As for Sheremetev himself, he didn’t think that he was a stranger for Vladimir. He wasn’t a friend, he wasn’t family, but he felt sure that he was something more to the ex-president than a faceless nurse. He was certain that Vladimir knew him and was at ease with him, even if he couldn’t remember his name. He was the only one who could calm him before his agitation became too great. And when the look of confusion and fear came into Vladimir’s eyes, it was him that he looked for. Sheremetev, for his part, regarded the ex-president as more than a mere patient. How could he not, having looked after him so intimately for the last six years? They had been through Vladimir’s rages together, the slow, stuttering extinction of his insight into his condition, the eruption out of the remains of his mind of his delusions and hallucinations. Whatever was left of Vladimir’s consciousness on any given day, whatever world he lived in, he was still a person, still Vladimir Vladimirovich, still someone who could feel, shout, cry, question, laugh. You can’t live so closely for so long and go through such things with someone and not develop a relationship with them, a sense of concern and even affection, that goes beyond the merely professional, even if that person has no idea who you are.
But no one else in the dacha had such a relationship with Vladimir. Even those who came to the upper floor, the maids and house attendants who saw him each day, rarely exchanged a word with him, and were generally tentative, uncertain, tongue-tied, partly because dementia often has that effect on people unaccustomed to dealing with it, partly because of the aura of who Vladimir had been. The others who lived in the dacha saw him only by chance, in passing, when he was out for his daily walk. Other than Sheremetev, the ex-president was surrounded by people he didn’t know and who regarded him as unknowable, like some kind of living statue. It made the responsibility that Sheremetev felt as the only person in the dacha who knew and cared for Vladimir seem sometimes insupportable. At other times, when the second wife had waltzed in for the first time in six months and then waltzed out again twenty minutes later, as if fulfilling some kind of duty that was required to retain access to whatever funds financed her existence, it almost broke his heart.
As a nurse, Sheremetev had seen many people die over the years, some quickly, some slowly, some resigned to their fate, some raging against it, some peacefully, some in pain. But by far the worst death, in his opinion – apart from a death experienced with agony racking one’s bones – was to die alone. Surely it was at the foundation of civility that a man should have some comfort from those who had loved him when his time came to depart, and surely it was at the foundation of love that they would want to give it to him. What kind of civilisation, he wondered, would allow Vladimir to live out his final days like this? And if this is all that Vladimir could expect – after his years of public life and all that he had done for the motherland – then what could anyone else hope for?
Well, Sheremetev wouldn’t let the worst happen to him. He wouldn’t let him die with no one to comfort him. That much, at least, he could ensure.
The doctors had said he should take him for an outing. Why not? Both he and Vladimir could do with a change of scenery.
When he returned after seeing the doctors out, Vladimir was sitting where Sheremetev had left him, deep in conversation with an armchair.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ he said brightly, ‘let’s do something you’ll enjoy. Shall we go to the lake? We used to go, do you remember? It’s a nice day for a walk. Maybe we’ll get Stepanin to pack us a lunch.’
Vladimir looked out the window.
‘See? It’s sunny. I’ll find something nice for you to wear.’
Sheremetev went into the dressing room. It was lined on all sides by shelves, hanging rails and drawers, and was many times larger than the little room in which Sheremetev himself slept each night. On one set of rails were at least three dozen overcoats, some fur, some leather, some wool; on others must have hung sixty or eighty suits. Elsewhere were rails of jackets, blazers and bomber jackets, shelves of sweaters, shirts and shoes, drawers of underwear, socks, belts and cufflinks. Sheremetev selected a suit, a shirt, tie, belt and shoes, then he put the clothes down on a chair and opened a freestanding cabinet that stood in the middle of the room.
The cabinet was about a metre and a half in height and half a metre in width and depth. Made bespoke for Vladimir out of a polished hardwood, it had a pair of doors that opened to reveal a column of drawers, each only five centimetres in height. Sheremetev applied a slight pressure to the front of one of the drawers, which slid smoothly out. The drawer was lined in black velvet and had three rows of five niches. In each of the niches nestled a watch.
Sheremetev perused the watches in the tray, then pushed it back in and opened another, from which he selected a silver timepiece with a blue face.
He closed the cabinet, gathered up the clothes, and took everything into the bedroom.
‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich, let’s get dressed.’
As much as was possible, it was good for Vladimir still to do things himself. This meant that simple activities took longer than they might have done, but Sheremetev was determined to help Vladimir preserve his capacities for as long as he could. He stood with the ex-president as Vladimir fumbled with his clothes, gently prompting him when he forgot what he was doing.
‘I wore this on election night,’ said Vladimir, as he slipped on the suit jacket.
‘This suit?’
‘Look, it’s got a spot.’ He raised his left arm and pointed at a place near the elbow.
Sheremetev saw a very faint darkening in the material. ‘Which election night?’ he asked. In the early years, Vladimir had often told him stories stimulated by items of clothing that he was wearing – meeting President Bush for the first time, hunting a Siberian tiger, flying into Chechnya at the height of the war, opening the Olympics, banqueting in Beijing with President Xi. The stories were endless, as one might expect from a man who had led such a life.
Vladimir frowned.
‘Well, doesn’t matter which election, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It’s a good suit.’