er stand
beside them. Tatarsky bought three cans of Tuborg and an analytical tabloid
- it was one he used to look through for the sake of the advertising
spreads, which aroused his professional interest even in a severely
hung-over state. He drank the first can while he leafed through the tabloid.
His attention was caught by an advertisement for Aeroflot showing a married
couple climbing up a gangway set against a palm tree laden with paradisaical
fruit. 'What idiots,' Tatarsky thought. 'Who advertises themselves like
that? Someone needs to fly to Novosibirsk, and they promise him he'll end up
in heaven. But maybe he's not due in heaven just yet; maybe he's got
business in Novosibirsk ... Might as well invent an "Icarus" airbus .. .'
The next page was taken up by a colourful advertisement for an American
restaurant on Uprising Square - a photograph of the entrance with a jolly
neon sign blazing above it:
BEVERLY KILLS A CHUCK NORRIS ENTERPRISE
Tatarsky folded up the newspaper, laid it flat on a dirty crate
standing between the kiosks, sat down on it and opened up the second can.
He felt better almost immediately, m order not to look at the world
around him, Tatarsky fixed his gaze on the can. There was a large picture on
it under the yellow word 'Tuborg': a fat man in braces wiping the sweat from
his forehead with a white handkerchief. Above the man's head was a searing
expanse of blue, and he was standing on a narrow track that led away beyond
the horizon; in short, the picture was so heavily loaded with symbolism that
Tatarsky couldn't understand how the thin aluminium of the can could support
it. He automatically began composing a slogan.
'Something like this,' he thought: 'Life is a solitary journey beneath
a scorching sun. The road we walk along leads to nowhere; and no one knows
where death lies in wait. Remembering this, everything in the world seems
empty and meaningless. And then - enlightenment. Tuborg. Prepare yourself.
Variant: Think final.'
Part of the slogan could be written in Latin - Tatarsky still had the
taste for that going back to his first job. For instance, 'Halt, wayfarer' -
something-something viator. Tatarsky couldn't remember precisely; he'd have
to look it up in his Inspired Latin Sayings. He rummaged in his pockets to
find a pen to note down his creation. There wasn't one. Tatarsky decided to
ask a passer-by for one and he looked up. Standing there right in front of
him was Hussein.
Hussein was smiling with the corners of his mouth, his hands were
thrust into the pockets of his broad velvet trousers, and his gleaming oily
eyes were quite expressionless - he was just surfacing from a recent fix.
He'd hardly changed at all, except for maybe putting on a little weight.
There was a short astrakhan hat on his head.
The can of beer slipped from Tatarsky's fingers and a symbolic yellow
stream traced out a dark spot on the asphalt. The feelings that flitted
through his heart in the space of a second were a perfect match for the
concept he'd just invented for Tuborg - except for the fact that no
enlightenment ensued.
'Come on,' said Hussein, beckoning with his finger.
For one second Tatarsky hesitated, wondering whether to make a dash for
it, but he decided it would be wiser not to. As far as he could recall,
Hussein's reflex response was to regard any fast-moving object larger than a
dog and smaller than a car as a target. Of course, in the time that had
elapsed the influence of morphine and Sun music could have wrought serious
change in the world of his spirit, but Tatarsky wasn't seriously tempted to
test this possibility in practice.
The trailer in which Hussein lived had hardly changed either, except
that now there were thick curtains at the windows, and a green satellite
dish perched on the roof. Hussein opened the door and prodded Tatarsky
gently in the back.
Inside it was half dark. A huge television was switched on, and on its
screen three figures were frozen beneath the spreading branches of a tree.
The image was trembling slightly - the TV was connected to a VCR set on
'pause'. Opposite the television was a bench and sitting on it, leaning back
against the wall, was a man who hadn't shaved for a long time, wearing a
crumpled club jacket with gold buttons. He gave off a mild stink. His right
leg was chained to his hand with handcuffs that passed under the bench, so
that his body was held in a semi-recumbent position hard to describe,
reminding Tatarsky of the wow-anal position of the business-class passenger
from the Korean Air ad (except that in the Korean Air ad the body was
twisted so that the handcuffs were hidden). At the sight of Hussein the man
twitched. Hussein took a mobile phone out of his pocket and waved it at the
man chained to the bench, who shook his head, and Tatarsky noticed that his
mouth was gagged with a strip of flesh-coloured sticky tape, on which
someone had drawn a smile in red marker.
