was welcoming a smartly dressed man of about 45. He had brought a bottle of whisky, and they sat down straight away at the kitchen table.

  “I’m Misha,” he said, to the amused embarrassment of Viktor.

  “Sorry,” he explained, “but so’s my penguin.”

  “I’ve got an old friend who’s seriously ill,” began the visitor. “Same age as me. Known each other since we were kids. Sergey Chekalin. I’d like to order an obituary … Will you do it?”

  “Of course,” said Viktor. “But I’ll need some facts, preferably personal ones.”

  “No problem,” said Misha. “I know all there is to know and can tell you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Son of a fitter and a nursery governess. His dream, as a child, was to have a motorbike, and when he left school, he bought himself a Minsk, though it meant a bit of thieving to do so … Deeply ashamed now of his past. Not that his present’s any better. We’re colleagues, he and I. We set up and we wind up trusts. I’m good at it, he isn’t. Wife left him recently. Been alone since. Not even had a lover.”

  “Wife’s name?”

  “Lena … All in all, he’s had a rough time of it. Healthwise, too.”

  “In what way?”

  “Suspected stomach cancer, chronic prostate.”

  “What did he most want out of life?”

  “What he’ll never have, now: a silver Lincoln.”

  The effect of their cocktail of words and whisky was to render Sergey Chekalin – failure, deserted by wife, ailing, alone and in poor health, dreaming the unrealizable dream of a silver Lincoln – a real presence at the table with them.

  “When do I come for it?” asked Misha finally.

  “Tomorrow, if you like.”

  He left, and hearing a car start, Viktor looked out and saw a long, pretentious silver Lincoln draw away.

  He fed Misha freshly frozen plaice, topped up his bath, then returned to the kitchen and set to work on the obituary order. Through the tiny window between bathroom and kitchen he could hear splashing, and as he drafted the obelisk, he smiled, thinking of his penguin’s love of clean, cold water.

  7

  Autumn, season of dying nature, of melancholy, of seeking the past, was best for writing obituaries. Winter, joyous in itself – bracing frost, snow sparkling in the sun – was good for living. But till winter came, there were still a few weeks in which to accumulate an obelisk surplus for the coming year. There was a lot to do.

  When Misha-non-penguin came it was raining again. He read his order, was delighted, and producing his wallet, asked “How much?”

  Accustomed so far to monthly payment, Viktor shrugged.

  “Look,” said Misha, “work well done should be work well paid.”

  Unable to disagree, Viktor nodded.

  Misha thought for a bit.

  “Double at least what the priciest whore charges … $500 do you?”

  Liking the amount, if not the basis of calculation, Viktor nodded, and was handed five $100 bills.

  “Can send more clients, if you like,” said Misha.

  Viktor was all for it.

  Misha-non-penguin left. The grey, rainy morning dragged on. The door opened, and there stood Penguin Misha. After a moment he came over and snuggled against his master’s knee. Dear creature, thought Viktor, stroking him.

  8

  Sleeping lightly that night, Viktor heard an insomniac Misha roaming the flat, leaving doors open, occasionally stopping and heaving a deep sigh, like an old man weary of both life and himself.

  Next morning Igor Lvovich rang asking him to call in.

  Over coffee they discussed the obelisk index. On the whole, the Chief was happy.

  “One drawback,” he said, “is that our future departed all come from Kiev. Being the capital, it does, of course, vacuum up all the more or less notable, but other cities have their quota too.”

  Viktor listened attentively, now and then nodding.

  “We have our own correspondents everywhere, collecting the necessary info,” the Chief went on. “It’s merely a question of gathering it in. The post’s dodgy. Even fax isn’t entirely reliable. So what I’d like is for you to come in on it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Visiting a city or two and collecting. Kharkov, for a start, then, if you wouldn’t mind, Odessa. At our expense, naturally …”

  “I’d be glad to.”

  Again it was drizzling. On his way home, he dropped into a café, and to get warm, ordered cognac and a large coffee.

  The café was empty and quiet – an ambience suitable for dreaming or, conversely, for recalling the past.

  He sipped his cognac, his nose prickled by the familiar bouquet, happy in the enjoyment of a drop of the real stuff.

  This agreeable café interlude, this stop-off between past and future, over cognac and coffee, induced a mood of romance. No longer did he feel lonely or unhappy. He was a valued customer, satisfying a modest demand for inner warmth. A glass of good cognac and already a flow of warmth in contrary directions: up into his head, down into his legs, and a slowing of thought processes.

  He had dreamt once of writing novels, but had not achieved so much as a novella, in spite of all the unfinished manuscripts lying around in folders. But unfinished they were fated to remain, he having been unlucky with his muses, they, for some reason, having never tarried long enough in his two-room flat to see him through a short story. Hence his literary failure. They had been amazingly fickle, his muses. Or he had been at fault for picking such unreliable ones. But now, alone with his penguin, here he was, churning out little pieces regardless, and getting well paid.

