Алексей Никитин - Y.T.

‘But the truth is?’

‘The truth is this honest man was reared by the KGB. First the KGB, then the Ukrainians. Then he got big enough to stand on his own two feet, but the ties are still there.’

‘But they think he’s pro-American in the States,’ I said, remembering Malkin’s fervent monologue of the previous week.

‘Sure they do. But you don’t remember Kurochkin. He’s everyone’s friend. He thinks everyone else is an idiot, and he’s the smartest one of all. But they’re not idiots. And I can’t be the only one he’s got his teeth into. But never again. They’ve got all they want now from Kurochkin—and not just the Cheka secret police. There are others, too, but the game’s up, and he’s really going to get it. There’s no one backing him up any more but a handful of Chekists. And after fifteen-odd years they must be sick to death of him. Chances are that’s what they’ll do.’

‘As far as the secret police are concerned, let’s just say that’s speculation on your part. So what was the problem? Can you tell me?’

‘There shouldn’t have been any problem at all, Davidov. There was a small factory outside Kiev that I wanted to buy from the state—or, rather, privatize. That’s all. Kurochkin was Deputy Premier at the time. I don’t know what the hell made me get in touch with him—I could have handled it by myself, but I thought I’d get myself some protection. He said, “Bring your money out into the open. We’re creating a transparent economy. But I’ll help you and press the right buttons.” Like an idiot I did everything he said. After all, he was an old friend, and he was running the show around here. I was losing almost 10 per cent as it was, but right there and then everyone swooped down on me: the tax police, the Economic Crime Office, state security, funds, schmunds and a few moronic bandits… You know what he did? He used me to settle his debts.’

‘No way. That doesn’t hang together somehow…’

‘As ever, Kurochkin is as white as snow. He said, “You attracted attention to yourself. You should have been more careful.” And he washed his hands of me.’

‘Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with him?’

‘In that case he could at least have given me a hand. But no… And later on, when the dust settled, I made enquiries. Everything pointed to him. I can tell you don’t believe me.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I can’t prove anything—there’s nothing in writing—but my advice is to steer clear of him. Don’t even get close. Not just because he’s got problems right now, they’re nothing to do with you anyway. It’s when he’s strong and things are going his way that Kurochkin is dangerous. The bait is on the hook, the nets are in place. He’s like a spider—he devours everything within reach.’

‘What a picture.’ I laughed. ‘But what’s the point of the ultimatum, then? You got a copy, right?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read it—straight from our snot-nosed childhood and all. But that’s something else. Entirely.’

‘That’s what I’m saying. There are things you don’t know—’

‘Certainly,’ interrupted Kanyuka. ‘And lots of them. But I know what matters—that Kurochkin’s a piece of shit, and the security services are shaking him down for good reason. The rest is just details. Now, come clean. Did you send it?’

‘The ultimatum? You’re kidding. Kurochkin asked me to find the author… that is, not the author—we all know who wrote it—he asked me to find out who sent it. You know, he thought it might be Korostishevski, and he wasn’t fooling around.’

‘Alex, I’ve got one more thing to say about Kurochkin, and then we won’t talk about him anymore, okay? He’s not worth it. But the fact that he’s even afraid of Sashka Korostishevski—God rest his soul, may he rest in peace and all that, he was a lovely bloke—the fact that he’s afraid of Sashka’s ghost tells you a lot. Just think about it. He’s charming, certainly, and he wears a velvet glove, yes, but heaven forbid you should—’

‘Vadik, I’ve known him for more than twenty years and he’s never—’

‘That only means you don’t know everything. Or your time hasn’t come yet. But enough of that. Let’s talk about something more pleasant. Tell me,’ he said, turning to Vera, ‘how’s your father getting on? I think about him now and again.’

It was late at night when I dropped Vera off on South Borschagovka. We agreed to talk the next day and quickly said goodbye. I still had another week of leave, and she had ten days before she left for Germany.

The whole week we were away it had been raining in the city. The rains had finally melted away the snow. Although the weather forecasts still reported that tiresome old refrain ‘Around zero in the capital, wind northerly changing to north-easterly, possible precipitation,’ it was clear that spring had arrived. Only the wind had yet to surrender.

The next day I left the house in the morning and spent the day wandering aimlessly. When I had felt like this in the past I would jump into the car late at night, get on to the ring road and let myself race along, cleaving through the changeable, swampy night. Then, dropping my speed a little, I would return to the city and zigzag at length inside the triangle between Lukyanovka, St. Sofia and the Botanical Gardens. Occasionally I went to Podol, less often to Pechersk. At this hour the roads were peaceful, travelled only by taxi drivers and other drivers like myself, petrol heads crazed with loneliness and the senselessness of existence. While waiting for the light to change I would study their greyish faces, their brows drawn in torment. Some moved their lips, talking to themselves, filling the emptiness with the sound of their own voices—they had nothing else to fill it with. Frequently I saw women at the wheel. Office managers. Plasticine businesswomen absorbed in business—usually not their own but somebody else’s—and absorbed far more deeply than it warranted. Some had spent the day in negotiations and meetings. The bird language of negotiations was long the only language they could use or understand without an interpreter. This nocturnal journey was a crack in the unified, unshakeable picture of their world. In the morning they would hurriedly paint it out, but in another week or two it would once again mar the façade of the tidy little house they had built exactly according the instructions in glossy magazines. Even at night they concentrated on the road as if it would lead them to a target; they were always aiming for targets. They gripped the steering wheel tight. Nothing distracted them, and they didn’t look around.

On my way out I might have thrown the car keys into my jacket pocket this time, too, but a week on the road had been enough. I didn’t want to see the car—I couldn’t bear to see the car—so I walked.

It’s not for no reason that human beings have lived for thousands of years on these high clay banks, not wishing to leave them. Whatever the circumstances—and at times the circumstances were gut-wrenching and life grew utterly unbearable—life has never been snuffed out. Something keeps us here, replenishing us with the force of life. Come what may, the force of life has always been abundant in the Kiev hills. But wisdom has been in short supply, that’s for certain. The only ruler capable of introducing a more or less intelligible code of law was immediately christened ‘the Wise,’ although his decision has always struck me not so much a demonstration of wisdom as ordinary common sense. Even now our common sense is in good order—that’s pretty much always been the case, whoever the bosses may be, whoever is in charge. We’re not strategic thinkers, so there are always people who want to think strategically for us, but when it comes to making perfect tactical decisions, our Ukrainian Yarik, salt-of-the-earth and worthy heir to Prince Yaroslav the Wise, is without rival. What this means, in effect, is that Yarik has corn and wheat in the threshing barn and potatoes and apples in the larder as well as sauerkraut and salted cucumbers, tomatoes and garlic and salted lard, of course; he’s got a real beast in the stables and a young boar and a bull calf and a heifer; and in the little cellar he has moonshine for domestic needs and for settling up with workers for little jobs. He’s got a good mate on the district council, and his brother works for the road patrol. On Sundays he goes to the bathhouse for a steam with the priest, and the son of the nouveau-very-riche ‘New Ukrainian’ from the next village has sent matchmakers to Galya, his eldest daughter. His own son is growing up and going to school, and when he finishes his studies he’ll be just like his dad. What happened next was no longer his concern. That Vakha and his friends were already in Crimea in the brotherly company of their fellow Muslims, few but fervent, was not visible to him from behind his fence. And just what should he see? That Vakha was hauling nuts? Let him haul all the nuts he wants. Our fellow Yarik has a mate on the district council and a brother in the road patrol. If there’s a problem, his brother will give Vakha a fine for a traffic offence.