'Pain in the ass,' mumbled Hussein.
He picked up the remote control from the table and pressed a button.
The figures on the television stirred sluggishly into life - the VCR was
working on slow play-back. Tatarsky recognised an unforgettably politically
correct sequence from a Russian film set in Chechnya - Prisoner of the
Caucasus, he thought it was called - a Russian commando in a crumpled
uniform gazing uncertainly about him, two militants in national costume with
blazing eyes holding him by the arms, and a third, wearing the same kind of
astrakhan hat as Hussein, raising a long museum-piece of a sabre to his
throat. Several close-ups followed each other in sequence on the screen -the
commando's eyes, the blade set against the tight-stretched skin (Tatarsky
thought it must be a deliberate reference to Bunuel's Un Chien Andalou,
included for the benefit of the jury at Cannes) and then the killer pulling
the sabre sharply back towards himself. Immediately the screen showed the
start of the scene again: once again the killer raised his sabre to the
throat of his victim. The sequence had been set in a loop. Only now did
Tatarsky realise he was watching something like an advertising video being
shown at an exhibition stand. Not even something like one - it actually was
a promotional video: information technology had influenced Hussein too, and
now he was using an image sequence to position himself in the consciousness
of a client. The client was evidently very familiar with the clip and what
Hussein was trying to position - he closed his eyes and his head slumped on
to his chest. 'Come on, watch it, watch it,' said Hussein, grabbing him by
the hair and turning his face towards the screen. 'You jolly bastard. I'll
teach you how to smile ...'
The unfortunate victim moaned quietly, but because of the broad beaming
smile painted on his face, Tatarsky felt nothing but irrational dislike for
him.
Hussein let go of him, straightened his astrakhan hat and turned
towards Tatarsky: 'All he has to do is make just one phone call, but he
doesn't want to. Just makes things hard on himself and everyone else. These
people . . . How're you doing? On a bad trip, I see?'
'No,' said Tatarsky, 'it's a hangover.'
'Then I'll pour you a drink,' said Hussein.
He went over to the safe and took out a bottle of Hennessy and a pair
of none-too-clean tooth-glasses.
'A welcome to my guest,' he said as to he poured the cognac.
Tatarsky clinked glasses with him and drank.
'What are you up to nowadays?' asked Hussein.
'Working.'
'Where would that be?'
He had to say something, and something that meant Hussein couldn't
claim compensation for his withdrawal from the business. Tatarsky didn't
have any money right now. His eyes came to rest on the television screen,
where death was advancing yet again. They'll kill me like that/ he thought,
'and no one will even put flowers on my grave .. /
'So where is it then?' Hussein asked again.
'In the flower business,' Tatarsky blurted out. 'With the
Azerbaidjanis.'
'With the Azerbaidjanis?' Hussein repeated doubtfully. 'What
Azerbaidjanis?'
'With Rafik" Tatarsky replied, inspired, 'and Eldar. We charter a
plane, fly in flowers and fly out. . . Well, you know what. I don't charter
the plane, of course. I'm just the gopher.'
'Yeah? So why couldn't you just explain what was going on? Why'd you
just drop off the keys?'
'I was hitting the sauce,' Tatarsky answered.
Hussein thought it over. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Rowers are good
business. I wouldn't have said anything, if you'd told me man to man. But
now ... I'll have to have a word with this Rafik of yours.'
'He's in Baku right now,' said Tatarsky. 'Eldar too.'
The pager on his belt bleeped.
'Who's that?' asked Hussein.
Tatarsky glanced at the screen and saw Khanin's number.
'Just a friend of mine. He's got nothing to do ...'
Hussein held out his hand without speaking, and Tatarsky submissively
placed his pager in it. Hussein took out his phone, dialled the number and
gave Tatarsky a glance filled with meaning. At the other end of the line
someone picked up the receiver.
"Allo" said Hussein, 'who am I talking to? Khanin? How do you do,
Khanin. I'm calling from the Caucasian Friendly Society. My name's Hussein.
Sorry to bother you, but we have your friend Vova here. He has a bit of a
problem - he owes us money. Doesn't know where to get it from. So he asked
me to call you and see if you could help out. You're in the flower business
with him, aren't you?'
He winked at Tatarsky and then listened without speaking for a minute
or two.
'What?' he asked, frowning. 'Just tell me if you're in the flower
business with him or not. What's that mean metaphorical flowers? What rose
of the Persians? Which Ar-iosto? Who? What? Give me your friend then . . .
