Алексей Никитин - Y.T.

I imagined Kurochkin in the kitchen with a glass of blood and a brown leg of Saint Nestor the Chronicler on his plate. At the very thought my stomach rebelled, and I began to gag.

‘Ah, I see that’s making you queasy,’ Kurochkin observed, ‘but I kid you not. Some guy actually has suggested modernizing the caves. I’m going to turn the scheme down tomorrow, but in a couple of days all the papers—all the papers he owns—will start smearing me with shit. Just wait and see.’

‘All right,’ I said vaguely, ‘although you don’t exactly look intimidated. Just a few days ago I read that you’ve been declared the Ukrainian government’s sex symbol.’

‘Ah. Don’t read the gutter press before lunch, doctor.’

Of course you didn’t have to read it—Kurochkin wouldn’t look any less attractive. Around twenty years before, someone, probably Kanyuka, had called Kurochkin the ‘human numeral 1.’ Long and skinny, with a prominent nose, chin and Adam’s apple and a stomach you could feel his spine through, he aroused the pity and compassion of every woman the wrong side of thirty. He was fed by the ladies from the lunchroom, the cleaning ladies, the mothers and grandmothers of his friends and acquaintances—and my mother especially. I seem to recall Kurochkin being remarkably omnivorous. As the years went by he grew heavier. Beneath his light artificial tan one could now detect a tender layer of flab. The former ‘numeral 1’ was nowhere in sight. Kurochkin was smooth and sleek, and if not for his regular bouts with iron weights he would have looked more like a 0. A lean, fit 0.

‘Any more mail today?’ he asked.

‘Not this morning, no. Nothing important, anyway.’

‘Good. You’ll remember this, of course…’

He put a print-out of the ultimatum in front of me. ‘Recent history has shown that there exists within Slovenorussia…’

‘I remember.’

‘It looks like he’s done what he said he would do and started a war.’

‘What do you mean he ?’

‘Who else? Sasha Korostishevski, the Holy Roman Emperor.’

That was impossible. Kurochkin knew just as well as I did that Korostishevski could not start a war. In early October 1986, when all the active-duty troops in our conscription were being demobilized by order of the Ministry of Defence of the USSR and we old-timers were hurriedly pasting the last photographs into our demob albums, Sashka’s APC was ambushed outside the Afghan town of Herat and subjected to heavy fire. The tank burned up. So did Sashka and the rest of his crew. That is a fact, an absolute fact. No one was saved.

‘I see. You’re shadowboxing.’

‘Davidov! Yesterday his shadow stripped me of 90 million. And this is just the start.’

‘An impressive start,’ I agreed. ‘But try as you may, you won’t strip me of ninety million. Why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning.’

‘Okay.’ Kurochkin nodded. ‘But not now. I’ve got something to show you. Let’s go.’

‘I can just imagine. If I had any children I’d tell them never to drink my company’s cola and to steer clear of your surprises.’

We stepped outside. From the soggy plywood entrance to the Roman Catholic church a priest opened his damp arms to us.

‘Let’s take your car,’ said Kurochkin. He winced and turned up the collar of his coat. ‘Mine’s got about a dozen bugs in it. What dreadful weather. Three weeks into spring, and it’s as cold as New Year’s Day. What a country. Let’s get going.’

‘Where to?’

‘We’re going to lunch. I usually eat about now. The place isn’t far from here.’

Kurochkin apparently had lunch by the Golden Gates. We could have walked there in fifteen minutes. Instead it took us nearly an hour in the car. The whole of the city center was clogged like a blocked drain.

When I saw we were stuck and were going be stuck for some time, I said, ‘You should have brought your flashing lights. You do have flashing lights, don’t you?’

‘What do I want flashing lights for?’ he growled. ‘They just annoy people pointlessly. I’m sure you’ve blown a gasket or two when idiots with flashing lights get in your way. Why don’t you have a look at this while we’re waiting?’ He passed me the letter.

A polite gentleman who referred to Kurochkin as ‘my dearest Yuri’ wrote that this year unforeseen circumstances in world markets had prevented him from entirely fulfilling agreements concluded at his ranch three years before. The gentleman hoped Yuri would show the understanding befitting a wise statesman and gave assurances of his unswerving feelings of friendship. The writer of the letter gave his name simply as Michael. No surname, no position. Just Michael.

‘Is that your ninety million?’ I asked Kurochkin after reading the letter twice.

He tilted his head and didn’t say anything.

‘What does Sashka Korostishevski have to do with it?’

‘Can’t you see?’

‘No,’ I replied honestly.

‘You didn’t read it carefully. What’s this?’ he said and pointed to a couple of letters at the bottom of the page.

‘Y.T.,’ I read, and shrugged. ‘That could mean all sorts of things. It could be a printing glitch and not mean anything at all.’

‘A printing glitch!’ Kurochkin flared up. ‘A printing glitch worth ninety million dollars, eh? It’s not just Y.T., Davidov. No way is it just Y.T. Do you remember now?’

I did remember: Whenever we moved our troops, advanced or retreated, we had written ‘your turn,’ usually just ‘Y.T.,’ to confirm that we’d made our final decision. How eerie those letters looked in the letter from this unknown Michael—unknown to me but evidently well known to Kurochkin. Looking at the letters now, I felt something in the world change forever—some axis shifted, the stream of time changed course, even the sky abruptly changed color. Somewhere close at hand horns began to sound impatiently.

‘Hey, keep your eyes on the road.’ Kurochkin brought me down to earth. ‘It’s almost evening on a Friday, and people are irritable. Come on, let’s get going.’

To the blowing of horns and invective of other drivers grid-locked alongside us, we slowly moved forward.

‘Kurochkin,’ I said, ‘you may be right.’

‘I wish I wasn’t, Alex,’ Kurochkin sighed. ‘You know this money doesn’t belong to me. Not to me personally. These ninety lemons are gone, but another ninety must not disappear. There’s no point in my telling you all the details, but you can be damn sure it’s being watched. Speaking of which, can you please keep the letter confidential? It’s not dangerous that you’ve read it, but please don’t broadcast it either. Maybe the bloke who’s been waiting for us the past hour at Rabelais will know what’s going on.’

‘What bloke?’

‘I said it’s a surprise.’

‘Another one? I thought the letter was your surprise. And who’s Michael?’

Kurochkin jerked his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Why not?’ I asked uncomprehendingly. ‘He’s playing against you, and you—’

‘He’s not the one playing, Davidov. Can’t you see that? He’s just a respectable man who’s been to Ukraine two or three times for all of ten hours, no more. He’s never even heard of our game and doesn’t know a thing about it. But somehow they’ve managed to make a move. Do you know what that means? Just think who it might be…’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ I said indifferently. The words ‘respectable man’ had lost meaning for me ages ago. It was just an abstract idea. Maybe Kurochkin thought he was a respectable man, but he was a nobody. It was a long time since I had trusted anyone’s judgment but my own. ‘Who do you think it might be?’