  Warm at last, he left the café. It was still drizzling. Still a grey, wet day.

  Before returning to his flat, he dropped into a shop and bought a kilo of frozen salmon – for Misha.

  9

  A problem to solve before Kharkov was who to leave Misha with. The odds were that he would happily put up with three days alone, but Viktor was uneasy. Having no friends, he ran through everyone he knew, but they were all people he had little in common with and wasn’t keen to approach. Scratching his head, he went over to the window.

  It was drizzling. By the entrance, a militiaman was chatting with an old lady from the block. Remembering the joke about the militiaman and t
he penguin, he smiled, then went over to the phone on the bedside table and looked up the number of the district militiaman.

  “Junior Lieutenant Fischbein,” came a clipped male voice at the other end of the line.

  “Sorry to trouble you,” said Viktor hesitantly, searching for words. “There’s something I’d like to ask … Being resident in your district …”

  “Trouble?” interrupted the officer.

  “No. And don’t, please, think I’m trying to be funny. The fact is, I’m going away for three days in connection with work, and I’ve no one to leave my penguin with.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” replied the officer in a calm, steady voice, “but living with Mother in a hostel, I’ve nowhere to keep him …”

  “You’ve got me wrong,” said Viktor, growing flustered. “What I wondered was whether you could just pop in a couple of times and feed him … I’d leave you the keys.”

  “I could. Name and address, and I’ll come round. Will you be in about three?”

  “Yes.”

  He sank into his armchair.

  Here, on the broad arm beside him, was where, just over a year ago, petite blonde Olya, of attractive little snub nose and perpetually reproachful expression, was wont to perch. Sometimes she would rest her head on his shoulder and fall asleep, plunging into dreams in which he, very likely, had no place. Only in reality was he allowed to be present. Though even there, he rarely felt needed. Silent and thoughtful – that was her. What, since her pushing off without a word, had altered? Standing beside him now was Misha the penguin. He was silent, but was he thoughtful too? What did being thoughtful amount to? Just a word describing the way one looked, perhaps?

  He leant forward, searching the penguin’s tiny eyes for signs of thoughtfulness, but saw only sadness.

  At 2.45 the district militiaman arrived, taking off his boots inside the door. His appearance belied his surname. He was a broad-shouldered, fair-haired, blue-eyed chap, almost a head taller than Viktor. If he had not been a militiaman, he would have been an asset to any volleyball team.

  “Well, where is he?” he asked.

  “Misha!” Viktor called, and emerging from his hidey-hole behind the dark-green settee, the penguin came and looked the militiaman up and down.

  “This, Misha –” began Viktor, and turning to the officer, said, “Sorry, would you tell me your name?”

  “Sergey.”

  “Strange. You don’t look at all Jewish.”

  “Nor am I,” smiled the militiaman. “Stepanenko’s my real name.”

  With a shrug Viktor turned to the penguin again.

  “Misha, this is Sergey. Sergey’s going to feed you while I’m away.”

  He then showed Sergey what was where, and gave him the spare keys to the flat.

  “All will be well,” said the militiaman as he left. “Don’t you worry.”

  10

  Kharkov was freezing, and the moment Viktor stepped from the train, he realized he wasn’t dressed warmly enough for strolling round the city.

  From his hotel, The Kharkov, he rang the Capital News correspondent and they agreed to meet that evening in a café beneath the Opera.

  When evening came, he set off on foot along Sumy Street to the Opera, face rimed with frost, hands numb in the pockets of his short sheepskin coat.

  The buildings loomed grey over the pavement. Everyone was in a hurry, as if afraid of finding their block on the verge of collapsing or shedding its balconies – both occurrences being no longer uncommon.

  It was another five minutes to the sub-Opera labyrinth of bars, shops and cafés. There he had to locate a café with a stage and seating on two levels, and sit at the front of the upper level, looking towards the stage. And yes, order orange juice and a can of beer, the latter to be left unopened.

  Although they had allowed half an hour – from 6.30 till 7.00 – for making contact, he hurried along, spurred on by the cold.

  He would get something to eat there, he decided, something hot and meaty …

  At the Opera he spotted the way down to civilization sub terra, away from darkness feebly illuminated by the windows of a nocturnal city, to a blaze of window displays.

  On the upper steps two old women and a blurry-faced young drunk stood begging.

  Through well-lit corridors he made his way to the café. Inside the glass door sat a man in the uniform of the Special Task Militia, who looked up from his book as Viktor entered.

  “And where are you going?” he demanded, with only a trace of military insistence.