Right then, I'm listening ...'
Tatarsky realised from Hussein's expression that someone at the other
end of the line had said something unthinkable.
'I don't care who you are,' Hussein replied after a long pause. 'Send
anyone you like . . . Yes . . . Send an entire regiment of your arsehole
troops on tanks. Only you'd better warn them they're not going to find some
wounded boy-scout from the White House in here, get it? What? You'll come
yourself? Come on then ... Write down the address ...'
Hussein put down his phone and looked inquiringly at Tatarsky.
'I told you it would be best not to,' said Tatarsky.
Hussein chuckled.
'Worried about me? I appreciate that. But there's no need.'
He took two grenades out of the safe, half-straightened the whiskers on
the detonators and put a grenade in each pocket. Tatarsky pretended to be
looking the other way.
Half an hour later the legendary Mercedes-6oo with dark-tinted glass
drew up a few metres away from the trailer, and Tatarsky set his eye to the
gap in the curtains at the window. Two men got out of the car - the first
was Khanin, his suit looking crumpled and untidy, and the second was someone
Tatarsky didn't know.
All the wow-indicators suggested he was a representative of the
so-called middle class - a typical red-necked, red-faced hitman from some
gang down in the Southern Port. He was wearing a black leather jacket, a
heavy gold chain and track-suit trousers; but judging from the car, he
represented that rare instance when a private gets himself promoted to the
rank of general. He exchanged a couple of words with Khanin and came towards
the door. Khanin stayed where he was.
The door opened. The stranger lumbered into the wagon and looked first
at Hussein, then at Tatarsky, then at the man chained to the bench. An
expression of astonishment appeared on his face. For a second he stood there
motionless, as though he couldn't believe his eyes, then he took a step
towards the prisoner, grabbed him by the hair and smashed his face twice
against his knee. The prisoner tried to protect himself with his free hand,
but he was too late.
'So that's where you got to, you bastard!' the newcomer yelled,
squatting down, his face turning more scarlet than ever. 'We've been looking
for you all over town for two weeks now. Wanted to hide, did you? Keeping
out of sight, were you, you fucking merchant?'
Tatarsky and Hussein exchanged glances.
'Hey now, don't get carried away,' Hussein said uncertainly. 'He's a
merchant, OK, but he's my merchant.'
'What?' the stranger asked, letting go of the bloody head. 'Yours? He
was my merchant when you were still herding cows in the mountains.'
'I didn't herd cows in the mountains, I herded bulls,' Hussein replied
and nodded at the TV screen. 'And bulls like you don't bother me any more
than they did. I'll soon set a ring through your nose, better believe it.'
'What did you say?' the stranger asked with a frown, unbuttoning his
jacket, where there was an interesting bulge under the left flap. 'What
ring?'
'This one,' said Hussein, taking a grenade out of his pocket. The sight
of the straightened whiskers had an instant calming effect on the stranger.
'This bastard owes me money,' he said with emphasis.
'Me too,' said Hussein, putting away the grenade.
'He owes me first.'
'No. He owes me first.'
'All right,' said the stranger. 'We'll meet tomorrow to discuss it. Ten
o'clock in the evening. Where?'
'Just come back here.'
'You're on,' said the stranger and jabbed his finger in Tatarsky's
direction. 'I take the young guy. He's one of mine.'
Tatarsky looked inquiringly at Hussein, who smiled affectionately.
'I've no more claims on you. Your friend here's in the firing line now.
Call round some time, as a friend. Bring some flowers. Some roses. I like
them.'
Hussein followed the two of them out on to the street, lit a cigarette
and leaned back against the wall of the trailer. Tatarsky took two steps and
then turned back.'
'I forgot my beer,' he said.
'Go and get it,' Hussein answered.
Tatarsky went back into the wagon and took the last can of Tuborg from
the table. The man chained to the bench moaned and raised his free hand.
Tatarsky noticed the small rectangle of coloured paper in it. He took it and
hastily shoved it into his pocket. The prisoner gave out a quiet groan an
octave higher, dialled an invisible phone with his finger and pressed his
open hand to his heart. Tatarsky nodded and went out. Hussein was still
smoking on the porch and didn't seem to have noticed anything. The stranger
and Khanin were already in the car. As soon as Tatarsky got into the front
seat, it moved off.
