Алексей Никитин - Y.T.

‘Go ahead, then.’ I shrugged. ‘Let your skeleton out of the closet and into the light of day.’

‘You can call it a skeleton if you like, although I prefer something more neutral such as the history of an acquaintance, yours and mine.’

Sinevusov paused and stole a glance at me. I’d caught the hint. I’d understood him, and for a moment it took my breath away. It was impossible.

‘Don’t talk crap, Sinevusov. Kurochkin was detained for two months just like me. Just like all of us. We were both expelled from university, and we were both sent into the army—him, too. Can’t you come up with a better story than that? Do you really think I’m that stupid? I’m genuinely insulted.’

‘He turned out to be a hulking fat boar of a swine.’ He nodded contentedly. ‘In fact it’s incredible that he didn’t manage to ruin things for you, Davidov. How have you ever managed to preserve your almost virgin purity and your trust in an old student friendship? You might have learned by now…’

‘That’s what I thought. You don’t have any facts.’

‘Facts, facts… Do you really need to see papers, eh? I don’t carry them around with me, and I wasn’t expecting to have this conversation, as I’m sure you can appreciate. But put your brain in gear, Davidov, and perhaps you can figure it out without documents. Let’s begin with the fall-out. Kurochkin was the only one of you who managed to get back into university. And not just into a radiophysics department but a law department, after all that had happened… Moving on to your two years in the army. Those were two lost years for you but not for Kurochkin. He was working on his career. Can’t you see? Even then. Step one: inform on a group of apolitical students who were quantitatively simulating the partition of the Soviet Union; step two: the army; step three: a law degree. He maintained contact with the KGB at all times. So, moving on… Although it’s true that it had nothing to do with you personally. Incidentally, Davidov, have you ever played Civilization?’

‘No, I’m not interested.’

‘I suppose you had your fill when you were younger. I ask because your game was more fun to play. On the computer I’m building civilizations at 300-percent settings. Can you believe it? It draws you in, but it’s not the same. You had real people playing. Psychology. A battle of minds…’

‘Why did you let us go then if we were quantitatively simulating?’

‘The winds were changing.’

‘I thought we’d already talked about the weather.’

‘I’m not talking about the weather. The first two or three weeks we were working you in the usual way when we got a command to slow down. So we slowed down. A week passed, then two, then three, then a month—how long could we keep it up? Then we got another command—let the pups go. And we let you go.’

‘It would seem Kurochkin’s efforts were in vain.’

‘What’s he got to do with it? He did his bit, there’s no question about that. But the situation changed. You just got lucky.’

We had got as far as the History Museum. The rain intensified. Sinevusov’s terrier marked a pagan temple unearthed by the archaeologist Vikenty Khvoika more than a hundred years before and sat down for a good scratch. Spray flew from his withers in a wide arc.

‘Step back,’ said Sinevusov, taking me by the elbow. ‘He’s about to shake himself.’

‘Okay,’ I said without comprehension. ‘Let’s say Kurochkin was responsible for what happened. But the four of us were the only ones affected. We were the only ones who even knew about it. So who’s responsible for the letter? And the nienty million he can’t account for?’

‘Ah,’ laughed Sinevusov, ‘yes, the letter about the ninety million. It had to be edited somewhat. No, not me, I didn’t tamper with it.’ He waved and caught my eye. ‘I only gave advice, although you can hardly call it advice. I contributed one short sentence to make it sound more plausible.’

‘Yes,’ I guessed. ‘The YT at the bottom of the page. Your turn.’

‘He was on edge because of the ultimatum, so I played along a little. I “stole the letter from his care and left a different letter there” as Pushkin once wrote.’

‘Then the ultimatum was your work.’

‘No.’

‘Go ahead and lie if you want to. But why deny it when you’ve already told me everything? You’re the only one who could have done it.’

‘Why lie when all I have to do is keep quiet?’

‘Then what are you telling me for?’

‘I think you have a right to know what really happened. And I always thought you were a decent person.’

His compliments were lost on me. I didn’t trust him.

‘But,’ he went on, ‘am I right to think that you still don’t know who sent the ultimatum?’

‘There’s no one but you,’ I repeated stubbornly.

‘I see. You don’t know. I’m asking not because it’s important or might change anything but because there’s still one final link missing.’

‘You want closure?’

‘Of course I do.’

Night was rolling in upon the city, and the rain had begun to pour down more heavily. I watched Castle Hill receding into darkness—and I was back there, one bright day in May. I saw Kurochkin and myself. Only the night before we’d been released from Volodymyr Street, he had left Ryskalov; I, Sinevusov. We’d been victors then, that was obvious, and now Sinevusov was telling me there had been no victory. I gave him a quick glance. He, too, was looking at Castle Hill, but I couldn’t begin to imagine what he was thinking. A large drop of rain quivered on his temple and trickled down his cheek. He used to sweat oil. Oil and venom. His deepest, innermost thoughts surfaced as oil and venom. But now it was water. Nothing but rainwater.

The rain poured down, washing away the remnants of colors we’d once used to paint over this dismal landscape. The water was ruthless and stubborn in its insistence on absolute truth.

Suddenly I recalled my previous meeting with Sinevusov.

‘Do you remember the café last week in Podol? There was this bloke you were trying to recruit.’

‘I wasn’t trying to recruit him. I’ll bet he was English.’

‘So you remember. I wanted to ask what you said to him after I left.’

‘So you noticed, eh? That’s okay. It wasn’t anything major. I said we’d blown his cover a long time ago—and I said you were the Russian FSB colonel charged with liquidating him.’

‘Fantastic. What did you do that for?’

‘So he’d step more lively. He was acting so lethargic it irritated me just looking at him.

‘Well, of course, in that case…’

‘We should be getting home,’ said Sinevusov and whistled to his dog. ‘How can I get in touch with you? Have you got an e-mail address?’

‘Why don’t you write it down. Have you got a pen?’

‘Just tell me—I’ll remember.’

‘It’s Istemi at—’

‘Is what?’

‘You’d better write it down. I’ll spell it. I-S-T-E—’

‘Ah, I get it.’ Sinevusov laughed. ‘Istemi, of course… What was it you called yourself? The Khan of the Zaporozhian Encampment?

I remember now. That’s just what I needed to learn it by. But let me know if you find out who sent the ultimatum.’

‘I will.’

‘I’m easy to find. I go for a walk every evening.’ He gave me a slight wave goodbye.

Sinevusov and his mournful terrier went off towards Volodymyr Street, and I continued to stand there, getting soaked and studying the views of nightime Kiev. It was time for me to go, too.

When I’d left home that morning to spend a couple of hours wandering undisturbed around the city, I could not have imagined where, when and with whom I would finish my walk. It wouldn’t be hard to ascribe some sort of mystical or symbolic meaning to what happened—if you wanted to. But I didn’t want to. Once upon a time we had brought forth shadows, and those shadows ended up changing our lives—it was our own fault, no one else’s. To this day those shadows had not dissipated. They were still Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire Karl XX, President of the Slovenorussian Federation Stefan Betancourt, President of the United Islamic Caliphates Caliph Al-Ali, Lama of Mongolia Undur Gegen, Istemi Khan of the Khanate of Zaporozhye and Major Sinevusov of the Committee for State Security. And although their hold on us was not what it used to be—it had grown weaker over the years and would grow weaker still—it would never completely leave us. The way the memory of one hot day in May 1984 spent by Kurochkin and me on Castle Hill would never leave me. It was the day we had won. If anyone should ask me about the happiest day of my life, I know what my answer will always be.