Michael Honig - The Senility of Vladimir P.

As Sheremetev led Vladimir in, a hush descended on the room. Every eye turned on the old man in the blue suit who had stopped in the doorway. A few wisps of grey hair clung to his scalp, the face was wrinkled and jowly, and yet with its square chin, broad forehead, close-set and slightly slanting cold blue eyes, it was still immediately recognisable as the face that for thirty years had been the most photo­graphed in Russia.

Vladimir looked at Sheremetev in confusion.

‘It’s alright, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just the people who have come for the meeting.’

‘Am I going to a meeting?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have I been briefed?’

‘Of course.’

Vladimir looked around again, reassured now, taking in the lights and the cameras. Some last remaining instinct stirred within him of the leader that he had once been and he straightened his back, raised his chin, and a slight supercilious smile curled his lip.

‘Who am I meeting?’ he whispered.

‘Lebedev,’ replied Sheremetev.

‘Of course. Lebedev!’ he muttered, and there was a note of combative relish in his voice as he glimpsed the big man standing with his aides on the other side of the room. ‘The time has come!’

Constantin Mikhailovich Lebedev had got his foot on the political ladder as mayor of Moscow, combining an ebullient public persona with a private, craven submissiveness to the Kremlin’s commands that made him seem like the perfect placeman. In power, he rapidly became known for his insatiable corruption, more interested in money than power, the kind of politician who posed no threat and whom Vladimir was always happy to advance. But in retrospect, even in the early days there were signs that there was more to Lebedev than met the eyes. What he took in graft with one hand, he gave back – at least in part – with the other, cannily keeping the common Muscovite happy with a string of populist measures that did nothing for the city’s future but cheered everyone up with a few extra kopecks in their pocket. Soon the media were calling him Uncle Kostya and he revelled in the moniker. A politician who craved money and wanted to be loved seemed even less of a threat, and Vladimir allowed him a second term as mayor. But Vladimir had to admit that he underestimated him, taken in by Lebedev’s talent for playing the gladhanding buffoon. In reality, greater than Uncle Kostya’s greed – gargantuan as it was – was his cunning. From the start he had his eyes on prizes more glittering than the mere mayor­alty of the capital. By the time Vladimir realised this, Lebedev had Moscow in his pocket and was a force to be reckoned with.

Vladimir set out to destroy him. He brought him into the federal government, only to sack him a year later on charges of incompe­tence and corruption. Lebedev crawled away wounded, but not mortally, having energetically used his government appointment to distribute the proceeds of a brief but monumental ministerial plundering to a group of influential supporters who had every reason to expect more from him if he could recover power in the future. He had also accumulated an impressive store of secrets that reached to the very top of the Kremlin – the very top – and shielded him from further attacks that might have finished him off. So back Vladimir brought him, keeping him close as he searched for another way to dispose of him. For the next decade, the cycle repeated itself – in and out of the government waltzed Uncle Kostya, shamelessly pillaging whatever ministry Vladimir handed him, skimming off even more wealth and spraying it around ever more liberally to entrench himself with another cohort of supporters before being ignominiously sacked, at each sacking playing on his avuncular reputation to portray himself as the innocent victim of Kremlin plotters. Vladimir loathed him with a gut hatred, the type of unbearable disgust that comes from knowing that the only reason this person exists is because of your own mistake in building him up and then not cutting him down when you still had the chance, an existential hatred that comes from looking at someone you despise… and finding that when you look past the appearances, what you see is a mirror.

Now he left Sheremetev and strode across the room towards him, as if all of this was happening twenty years ago and he was about to deliver the coup de grâce to this bugbear who had swung like an albatross around his neck for so long. ‘Constantin Mikhailovich!’ he greeted him loudly.

One of Lebedev’s aides rushed forward. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, President Lebedev has come today to pay his respects and to ask you to say a few words for the Russian people on the auspicious occasion of his election. If you could, for example, say—’

‘Sit,’ said Vladimir to Lebedev, pointing at one of the armchairs that had been prepared.

‘But Vladimir Vladimirovich…’ said the aide.

Vladimir walked to the other chair, and then stood imperiously. Lebedev glanced at his aide. ‘I’ll handle it,’ he murmured.

A pair of makeup specialists hurried forward as the two men sat and proceeded to dab at their faces. Vladimir raised his chin, im­patient for them to be finished. After a minute or so he shooed them away. ‘That’s it! Enough!’

The makeup specialists retreated.

‘Constantin Mikhailovich, are you ready?’ said the producer behind the camera.

Lebedev nodded.

The lights went on. Suddenly, the scene was bright. Vladimir immediately thumped the armrest of his chair. ‘So? What have you come to report, Constantin Mikhailovich? I am not satisfied! The Ministry of Finance is a disgrace. You promised me a year ago that you would clean it up. Now it’s worse than ever!’

‘Vladimir Vladimirovich—’

‘Well, Constantin Mikhailovich? What have you got to say?’

Lebedev turned briefly to his aides and rolled his eyes. Then he looked back at the ex-president. ‘You fired me from the Ministry of Finance once already, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It’s the exact same speech. Are you going to do it again?’

‘Did I appoint you again?’

‘No,’ said Lebedev.

‘Why are you here, then?’

‘For this.’ Lebedev grabbed Vladimir’s hand and turned to the cameras with a smile. ‘Look at the cameras and give us a smile, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’

Vladimir pulled his hand away. ‘You’re a crook, Kostya Lebedev! You were always a crook.’

‘Well, if I was a crook, I had Russia’s greatest teacher,’ replied Lebedev out of the corner of his mouth, the smile still on his face. ‘Come on, let’s be honest, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’

‘Honest? Fine, let’s be honest. You’re nothing but a thief.’

Lebedev leaned forward, still smiling. ‘And you? You knew how to get your share. Where should I start? The Olympics? The World Cup? Or what about Kolyakov’s ring road? That was the best! That’ll choke Moscow like a noose for the next hundred years. How much did you get on the ring road, Vova? Twenty percent?’

‘I should have you thrown in jail. You’re worse than anyone.’

‘Me? Look, I’m the president now. Put a smile on your fucking face, Vova, and congratulate me.’

‘Go and fuck yourself, Kostya.’

‘Say: I wish you all the best, Constantin Mikhailovich. In your hands, Mother Russia is safe.’ Lebedev waited. ‘Well, Vladimir Vladimirovich? Say it.’

Vladimir laughed.

‘I wish you all the best, Constantin Mikhailovich. In your hands, Mother Russia is safe.’

‘In your hands? You’ll never be president, Kostya Lebedev. Not even Russia would do that to itself.’

‘Okay, I’ll never be president. Fine. It’s just a game. Let’s pretend. Say: I wish you all the best—’

‘Can you smell something?’