'Let me introduce you,' said Khanin. 'Babe Tatarsky, one of our best
specialists. And this' - Khanin nodded in the direction of the stranger who
was driving the car out on to the road - 'is Wee Vova, almost your namesake.
Also known as the Ni-etzschean.'
'Ah, that's all a load of crap,' Wee Vova mumbled, blinking rapidly.
'That was a long time ago.'
'This man,' Khanin continued, 'performs an extremely important economic
function. You might call him the key link in the liberal model in countries
with a low annual average temperature. D'you understand at least a bit about
the market economy ?'
'About that much,' Tatarsky replied, bringing his thumb and forefinger
together until there was just a millimetre gap left between them.
'Then you must know that in an absolutely free market by definition
there must be services provided by the limiters of absolute freedom. Wee
Vova here happens to be one of those limiters. In other words, he's our
protection . . .'
When the car braked at a traffic light. Wee Vova raised his small
expressionless eyes to look at Tatarsky. It was hard to see why he should be
called 'wee' - he was a man of ample dimensions and advanced years. His face
had the vague meat-dumpling contours of the typical bandit physiognomy, but
it didn't inspire any particular revulsion.
He looked Tatarsky over and said: 'So, to cut it short, tell me, you
into the Russian idea?'
Tatarsky started and his eyes gaped wide.
'No,' he said. 'I've never thought about that theme.'
'All the better,' Khanin interrupted. 'A fresh approach, as they say.'
'A fresh approach to what?' Tatarsky asked, turning to face him.
'You've got a commission to develop a concept,' answered Khanin.
'Who from?'
Khanin nodded in the direction of Wee Vova.
'Here, take this pen and this notepad,' he said, 'listen carefully to
what he has to say and make notes. You can use them to write it up later.'
'No listening needed,' Wee Vova blurted out. 'It's obvious enough. Tell
me. Babe, when you're abroad, d'you feel humiliated?'
'I've never been abroad,' Tatarsky confessed.
'And good for you. 'Cause if you do go you will. I tell you straight -
over there they don't reckon we're people at all, like we're all shit and
animals. Of course, like when you're in some Hilton or other and you rent
the entire floor, they'll all stand in line to suck your cock. But if you're
out at some buffet or socialising, they talk to you like you're some kind of
monkey. Why d'you wear such a big cross, they say, are you some kind of
theologian? I'd show them some fucking theology if they was in Moscow ...'
'But why do they treat us like that?' Khanin interrupted. 'What d'you
think?'
'The way I reckon it,' said Wee Vova, 'it's all because we're living on
their handouts. We watch their films, ride their wheels, even eat their
fodder. And we don't produce nothing, if you think about it, 'cept for
mazuma ... Which is still only their dollars, whichever way you look at it,
which makes it a mystery how come we can be producing 'em. But then somehow
we must be producing 'em - no one'd give us 'em for free. I ain't no
economist, but I got a gut feeling something's rotten here, somehow
something somewhere don't add up.'
Wee Vova fell silent and started thinking hard. Khanin was about to
make some remark, but Wee Vova suddenly erupted: 'But they think we're some
kind of cultural scumbags. Like some kind of nig-nogs out in Africa, get it?
Like we was animals with money. Pigs, maybe, or bulls. But what we are, is
Russia! Makes you frightened to think of it! A great country!'
'That's right,' said Khanin.
'It's just that we've lost our roots for the time being 'cause of all
this crap that's going down. You know yourself what life's like now. No time
for a fart. But that don't mean we've forgot where we come from, like some
half-baked golly-wogs.. .'
'Let's try to keep feelings out of it,' said Khanin. 'Just explain to
the boy here what you want him to do. Keep it simple, without the
trimmings.'
'OK, listen up and I'll lay it out for you just like counting on my
fingers,' said Wee Vova. 'Our national business is expanding into the
international market. Out there there's all kinds of mazuma doing the rounds
- Chechen, American, Columbian - you get the picture. And if you look at
them like mazuma, then they're all the same; but in actual fact behind every
kind of mazuma there's a national idea. We used to have Orthodoxy, Autocracy
and Nationality. Then came this communism stuff. Now that's all over, and
there's no idea left at all 'cept for mazuma. But there's no way you can
have nothing but mazuma behind mazuma, right? 'Cause then there's just no
way to understand why some mazuma's up front and some's in behind, right?'
'Spot on,' said Khanin. 'Listen and leam. Babe.'
