Виктор Пелевин - Babylon

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 Ariosto? 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.