Алексей Никитин - Y.T.

‘Yes.’

The major exhaled heavily and wiped oil from his brow.

‘Very well… Your Zaporozhians go to the synagogue and settle their debts in grivnas…’

‘Actually religion and state are separate in the Khanate, although history has brought about precisely the situation you describe. Most Zaporozhians are Jews. You can’t rewrite history.’

‘Really?’ said the major with far more emphasis than necessary. ‘You’re telling me?’

I looked around. ‘Is there someone else here?’

‘Stick to the subject,’ said the major, disregarding my question. ‘Back to the Zaporozhians. There’s so much you can learn in the course of an ordinary interrogation. Now tell me about the Khanate’s army. And its foreign policy.’

‘The Khanate of Zaporozhye is economically and industrially developed. Per capita income is slightly higher than thirty thousand grivnas… I can’t remember the exact figures, but they’re in the papers somewhere.’

‘Indeed.’ The major nodded. ‘How much is that in roubles?’

‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘We didn’t value them in roubles.’

‘What currency did you value them in?’ There was a metallic edge to his voice, and the pores of his neck and brow oozed oil and venom at the same time. ‘Dollars? Marks? Israeli shekels?’

‘The Zaporozhian grivna is a hard currency. Other states can use grivnas to value their income and budgets. You’re interrupting me a great deal.’

Sinevusov nodded and said drily, ‘Carry on.’

‘The Khanate of Zaporozhye has a strong economy and solid industry,’ I repeated out of spite. ‘Machine building, instrument design, chemicals and agriculture are all well developed. The army is one million strong.’

‘One per cent of the population,’ clarified the major.

‘More or less. The arsenal includes nuclear weapons, platforms for launching weapons of all ranges. But on the whole the Khanate is peaceful and hasn’t been at war for many years.’

‘Yet it has territorial issues…’

He knew what he was talking about. Itil, the Khanate’s ancient capital, had been captured five hundred years before by the Slovenorussians. But the Khanate wasn’t going to fight over it.

At first one interrogation was very like another. It was like helping schoolchildren who were about to take an examination and whom I was helping to prepare. The children asked me questions, and I’d answer them; they’d write down my answers and ask me more questions. The first interrogations were almost exactly like exam-preparation sessions. I was tutoring my investigator, Major Sinevusov. And waiting for him to come to the point.

A day went by before I managed to get hold of Kurochkin. Kurochkin was a big fish in our rather small pond. He was now a Member of Parliament, and five years ago he was a Member of Parliament, but in between, he had been First Deputy Premier—I beg your pardon, they now style themselves First Deputy Prime Minister, a splendid title that is the secret posthumous envy of all the Viceroys of India. Kurochkin now had a stake in a reputable bank, and for his sustenance he had been given a fund through which ethereal American dollars were pumped into decrepit Ukrainian industry.

I had to ring him from the office. Not good. Once a month our office receives a list from the telephone exchange of all the numbers we’ve dialed. Including numbers dialed from mobiles. If they noticed that I’d rung Parliament two days in a row they would start asking me all kinds of stupid questions. But only if they noticed. And that was pretty unlikely.

Which reminded me of a time when it hadn’t taken days to get through to Kurochkin, when I knew by heart all the numbers where I might find him, and he knew mine just as well. We could meet up at any time and for any reason, and reasons weren’t hard to find. We didn’t even look for them. At school we’d been in the same class, sat at the same desk, prepared for examinations using the same textbooks. I called him Kurkin, usually just Kur. We were both in love with Natasha Belokrinitskaya, and our chances were an even nil. And we were both searched at the same time and arrested on the same day.

‘Kurochkin,’ I said, when I was finally put through, ‘have you received a letter?’

He didn’t ask what kind of letter. Perversely he said, ‘I just knew this was one of your idiotic jokes.’ And sighed heavily. Meaning it was his lifelong burden to endure me and my jokes. Laborer. Defender of the People’s Welfare. Victim of Davidov.

But it meant he’d received the letter.

‘No, Kurochkin, it’s not one of my jokes. It’s someone else’s joke. I thought you might know something.’

‘Davidov,’ the note of fatigue was gone, but the perversity remained, ‘have you any idea how busy I am? Today alone I…’ Here he yawned loudly and began shuffling familiarly through his parliamentary papers. As if he were about to read through the day’s entire order of business from the lectern in Parliament.

‘Enough! I believe you,’ I said, interrupting so that he wouldn’t actually start reciting all his business.

‘And here you are with your letter,’ concluded Kurochkin with satisfaction.

‘It’s not my letter. And the text—word for word, it’s…’

‘Well, yes…’

‘It’s exactly the same. I know because I know it by heart. The only difference is the date.’

‘I noticed. So it wasn’t you?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to say.’

At that he grew thoughtful, and there was certainly plenty to think about.

‘Which e-mail account was your letter addressed to?’

‘My parliamentary e-mail. Why?’

‘Can someone outside of Parliament get hold of it?’

‘It’s pretty straightforward—it’s open access.’

‘So will you write back, then?’ I asked simply, incidentally, as if that’s not why I had called in the first place.

‘Write back? Me? Are you pulling my leg, Davidov?’

‘Well, just imagine it’s an e-mail from one of your electorate. You do have voters, right? One voter’s pension has been miscalculated, another hasn’t received the tax credit he’s due…’

‘And a third sends an ultimatum.’

‘By the way, it’s already four o’clock.’

‘So?’

‘You have until six to write back. You’ve got another two hours.’

‘And the third,’ Kurochkin suddenly roared, ‘sends me an ultimatum signed by Emperor Karl and demands the withdrawal of troops before six o’clock… Where does he want troops withdrawn from?’

‘Leibach.’

‘From Ljubljana, in other words. And the return of Istria. It would look just great if I used my parliamentary e-mail to answer this… this… Words fail me, honestly.’

‘Then use a different e-mail address if that’s the problem.’

‘It’s not the address. Don’t play the idiot.’ Kurochkin was already more composed. ‘You know it’s not the address.’

‘Fine. Then let’s think on it for a few days. Okay? And talk later.’

‘Okay. Although… Well, you know where to find me.’

I knew he wanted to say one more time that he wasn’t interested. But he didn’t say it. And it’s a good thing, too. Because I knew this was interesting and important. As important as it had been before, although twenty years had passed since it had all first begun.

It’s a long time since I’ve been able to believe myself. I don’t believe what I remember. I’m sure that’s not how it was… but how was it? I would be glad, I would even want to watch—right now, but as a bystander, an invisible observer in a far-away corner—what had actually happened. To hear again the questions I was asked and how I answered. Sinevusov’s office with its window overlooking a courtyard, the lifeless fluorescent light in the cell… Scores of times I’ve seen them in dreams, hundreds of times in memory. Yet always afresh, always somehow different. For every minute of the interrogation, every day spent in that cold place, sequestered inside the concrete walls of the inner prison, away from the rest of the world, every minute and every day was different from all other minutes and days. And the differences, scarcely noticeable at times, monstrous at others, had long since been effaced and overlaid by invention and dream. Layer upon layer of thoughts about what hadn’t been but might exist on top of the memory of what had been but might not have been. And each new layer was not merely as plausible as the one before but even more so. So what can I, what should I, remember now? What I had been asked? What I had answered? Had I even been there at all? What about Sinevusov? Well, we can at least assume that he was there.