'And when our Russian dollars are doing the rounds somewhere down in
the Caribbean,' Wee Vova continued, 'you can't even really figure why
they're Russian dollars and not anyone else's. We don't have no national
i-den-ti-ty ...'
Wee Vova articulated the final word syllable by syllable.
'You dig it? The Chechens have one, but we don't. That's why they look
at us like we're shit. There's got to be some nice, simple Russian idea,
so's we can lay it out clear and simple for any bastard from any of their
Harvards: one-two, tickety-boo, and screw all that staring. And we've got to
know for ourselves where we come from/
'You tell him what the job is" said Khanin, and he winked at Tatarsky
in the driving mirror. 'He's my senior creative. A minute of his time costs
more than the two of us earn in a week.'
The job's simple/ said Wee Vova. 'Write me a Russian idea about five
pages long. And a short version one page long. And lay it out like real
life, without any fancy gibberish, so's I can splat any of those imported
arseholes with it - bankers, whores, whoever. So's they won't think all
we've done in Russia is heist the money and put up a steel door. So's they
can feel the same kind of spirit like in '45 at Stalingrad, you get me?'
'But where would I get. .7 Tatarsky began, but Khanin interrupted him:
'That's your business, sweetheart. You've got one day, it's a rush job.
After that I'll be needing you for other work. And just bear in mind we've
given this commission to another guy as well as you. So try your best.'
'Who, if it's not a secret?' Tatarsky asked. 'Sasha Blo. Ever heard of him?'
Tatarsky said nothing. Khanin made a sign to Wee Vova and the car
stopped. Handing Tatarsky a hundred-rouble bill, Khanin said: 'That's for
your taxi. Go home and work. And no more drinking today.'
Out on the pavement Tatarsky waited for the car to leave before taking
out the business card from the prisoner of the Caucasus. It looked strange -
in the centre there was a picture of a sequoia, covered with leaf-like
dollar bills, and all the rest of the space was taken up by stars, stripes
and eagles. All of this Roman magnificence was crowned by the following text
in curly gold lettering:
TAMPOKO
• OPEN JOINT STOCK COMPANY SOFT DRINKS AND JUICES Shares Placement
Manager:
Mikhail Nepoiman
'Aha,' muttered Tatarsky. 'I see we're old acquaintances/
He tucked the card in his pocket, turned towards the stream of cars and
raised his hand. A taxi stopped almost immediately.
The taxi-driver was a fat-faced bumpkin with an expression of intense
resentment on his face. The thought flashed through Tatarsky's mind that he
was like a condom filled so full of water you barely needed to touch it with
something sharp for it to soak anyone nearby in a one-off disposable
waterfall.
'Tell me,' Tatarsky asked on a sudden impulse, 'you wouldn't happen to
know what the Russian idea is, would you?'
'Ha,' said the driver, as if he been expecting this very question.
'I'll tell you about that. I'm half Mordvinian. So when I was serving in the
army, the first year, on training, there was this sergeant there called
Harley. Used to say, "I hate Mords and nig-nogs," and he'd send me off to
scrub the shit-house with a toothbrush. Two months the bastard took the piss
out of me. Then all of a sudden these three Mordvin brothers arrived for
their training, and all of them weightlifters, can you imagine that? "So who
is it round here doesn't like Mordvini-ans?" they said.'
The driver laughed happily and the car swerved across the road, almost
skipping out into the opposite lane.
'What's that got to do with the Russian idea?' Tatarsky asked, hunched
down in his seat in fear.
'I'll tell you what. That Harley got such a belting he spent two weeks
on his back with a medical battalion. That's what. They worked him over
another five times until he was fit for nothing but demobbing. But they
didn't just work him over...'
'Can you stop there, please,' Tatarsky said, not wanting to hear any
more.
'I can't stop here,' said the driver, 'I've got to find a place to
turn. I tell you, if only they'd just beaten him ... But, oh no!'
Tatarsky gave in, and as the car took him home the driver shared the
fate of the chauvinist sergeant in a degree of detail that destroyed even
the slightest possibility of sympathy -after all, sympathy is always based
on a brief instant of identification, and in this case that was impossible -
neither heart nor mind would dare risk it. In fact, it was just a typical
army story.
When Tatarsky got out of the car, the driver said to him: 'As for that
idea of yours, I'll tell you straight: fuck only knows. All I want is the
chance to earn enough to keep me in petrol and booze. Yeltsin-Schmeltsin -
what do I care, so long as they don't go smashing my face against a table?'
