‘Sheremetev, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Are you hungry?’
Vladimir looked at him suspiciously. ‘Yes, I’m hungry.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Here’s lunch,’ said Sheremetev.
He went to the door. One of the house attendants was standing outside with Vladimir’s lunch.
‘Is everything alright in the kitchen?’ asked Sheremetev, taking the tray, still struck by the glimpse he had caught of Stepanin pacing around on the grass outside the dacha.
The attendant shrugged.
‘With the cook? Is he alright?’
‘I didn’t see the cook,’ muttered the attendant. ‘They just gave me the food.’ He stood for a moment longer. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes,’ said Sheremetev. He carried the tray to the table and set it down. ‘Come on, Vladimir Vladimirovich. Here’s something to eat.’
‘It is time already?’
‘It’s time. You’re hungry, remember?’
‘Is it breakfast?’
‘Lunch.’ Sheremetev smiled. ‘It’s easy to forget. You had your breakfast, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’ Sheremetev raised him from his chair. ‘Come. Let’s eat.’
Sheremetev guided him to the table and put a napkin around his neck. He tied it cautiously. ‘Is this okay? Not too tight?’
‘It’s okay,’ said Vladimir.
There was a bowl of chicken soup on the tray. Sheremetev put a spoon in Vladimir’s hand.
Vladimir fidgeted with it. After a couple of minutes, Sheremetev gently released it from his hand and raised a spoonful of the soup to Vladimir’s lips.
‘How is that? Is it good?’
Vladimir smiled. ‘It’s good.’
Sheremetev raised another spoonful. Vladimir sipped at it noisily.
6
STEPANIN HAD ABOUT as much ability to hide his feelings as a Russian bear trying to hide itself in a snow field. That night he sat brooding in the staff dining room, stubbing out one cigarette and lighting another, throwing back one glass of vodka and reaching for the bottle to pour himself the next. Whatever it was that had had him fuming outside the dacha that morning was still eating at him.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Sheremetev eventually.
The cook grunted. He got up and opened the door to the kitchen and yelled at one of the potwashers, then came back and slumped disconsolately in his chair, fingering his vodka glass with a look of disgust.
‘Vitya?’
Stepanin looked up. ‘What’s the boss been like today? Okay? Give you any trouble?’
‘I was going to take him out, but the cars were broken down.’
‘Both cars?’ said Stepanin disbelievingly.
Sheremetev shrugged.
‘An S-class Mercedes and a Range Rover?’
Sheremetev shrugged again.
‘What fuckery! Broken down? Sure. Eleyekov! What a gangster.’
‘He’s a gangster?’ said Sheremetev.
‘No, I don’t mean a gangster. Not a gangster.’
‘Then what do you mean?’
Stepanin gave Sheremetev a look, the kind Sheremetev had been accustomed to receiving ever since he first confided to one of his fellow conscripts in the army his belief that their captain would soon be exposed and punished for hiring them out like slaves. ‘Eleyekov’s okay,’ muttered Stepanin. Everything’s okay for him.’ The cook angrily stubbed out his cigarette, picked up the box, toyed with the idea of lighting another one, then threw it down in disgust.
Sheremetev watched him.
‘It’s the chickens,’ growled the cook.
Sheremetev was none the wiser.
‘The chickens! Barkovskaya, that slut, suddenly has a cousin who sells chickens. Where has he come from, this cousin? From under which stone has he crawled? Yesterday there was no cousin – today there is. They’re probably stolen chickens, if you ask me.’
‘Stolen from where?’
‘Who knows?’ Stepanin fixed Sheremetev with a furious glare. ‘Do you have any idea how many ways there are to steal chickens? Do you even know how many places you can steal them from?’ Stepanin poured himself another vodka, watching the liquid cascading into the glass. ‘Not only chickens! Ducks, pheasants, geese. Anything with feathers.’ The cook threw down the vodka, swallowed hard, and grimaced. ‘Put a feather on it,’ he rasped, momentarily hoarse, ‘give it wings, put a beak on its face – and Barkovskaya’s cousin, the shit, has it.’
‘Aren’t they fresh?’ inquired Sheremetev.
‘They’re fresh!’ retorted Stepanin. ‘Why shouldn’t they be fresh?’
‘What about the quality?’
‘The quality’s fine!’
‘Then…?’
Stepanin sighed, and gave Sheremetev another one of those looks, but worse this time, as if he was gazing upon a fool whose imbecility was of a depth so extraordinary, whose innocence was of a simple-mindedness so complete and so utterly unsullied by knowledge or experience, that in the five billion years of its existence the world had never witnessed the like. ‘Today, my chicken supplier calls me and says he’s been terminated. Half an hour later, this other one turns up with chickens and grouse and God knows what. Now, Kolya, tell me, who’s the chef? Stepanin or Bolkovskaya?’
‘You are, of course.’
‘So who decides on the suppliers? Stepanin or Bolkovskaya?’
Sheremetev, not knowing the protocol amongst chefs and housekeepers, guessed. ‘Stepanin?’
‘So what’s Bolkovskaya doing? Hmmm?’
‘It’s her cousin. Perhaps she thought—’
‘Exactly! Her cousin. Okay, so let’s say, in this one case, I say, it’s Bolkovskaya’s cousin, it’s fine. Let’s get the chickens from her cousin. Not to mention the fact that my chicken man is a friend who goes back with me twenty years. We stood guard duty together in Crimea. Even then he was stealing chickens. He stole – I cooked. What feasts we had! Okay, but let’s forget that. Let’s say Bolkovskaya’s cousin is more important than twenty years of friendship and guard duty on some shitty base in Crimea.’ Stepanin leaned closer, his eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know what else happened today?’
Apart from both cars being broken down – and Sheremetev had a hunch that wasn’t what Stepanin was talking about – nothing out of the ordinary, as far as he was aware.
‘A certain restaurant in the town didn’t get their chickens either. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘No,’ said Sheremetev. He was utterly confused. What restaurant was Stepanin talking about? Did the friend from his days on the Crimean base supply it as well? And why should it make a difference if he did?
Stepanin stared at him, then shook his head and sat back in the chair. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it.
Sheremetev had a feeling that there was something the cook wasn’t telling him. But what? There seemed to be more to this, he sensed, than mere loyalty to an old army buddy.
‘What about everything else you’re responsible for buying? Has Barkovskaya done anything about the rest?’
‘Look, first, there’s the principle!’ retorted Stepanin angrily. ‘It’s as old as the ages. The cook chooses the suppliers. Without that principle – chaos! And second…’ He hesitated, gazing shiftily at Sheremetev.
‘Second…?’
‘Second… Second… This is the thin end of the wedge! If I let her do this, it’s exactly as you say. Next, it’ll be the fishmonger. Then the butcher. Then the cheesemonger. Then the fruit and veg man. Then the dried fruit merchant. Then—’
‘Dried fruit? Do we eat a lot of dried fruit?’
‘A lot! You’d be surprised.’
‘I never see any.’
‘Well, most of it… there’s a confectioner I know in town. Anyway, the point is, this is only the start.’
‘Vitya, how many cousins could she have?’