  “To eat.”

  Special Task Militia waved him on.

  He walked the length of a bar at which customers of criminal aspect were drinking beer. The bald-headed barman smiled wryly, catching his eye, as if to say, Just keep going, don’t look back!

  Drawn by bright lights ahead, Viktor quickened his step, and came upon a small stage in a semi-circle of little tables on two levels, one half a metre higher than the other.

  He ordered orange juice and a can of beer at the bar.

  “That all?” asked the plump, peroxide-blonde barmaid.

  “Anything with meat?”

  “Cured fish fillet, fried eggs …” came the monotone reply.

  “All for the moment, then,” he said softly.

  He paid and took himself to a table on the upper level, facing the stage. One sip of the orange juice made him hungrier than ever. Right, he decided, they would eat at the hotel where there was a restaurant. He consulted his watch: 6.20.

  It was quiet At the next table two Azerbaijanis were drinking beer in silence. Turning to take in the rest of the café, Viktor was momentarily blinded by a flash of light, and when he regained his sight, saw a man with a camera heading for the corridor. He turned to see who had been photographed, but apart from him and the Azerbaijanis, there was no one.

  So it was them, he decided, sipping his watery orange.

  Time passed. No more than a sip remained in his tall glass. He eyed the unopened can, toying with the idea of getting another, which he would open.

  A girl appeared at his table wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Wound tightly about her head was a Rocker scarf, a chestnut ponytail trailing from the knot.

  Sitting beside him, she quizzed him through her mascara.

  “Waiting for me?” she smiled.

  He struggled with embarrassment.

  No, the correspondent was a man, was his first fevered thought. Though he might have sent her in his stead …

  He looked to see if she had a carrier or briefcase such as might have contained the necessary papers, but she had nothing but a vanity bag, too small for even a bottle of beer.

  “Well, love, how about it? Or haven’t you got time?” she asked, reasserting her presence, and the obvious dawned.

  “Sorry,” said Viktor, “but you’re mistaken.”

  “I’m not often,” she said sweetly, rising from the table. “But there’s always a first time.”

  Relieved to be alone again, he took another look at the unopened can, then consulted his watch: 7.15. He should have appeared by now.

  But the correspondent did not appear. At 7.30 Viktor drank the beer and left. He ate in the hotel, and returning to his room, again rang the correspondent, but got only long beeps, until he replaced the receiver.

  The warmth of the room was relaxing and conducive to sleep. His eyes refused to stay open. He would try again in the morning. That decided, he lay on his bed and slept.

  11

  In Kiev it was drizzling again. District Militiaman Sergey Fischbein-Stepanenko let himself into Viktor’s flat. Removing his boots, he proceeded in knitted green socks to the kitchen, took a large piece of salmon from the freezer, and breaking it across his knee, put half in Misha’s bowl on the low, nursery bedside table.

  “Misha!” he called, and listened.

  Without waiting for a response, he looked into the living room, then into the bedroom, and there found Misha standing, sleepy or sad, be
tween the settee and the wall.

  “Grub up!” he cajoled. “Come on!”

  Misha stared.

  “Come on!” he pleaded. “Master back soon! Of course, you miss him! But come on.”

  Slowly, followed attentively by Sergey, the penguin dragged himself to the kitchen. Sergey watched him to his bowl, saw him start eating, and returning, conscience clear, to the corridor, put boots and coat back on, and went forth into the Kiev drizzle.

  Heaven send a day without call-outs, he thought, seeing the low, louring sky.

  12

  Woken next morning by a confusion of shots, Viktor yawned, got out of bed and looked at his watch: 8.00. He went over to the window. Parked below, were a militia jeep and an ambulance.

  The sky, when he looked up, was blue, and from behind grey Stalin baroque a pale yellow sun had appeared, promising fine weather.

  Seated at the telephone table, he dialled the correspondent.

  “Who do you want?” a female voice enquired.

  “Is Nikolay Aleksandrovich there?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  He sensed tension in the woman’s voice. “His paper … Capital News …”

  “You are?”

  It wasn’t right. With a trembling hand he replaced the receiver.

  Coffee, must have coffee, he thought, dressing, splashing his face with handfuls of cold water, and going down to the hotel bar where he ordered a large one.

  “You sit. I’ll bring it,” said the barman.

  Sitting on a broad soft velour pouffe at a glass-topped table in a corner of the bar, he reached for the heavy glass ashtray, also of cast glass, and twisted it thoughtfully this way and that. The bar was quiet. The barman came with his coffee.

  “Anything else?”

  He shook his head, then looking squarely at the barman asked, “What was that shooting this morning?”

  The barman shrugged.

  “Some foreign-currency whore got murdered … Must have got up someone’s nose.”