Perhaps it was these words that made Tatarsky remember the handcuffed
manager who'd dialled the telephone number in the empty air. Inside the
entrance-way of his house, he stopped. He'd only just realised what the case
really required. He took the card out of his pocket and wrote on its
reverse:
THERE'S ALWAYS SOMEBODY WHO CARES! PUT YOUR TRUST IN TAMPOKO SHARES!
'So it's a conifer, is it?' he thought.
CHAPTER 11. The Institute of Apiculture
It happens so often: you step outside on a summer's morning and come
face to face with this immense, beautiful world hastening on its way to some
unknown destination and filled with mysterious promise, and the blue sky is
awash with happiness, and suddenly your heart is pierced by a feeling,
compressed into a single split second, that there life is in front of you
and you can follow it on down the road without a backwards glance, gamble on
yourself and win, go coursing across life's seas on a white speedboat and
hurtling along her roads in a white Mercedes; and your fists tighten and
clench of their own accord, and the muscles on your temples stand out in
knots, and you promise yourself that you will rip mountains of money out of
this hostile void with your bare teeth and you'll brush aside anybody you
have to, and nobody will ever dare to use that American word 'loser' about
you.
That is how the oral wow-factor manifests itself in our hearts. But as
Tatarsky wandered towards the underground with a folder under his arm, he
was indifferent to its insistent demands. He felt exactly like a 'loser' -
that is, not only a complete idiot, but a war criminal as well, not to
mention a failed link in the biological evolution of humanity.
Yesterday's attempt to compose the Russian idea had ended in the first
total and absolute failure of Tatarsky's career. At first the task hadn't
seemed very complicated, but once he'd sat down to it he'd been horrified to
realise there wasn't a single idea in his head, not a thing. Not even the
ouija board was any help when he turned to it in his despair after the hands
of the clock had crept past midnight. Che Gue-vara did respond, but in reply
to a question about the Russian idea he produced a rather strange passage:
Fellow compatriots! It would be more correct to talk of the oral-anal
wow-effect, since these influences fuse into a single impulse and it is
precisely this complex of emotions, this conglomerate of the two, that is
regarded as defining the socially valuable aspects of human existence. Note
that advertising occasionally prefers a quasi-J ungian approach to a
quasi-Freudian one: it sometimes happens that the acquisition of a material
object is not the expression of a naked act of monetarist copulation, but of
the search for a magical quality capable of relegating oral-anal stimulation
to the background. For instance, a blue-green toothbrush somehow guarantees
the safety of an attempt to clamber from an upper balcony to a lower one, a
refrigerator protects you from being crushed to death amidst the fragments
of a grand piano that has fallen off the roof, and a jar of kiwi fruit in
syrup saves you from an aeroplane crash - but this is an approach that most
of the professionals regard as outmoded. Amen.
The only thing in all this that reminded Tatarsky of the Russian idea
was the use of Yeltsin's favourite phrase: Tel-low compatriots', which had
always seemed to Tatarsky akin to the address 'Fellow prisoners' with which
the institutionalised mobsters used to begin their written missives to the
labour camps, their so-called 'daubs'. But despite this similarity, Wee Vova
would hardly have been satisfied by the brief extract produced. Tatarsky's
attempts to establish contact with some other spirit more competent in the
question concerned came to nothing. True, an appeal to the spirit of
Dostoievsky, in whom Tatarsky had placed especially high hopes, did evoke
certain interesting side-effects, with the ouija board trembling and leaping
into the air, as though it was being pulled in all directions at once by
several equally strong presences, but the crooked scribbles left on the
paper were useless to Tatarsky, although, of course, he could console
himself with the thought that the idea he was seeking was so transcendent
that this was the only way it could be expressed on paper. However that
might be, Tatarsky hadn't got the job done.
There was no way in the world he could show Khanin the sheet of paper
in his folder with the fragment about the tooth-brush and kiwi fruit, but he
had to show him something, and Tatarsky's mind retreated into
self-flagellation, rewriting all the brand names with the word 'laser' in
them and savouring them as he applied them to himself; 'Loser-Jet' and
'Loser-Max' lashed sweetly at his very soul, allowing him just for a moment
to forget his impending disgrace.
