Алексей Никитин - Y.T.

Kurochkin, too, had been sure he was holding all the reins when—bam!—the ultimatum from his youth arrived by e-mail and everything was turned upside down. Within two weeks he was a fugitive hiding in Israel and an exile… But what about our fellow Yarik? The time was coming when Vakha would say, ‘Move over, Yarik, you’re taking up too much room. I’m feeling hemmed in with you on my land,’ and he’ll start shoving Yarik. First he’ll push him out of Crimea, and next… we’ll see what’s next. And then what? His politically correct mate on the district council will suggest observing the right of nations to self-determination up to and including secession, and his brother the traffic cop would love to help, but he’s getting old, and it seems he’s got nothing left but his truncheon …

I roamed the city not thinking about anything. The thoughts came and went of their own accord, melting away into the fresh air of approaching spring. Empty thoughts.

Suddenly I found myself in front of the building where our firm had its tenth-floor offices. Although I hadn’t meant to, somehow I’d ended up here, and the sooner I got away the better. But, as fate would have it, at the very moment I was trying to slip past the front door, a familiar automobile came to a halt right beside me. Steven Malkin in person climbed out of the car and took several brisk steps along the Kiev pavement. Half a second later we were standing eyeball to eyeball. I was not prepared to have a conversation with him and not at all happy about running into him. But Malkin, who wasn’t expecting to bump into me either, seemed even less pleased.

‘Well, well, Mr. Davidov,’ he bleated, swiftly leaping back a bit. ‘Have you decided to honor your place of employment with a visit?’

Malkin shouldn’t have done that. He should have walked right on past without even noticing me or with only the slightest of nods, so that I would spend the rest of the day wondering whether he had actually nodded or whether it had just seemed that way.

I didn’t know what to say to my infuriated boss. That I was out for a walk in the middle of the workday while the rest of the office was laboring as one to increase profits? I had nothing to say to him. An unpleasant pause hung between us. People were staring. Malkin was on edge. An abnormal situation had developed, a situation not addressed in the NLP textbooks. The textbooks left no room for chance, but chance had turned up right before their eyes, right on the steps to the main entrance.

‘During your absence,’ said Malkin suddenly, grinding his teeth, ‘during your prolonged absence, our situation, and yours, has undergone certain changes.’ He tried to take himself in hand and worked his mouth into a smile. ‘I’m taking advantage of this meeting to inform you that you can stop coming to work. As for details, you’ll be informed in writing.’

Finally he feigned the slight nod he should have begun with and hastily disappeared behind the door.

Poor Malkin. He’d gone and broken yet another rule: never give bad news in person. The boss can congratulate you on your success or inform you of a promotion or pay rise, but the boss never tells you you’re getting the sack or any other nasty news. That’s the responsibility of the secretary who will write in evasive terms on headed paper: ‘In the circumstances the company regrets to inform you that it will no longer require your…’ But perhaps he wasn’t poor Malkin, after all. Perhaps he had been dreaming about this moment, what he would say about the circumstances and the company no longer requiring… If so, one might feel a little sympathy for Malkin. Let’s say he’d imagined all the details and fine points of what he would say to me, how my face would fall, how right before his eyes I would be transformed from a colleague in a major international firm, for less than five minutes the head of the Department of Microstrategic Planning, into your typical jobless Ukrainian. But being aware of his power wasn’t enough for him; he wanted everyone around him to feel how powerful he was. And what had happened? There in the damp wind at the door to the office building, beneath the surprised glances of the guards and chance passers-by, he hadn’t managed more than a couple of pitiful sentences. He had missed a splendid opportunity. What a shame.

I wandered slowly onwards, contemplating Malkin’s plight. I didn’t know what had happened at the office over the past week. Perhaps I’d been sacked because of Kurochkin, or perhaps Kurochkin had nothing to do with it. In any case, Malkin had been a great help. I couldn’t imagine returning to my desk, sitting down at the computer and commencing to draw up a strategy for selling cola. I simply couldn’t imagine it. I’d already wasted five years on cola. Enough. And another thing. For some reason Malkin hadn’t mentioned William F. Hume. There had been no reason to do so. But when had he ever needed a reason? That meant he was well and truly shaken.

At last I judged the protracted farewell with Malkin to be closed, and found myself walking along Bolshoi Zhytomyr Street. It was drizzling lightly, and dusk was approaching. I ran across the road, turned on to a back street and came out in the direction of Old Kiev Hill. Before me was Gonchari-Kozhumyaki. After a twenty-year hiatus development here had resumed in this old quarter. Beyond loomed Castle Hill. I breathed the damp spring air in deeply. It felt like it was starting to get warmer.

‘It’s warming up. Have you noticed?’ said a voice behind me that I couldn’t fail to recognize.

‘The wind is changing. Are you still following me?’

‘I haven’t been following you, Alex, and I’m not going to start now.’ Sinevusov came up and stood beside me.

‘Then I suppose it’s just your habit to walk here in the rain.’ I nodded knowingly.

‘So what if it’s raining. I live here.’ He waved towards Volodymyr Street. ‘I’m walking my dog.’

I saw that Sinevusov had a lead in his hand.

‘Which one’s yours?’ Near by a band of dogs was gamboling joyfully.

‘No, mine’s over there.’ He pointed at a sad, solitary terrier negotiating the incline with difficulty. Sinevusov whistled and slapped his hand against his thigh. The terrier made as if it to race over to his owner, but it didn’t gain any speed.

‘A venerable old dog,’ I concluded.

‘No. Just cunning and lazy,’ sniffed Sinevusov.

Slowly we made our way towards the History Museum.

‘Well, seeing as how we’ve accidentally bumped into one another, it would be a shame not to ask you—did you let Kurochkin down, too?’

‘What gives you that idea?’ asked Sinevusov with genuine astonishment. ‘That’s not my style. Absolutely not. On the contrary, I’d have helped him for old times’ sake. Although, like you, I could see early on that it was better to keep my distance. He let himself down, Alex, and that’s the literal truth. It’s all his own fault. Why do you think he called on a couple of old lags like you and me to help him? Do you think we two are uniquely qualified? You can be sure he’s met far more qualified specialists in his time. Don’t you reckon?’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘And you shouldn’t. There’s just no one left he can trust. Kurochkin has managed to play the swine for everyone. For some he’s just been a little piglet, for others a whopping great hog. Everyone except you and me, although… You, too, but you still don’t seem to realize.’

‘Leave it. If he were that much of a swine his true colors would have shown by now. I’d know if he’d done anything.’

‘Brace yourself, then.’ Sinevusov laughed softly. ‘You’re about to witness a showing of the colors, as they say. Anyway, it’s an old story that has nothing to do with what’s happening now—or maybe just a bit…’ He laughed again.