Names? Ah, that was a different matter. Firstly, there were so many. Secondly they were all false. Moreover, in Viktor’s world we are all friends, aren’t we, Sasha, Seriozha, Simka, Dimka, Arkasha, Kolya? There was no need for family names in Viktor’s extended family even when, as happens in the best of families, a quarrel arose and a knife appeared below the table during dinner at the Ararat and a bottle of Yubileiny went onto the floor.
There is however a dark side to this — no, not a dark side — rather Viktor’s dealings are seen through a veil. Where there are men, there are naturally women — also provided by Viktor. ‘My harem,’ he called them, conscious of his status. They too were a changing throng (except of course for Nadia who had her special relationship with Viktor of which the other girls were jealous). Viktor selected them and they did not stay long nor did they know each other. Recruitment was not a problem: Viktor’s kindness and consideration were legendary and he never misused you (said the other girls, and Nadia Mazurova agreed, though not in those words). The entertainment of the harem was first class, but during the business dealings the girls sat idly by, dying of ennui, and peered through their veil of isolation. Sasha, Seriozha, Simka, Dimka, Arkasha and Kolya joked and had a jolly time; they patted each other on the back and compared bellies (You should lose weight, Sasha, be as slim as Viktor). The girls retired in boredom to the restaurant toilets and there exchanged their real names and promised to keep in touch.
Or so Nadia Mazurova told it. And she added a few facts that stuck in her mind — like the time at the Aragvi restaurant when Viktor burst into tears.
‘Over what?’ Kirov asked.
‘Something — something had upset him.’
‘Who was there?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Nadia Mazurova answered hastily. ‘Sergei and some of the others — I forget.’
‘Viktor cried about business? That doesn’t seem likely.’
‘No.’
‘Then about people. A girl?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You?’
‘No. It’s not important. You wanted to know what Viktor was like. He was emotional. He cared about people.’
And Kirov let the matter drop there. He was convinced that, whatever mystery might surround Viktor Gusev’s personal life, he remained at bottom only an unimportant racketeer, whose story was clear except for some odd discrepancies which would resolve themselves in due course. And for that reason the rest of her story could be dismissed as irrelevant, but for one fact. Nadia Mazurova had reminded him that the only mystery of abiding interest was the relationship between men and women.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kirov found the poem in the volume by Davidov left to him by Irina Terekhova. The book had become a nomad object that wandered around his apartment, now by his bedside, now browsed in the bathroom; an unexpected reminder as inconvenient as a guilty conscience. Osip Davidov was a bad poet, but like other bad writers could strike the occasional chime from some facile truth and set it ringing for a while. To prove Davidov’s point, Tomsky turned up at Kirov’s apartment.
Tomsky worked the American desk in the First Chief Directorate. He serviced Yatsin and the Washington Residency — occasional bagman, occasional translator of Yatsin’s official-speak into intelligible Russian, occasional pimp if allowed to join the KGB entourage on a diplomatic visit. He was a moustache-grower, never entirely with or without one. His apartment was in the same block.
‘Are you going to ask me in — invite me for a drink?’
‘Come on in.’ Kirov let Tomsky through the door and fixed a couple of drinks. While he waited, Tomsky picked among the books, looked at and discarded Davidov’s poetry and then carelessly took a seat. He was so relaxed that he could have fallen apart with tension. Kirov handed him a drink. He noted the gold identity bracelet and the Porsche key ring: Tomsky collected Western junk and wore his latest moustache like a souvenir.
‘Is this business or pleasure?’ Kirov asked.
Tomsky smiled, threw back his drink and said, ‘Personal — I’m doing a friend a favour.’
‘A friend?’
‘Scherbatsky.’
The only Scherbatsky Kirov knew was the subject of the Chinese watch story, another of Vanya Yatsin’s odd-job men.
‘I’m glad he’s thinking of me.’
Tomsky treated this as a joke.
‘How’s he doing?’ Kirov remembered that Scherbatsky had been arrested. Something to do with the Moscow City housing fraud.
‘He’s OK. Unhappy, but OK. He’s under house-arrest. His apartment has been sealed and he’s living with his parents in Kavrov.’
‘And his wife?’
‘You knew he was married?’
‘I heard he bought her a watch.’
Tomsky laughed again. ‘That’s Scherbatsky for you!’
There was only so much laughing you could do; Tomsky began to fidget and then handed over a slip of paper with an address written on it. ‘Scherbatsky’s place. He’d like to see you.’
‘And why would I want to see him?’
Tomsky shrugged. ‘A favour? Call it a favour — don’t you collect favours? I thought everybody did. Friends do each other favours — it’s called Communism.’
‘People keep telling me that.’
‘Suit yourself. I’ve done what I promised.’ Tomsky bridled.
Kirov stopped him. ‘What does he want to talk about?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
Kirov found what the other man reminded him of — bad films, people acted them all the time when they were looking for a role.
‘Not particularly!’
That got Tomsky laughing again.
‘He wants to talk about serious business, he tells me. Serious — you understand serious?’
Kirov didn’t know which looked more exhausted, the horses or the crowd. Since the races were fixed, form hardly counted and a good tip was better than an eye for horse flesh. Uncle Bog had neither and so consistently lost money.
They met by arrangement outside the hippodrome entrance by the heroic statuary of rearing stallions and well-muscled men. Bogdanov had smartened himself up and looked more sleazy than the touts. Normally morose, he was grateful that Kirov had taken up his suggestion to go to the races. Kirov never speculated on where Bogdanov got his pleasures, and here was Uncle Bog, pleased.
They went inside. Bogdanov placed a couple of bets and they stood on the two-tiered stand to watch the horses lose his ten roubles, which was all the tote allowed. Kirov told him about the visit from Tomsky.
‘He’s a friend?’
‘No.’
‘And Scherbatsky? I thought you didn’t know Scherbatsky?’
‘I don’t.’
Bogdanov shook his head and took a pull on a bottle of vodka he had bought from some character on the stairwell. ‘It tastes like diesel fuel,’ he said after this third choice fell in the final stretch. ‘How about a beer at the Bega?’
‘OK.’
The racecourse restaurant was a decent enough place. They got in the beers and went to stare out of the windows. Bogdanov had forgotten about the horses. He had the fretful look he wore when things were happening that he didn’t understand.