As he drew closer to the metro, however, Tatarsky was distracted from
his thoughts somewhat. Something strange was going on there. A cordon of
about twenty military police with automatic rifles were talking to each
other on their walkie-talkies, pulling heroic and mysterious faces. In the
centre of the cordoned-off area a small crane was loading the burnt-out
remains of a limousine on to the platform of a truck. Several men in
civilian clothes were walking round the skeleton of the car, carefully
examining the asphalt, gathering up bits of something from it and putting
them into plastic bags like rubbish bags. Tatarsky had a good view of all
this from higher up the street, but once he came down to the same level as
the station, the impenetrable crowd concealed what was happening from view.
Tatarsky jostled briefly at the sweaty backs of his fellow citizens, then
sighed and went on his way.
Khanin was out of sorts. With his forehead propped in the palm of his
hand, he was tracing some kind of cabbalistic symbols in the ashtray with a
cigarette-butt. Tatarsky sat on the edge of the chair at the other side of
the desk, pressing the folder to his chest and stuttering his rambling
excuses.
'I've written it, of course. As best I could, that is. But I think I've
made a balls of it, and it's not something you should give to Wee Vova. The
problem is, the theme is so ... It turns out it's not such a simple theme at
all... Maybe I can think up a slogan, or add something to the brand essence
of the Russian idea, or expand somehow on what Sasha Blo writes, but I'm
still not ready to write a concept. I'm not just being modest, I'm just
being objective. In general...' 'Forget it,' Khanin interrupted. 'Why,
what's happened?' 'Wee Vova's been taken out.' 'How?' Tatarsky slumped back
on his chair. 'Dead easy,' said Khanin. 'Yesterday he had a shoot-out with
the Chechens. Right beside your house it was, as it happens. He arrived on
two sets of wheels with his fighters, everything fair and up front. He
thought it would all be done right. But those bastards dug a trench on the
hill opposite during the night, and as soon as he turned up they blasted him
with a pair of "bumble-bee" flame-throwers. They're fearsome fucking things:
produce a volumetric explosion with a temperature of two thousand degrees.
Wee's car was armour-plated, but armour's only good against normal people,
not these abortions ...'
Khanin gestured in disgust.
'Wee never stood a chance,' he added quietly. 'And they picked off the
rest of his fighters, the ones who survived the explosion, with a
machine-gun when they jumped out of the cars. I don't know how you can do
business with people like that. That's if they are people . We-ell.'
Instead of a sense of grief befitting the moment, to his shame Tatarsky
felt a relief bordering on euphoria.
'Yeah,' he said, 'now I understand. I saw one of those cars today. Last
time he was in a different one, so I didn't even think about anything being
wrong. They've blown another guy away, I thought - every day someone or
other gets it... But now I see - it all fits in. But what does it mean for
us, in a practical sense?'
'Leave,' said Khanin. 'Indefinite leave. There's one hell of a big
question to be answered. Hamlet's question. I already had two calls since
the morning.'
"The police?'
'Yeah. And then from the Caucasian Friendly Society. The bastards could
smell a trader had been cut free. Like sharks. Straight for the scent of
blood. So the question of the moment is very specific. Our swarthy wops can
offer real protection, but all the filth want to do is line their pockets.
You'd have to lick their boots till they shone to get them to a shoot-out.
But either of them could blow you away. And especially the filth, as it
happens. They came on to me real heavy today . . . "We know you've got
diamonds," they said. What kind of diamonds have I got? Tell me that. What
diamonds have I got?'
'I don't know,' Tatarsky replied, remembering the photograph of the
diamond necklace with the promise of eternity that he'd seen in the toilet
at Khanin's place.
'OK. Don't you bother your head about it. Just carry on living, loving,
working... Oh, and by the way, there's someone waiting for you in the next
room.'
Morkovin looked just as he had the last time they'd met, only now there
were more grey hairs in his parting, and his eyes were sadder and wiser. He
was wearing a severe dark suit and a striped tie with a matching
handkerchief in his breast pocket. When he saw Tatarsky, he got up from the
table with a broad smile and opened his arms to embrace him.
'Oho!' he said, slapping Tatarsky on the back, 'what a face, Babe. Been
on the sauce long?'
'I'm just pulling out of a deep one,' Tatarsky answered guiltily. 'They
gave me this job to do here; there was just no other way.'
'Is that what you were talking about on the phone?'
'When?'
'Don't remember, huh? I thought not. You were in a real state - said
you were writing a concept for God and the ancient serpent was giving you a
real tough time about it ... Asked me to find you a new job, said you were
real world-weary . ..'
