Michael Honig - The Senility of Vladimir P.

THE DACHA WAS THIRTY-FIVE kilometres southwest of Moscow, in a birch forest near the town of Odintsovo. Set in eight hectares of land, and built as a Soviet government retreat for senior party dignitaries, it had undergone extensive enlargement and modernisation over the previous twenty years. The original building had two storeys, the lower of which consisted of several reception, dining and sitting rooms as well as a kitchen and staff quarters, while upstairs were a number of bedroom suites. To this had been added an enlarged staff accommodation bloc connected to the original staff quarters on the ground floor, and a basement had been excavated which housed a cinema, gym, sauna and swimming pool. Elsewhere in the grounds were a gardener’s lodge and a garage that could accommodate a small fleet of cars, with an apartment above it for the drivers. About a third of the grounds was covered by native birch woodland, while the remainder of the estate was occupied by a series of recently constructed greenhouses in the form of long, sausage-shaped tunnels covered by clear plastic.

Originally state property, the dacha had been appropriated by Vladimir as one of his many residences during his long succession of presidencies. Like so much else in Russia – like the country itself, perhaps – no one could say who owned it now, or perhaps it was more accurate to say that the letter of its ownership did not necessarily coincide with the reality.

Vladimir’s suite consisted of a bedroom, sitting room, dressing room and bathroom. Other than Sheremetev, who slept in a small bedroom nearby, he was the only resident of the upper floor of the dacha, but to look after him the staff quarters housed a small army. Four maids, three male house attendants, and a general handyman who could manage plumbing and electrical problems took care of domestic duties, while a complement of three gardeners and a dozen labourers managed the grounds and greenhouses. A contingent of twenty security guards provided seven-day, twenty-four-hour cover for the estate in rotating shifts. A driver, his wife, and two grown up sons, one of whom also acted as a second driver when needed, lived in the flats over the garage. This horde was fed in the staff dining room, adjacent to the kitchen on the ground floor, by Stepanin and a brigade of half a dozen assistant chefs and potwashers. And ruling over the entire crowded roost, hiring and firing, paying the bills, was the housekeeper.

Until a month previously, the housekeeper had been Mariya ­Pinskaya, a plump, garrulous woman with a fondness for cheese. Then, without warning, she had walked out. One day she was there, snacking on Stepanin’s cheese bulochki – not Lebedevki, but traditional ones – and the next morning, she announced that she was leaving with her truckdriver husband for a villa in Cyprus, and her suitcases were already at the gate.

In reality, who the housekeeper was made little difference to Sheremetev. Unlike most of the other staff, he wasn’t answerable to her, but to Professor Kalin, Vladimir’s neurologist. But the departure of the longserving housekeeper was naturally unsettling, the suddenness of it doubly so. When he first began to look after Vladimir, Sheremetev had kept his own two-room apartment in Moscow, imagining that he would use it on his days off, but a few years later he sublet it. To all intents and purposes, the dacha was his home now, and he expected that he would be here until Vladimir died. He had grown accustomed to the life in the dacha and to the people who inhabited it with him, Pinskaya included.

But change happens, Sheremetev knew. In one form or another, it was inevitable. Three weeks after Pinskaya ran off, a new housekeeper had arrived to take her place, a short, gimlet-eyed woman with dyed brown hair who introduced herself to the staff as Galina Ivan­ovna Barkovskaya. It was obvious immediately that Barkovskaya was no Pinskaya. She was more sparing with her words, more watchful, and ate little cheese, whether wrapped up in bulochki or neat. Still, Sheremetev saw no reason for there to be any problems. Things in the dacha had run smoothly before Pinskaya left, and once the new housekeeper had settled in, he imagined, they would continue to do so. The dacha was like a small village. Everyone seemed to have their niche and to get on with everyone else.

THE NEXT EVENING, STEPANIN seemed preoccupied once more. He sat moodily in the staff dining room, gnawing on his pork scratchings and watching Sheremetev eating a plate of chicken fricassee.

‘What do you think?’ asked Stepanin, nodding at the dish.

‘It’s good,’ said Sheremetev.

For a moment, Stepanin forgot whatever it was that was troubling him. ‘I got some beautiful mushrooms,’ he said, putting his fingers to his lips with a smacking sound. ‘So fresh, you could still smell the dung on them! Dill, green peppercorns…’ he smacked again.

Sheremetev nodded as he ate.

‘Barkovskaya said she liked fricassee. I had some lovely plump chickens.’

‘So you made it for her? That’s nice.’

Stepanin shrugged. ‘We had a chat again today, Barkovskaya and me.’

Sheremetev didn’t think anything of it. The chef seemed to be having a lot of chats with the new housekeeper, but he imagined that it was natural for a housekeeper and cook to have things to speak about, particularly when one was new to the job.

From the kitchen, where the assistants and potwashers were still working, came the sound of pots crashing. Stepanin took a slug of his vodka and refilled his glass. ‘What do you think of her, Kolya?’

‘Barkovskaya?’ Sheremetev shrugged. ‘She seems okay.’

Stepanin leaned forward. ‘No, what do you really think?’

Sheremetev had no idea what the cook was getting at. ‘I don’t know. She seems efficient.’

‘Efficient…’ Stepanin sat back and blew out a long breath. ‘Well, that’s true. That’s one word for her. More efficient than Pinskaya.’ Stepanin sighed again. ‘What fuckery!’

‘What?’ asked Sheremetev.

‘It’s a fuckery that Pinskaya should go and this Barkovskaya turn up to take her place. A grand piece of fuckery with a cock on top!’

‘What’s so bad about it?’

The cook gazed at Sheremetev, as if trying to decide if he should say anything more. Suddenly there was a noise from Sheremetev’s pocket. When he wasn’t with Vladimir he carried a baby monitor with him, like the one parents use to listen for cries from their sleeping infants.

‘Is he awake?’ asked the cook.

Sheremetev took out the monitor and put it to his ear. There was a low staticky rustle which always came out of it, but nothing more distinct.

‘Maybe you’re going to have one of those nights.’

‘I hope not. The doctors are coming to see him tomorrow.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘No. Just the monthly checkup.’ On a good night, the sedatives that Sheremetev gave to Vladimir before the ex-president went to bed helped him sleep until seven – but not every night was a good one. Sheremetev listened to the monitor again. There was nothing now but the background rustle that always came out of the speaker. He put it down and took another mouthful of the fricassee.

The cook toyed with his vodka glass. Whatever was worrying him, for once he had apparently decided not to say anything else. He picked up his glass and downed the rest of the spirit, then got up. ‘Better see what those fuckers I have to work with have been up to,’ he said, heading to the kitchen. ‘Enjoy the fricassee, Kolya. There’s more if you want it.’

Sheremetev stayed alone in the dining room. A couple of the security guards wandered in and took servings of cold cuts from the sideboard, and he exchanged a few words with them before going upstairs. He slept with the baby monitor on his bedside table. The vague rustlings and mumblings that were always coming out of it didn’t disturb him. It was the nights when Vladimir suddenly started shouting that he dreaded.