'That's enough,' said Tatarsky, raising an open palm towards him. 'No
need to pile it on. I'm up to my ears in shit as it is.'
'So you do need a job, then?'
'And how! We've got the filth clutching at one leg and the Chechens
grabbing at the other. Everybody's being given leave.'
'Let's go then. It just so happens I've got some beer in the car.'
Morkovin had arrived in a tiny blue BMW like a torpedo on wheels.
Tatarsky felt strange sitting in it - his body assumed a semi-recumbent
position, his knees were raised to his chest and the bottom of the car
itself hurtled along so low over the road-surface his stomach muscles
involuntarily contracted every time it bounced over another hole in the
road.
'Aren't you afraid of riding in a car like this?' Tatarsky asked. 'What
if somewhat leaves a crowbar sticking out of a manhole? Or there's one of
those iron bars sticking up out of the road ...'
Morkovin chuckled. 'I know what you're trying to say/ he said. 'But
I've been used to that feeling at work for so long now.. .'
The car braked at a crossroads. A red jeep with six powerful headlamps
on its roof halted to the right of them. Tatarsky stole a glance at the
driver, a man with a low forehead and massive eye-ridges, with almost every
inch of his skin sprouting thick wool. One of his hands was stroking the
steering wheel and the other held a plastic bottle of Pepsi. Tatarsky
suddenly realised Morkovin's car was way cooler, and he had one of his very
rare experiences of the anal wow-factor at work. The feeling, it must be
confessed, was enthralling. Sticking his elbow out of the window, he took a
swig of beer and looked at the driver of the jeep pretty much the same way
as the sailors on the bow of an aircraft carrier look down on a pygmy
paddling over his raft to trade in rotten bananas. The driver caught
Tatarsky's glance and for a while they stared each other in the eye.
Tatarsky could sense the man in the jeep took this long exchange of glances
as an invitation to fight -when Morkovin's car eventually moved off there
was fury bubbling in the shallow depths of his eyes. Tatarsky realised he'd
seen this face somewhere before. 'Probably a film actor,' he thought.
Morkovin moved out into a free lane and started going faster.
'Listen, where are we going?' Tatarsky asked.
'Our organisation.'
'What organisation's that?'
'You'll see. I don't want to spoil the impression.'
A few minutes later the car braked to a halt at some gates in a set of
tall railings. The railings looked impressive: the bars were like Cyclopean
cast-iron spears with gilded tips. Morkovin showed a policeman in a little
hut some card or other and the gates slowly swung open. Behind them was a
huge Stalinist-style building from the forties, looking like something
between a stepped Mexican pyramid and a squat skyscraper constructed with
the low Soviet sky in mind. The upper part of the facade was covered in
moulded decorations - lowered banners, swords, stars and some kind of lances
with jagged edges; it was all redolent of ancient wars and the forgotten
smell of gunpowder and glory. Screwing up his eyes, Tatarsky read the
moulded inscription up under the very roof: 'To the heroes' eternal glory!'
'Eternal glory's a bit over the top for them,' he thought gloomily.
'They'd be happy enough with a pension.'
Tatarsky had often walked past this building; a very, very long time
ago someone had told him it was a secret institute where they developed new
types of weapons. It seemed as though that must have been somewhere near the
truth, because hanging by the gates like some hoary greeting from antiquity
was a board bearing the crest of the Soviet Union and an inscription in
gold: 'The Institute of Apiculture'. Underneath it Tatarsky just had time to
make out an inconspicuous plaque bearing the words 'Interbank Committee for
Information Technology'.
The parking lot was packed with cars and Morkovin barely managed to
squeeze in between an immense white Lincoln and a silver Mazda racer.
'I want to introduce you to my bosses,' Morkovin said as he locked the
car. 'Just act natural. But don't go saying too much.'
'What exactly does "too much" mean? Who says what's too much?'
Morkovin cast him a sideways glance: 'What you just said is a good
example. It's definitely too much.'
After walking across the yard they went into a side entrance and found
themselves in a marble hallway with an unnaturally high ceiling where
several security men in black uniforms were sitting. They looked far more
serious than the ordinary cops, and not just because of the Czech Scorpion
automatics hanging at their shoulders. The cops just weren't in the same
league - for Tatarsky their blue uniform, which once used to radiate the
oppressive power of the state from every button and badge, had long ago
become an object of disdainful incomprehension - such a totally empty symbol
only emphasised