‘The sentence for the crime is up to ten years.’
Sheremetev winced. ‘You can have what I’ve got, every ruble, I promise.’
‘If all you’ve got is a couple of hundred thousand, you may as well keep it.’
‘Should I talk to the prosecutor? I could tell him I don’t have anything.’
Oleg thought about it. ‘I don’t know if it would help. I can ask the lawyer.’
‘Ask. If they’ll see me, I could explain.’
‘What about Vasya?’ said Oleg. ‘Does he have money?’
‘Three hundred thousand dollars?’
‘As much as he can! The lawyer says there may be a little room for negotiation.’
‘I’ll talk to him. I don’t know what he’s got.’
‘Talk to him today, Kolya. Please.’
Sheremetev nodded. ‘I’ll call him.’
There was silence again. For a couple of minutes the two brothers sat without speaking, each caught up in his thoughts.
‘Can I see him?’ asked Oleg eventually, raising his eyes to the ceiling again.
‘It’s not really allowed, Olik.’
‘Would he know? You said he’s got no idea what’s going on, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then…?’
Sheremetev sighed. ‘Alright. Just for a minute.’
They went up the stairs, encountering the maid who was Stepanin’s lover on the way. Sheremetev opened the door to Vladimir’s sitting room. Vladimir was in his chair, the TV on in front of him, a younger version of himself on the screen. At first they could see only the back of his head. Sheremetev gave Oleg a nudge and led him in.
Vladimir’s head turned. Oleg froze.
‘Who’s this?’ said Vladimir.
‘My brother,’ replied Sheremetev.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Oleg.’
Vladimir gazed at him with his cold, blue eyes. ‘Can you smell something?’
‘Say no,’ whispered Sheremetev, as he saw his brother hesitating. ‘It’s got nothing to do with the chickens.’
‘No,’ said Oleg.
‘Sure?’ said Vladimir.
Oleg glanced at Sheremetev, then nodded.
‘The fucking Chechen’s somewhere here, I can tell you. I can smell him, the son of a bitch.’ Vladimir laughed. ‘He can never take me by surprise, because I can smell him from fifty metres. I’m like a bear! Understand me?’
Oleg nodded.
Vladimir watched him a moment longer, then turned back to the television.
‘Who’s the Chechen?’ whispered Oleg.
‘No idea,’ murmured Sheremetev.
At the door, Oleg stopped and looked back. Vladimir sat, eyes on the television, oblivious to them. Oleg tapped Sheremetev with the rolled-up pages of Pasha’s blog. ‘Do you agree with this, Kolya?’ he said quietly. ‘The stuff that Pasha wrote?’
Sheremetev glanced at his brother, then looked at the old, senile man who was facing away from them in the chair. He shrugged. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’
Sheremetev didn’t ring his son very often. Something held him back. He didn’t know what Vasya did to earn money, and at a certain level he probably feared that he might find out.
But he rang Vasya that night, as he had promised Oleg that he would do.
To his surprise, Vasya already knew about Pasha’s blog – and he was unsympathetic, to say the least. He didn’t seem to regard it as unusual that the prosecutor wanted a bribe to let Pasha go. He laughed coldly when Sheremetev asked if he could pay it.
‘How much do they want?’
‘Three hundred thousand dollars,’ said Sheremetev.
Vasya laughed again.
‘Even if you can only spare a part—’
‘Even if I could – which I can’t – why would I give it to Pasha? So he can get out and do it again? Does he think such a thing is going to make a difference to anybody but himself? Let him spend some time inside and then maybe he’ll learn some sense.’
‘Let him spend some time inside?’ Sheremetev was incredulous. ‘Are you serious, Vasya? He’s your cousin.’
‘He’s an idiot. What he did is an indulgence. Writing something like that makes no difference to anyone – those who agree with him, agree with him, and those who don’t, don’t – and nothing he says will change anyone’s mind. What he writes makes not a speck of difference, so why does he do it? Because he thinks somehow it makes him better than everyone else. Pasha’s always been like that. And what happens while the holy martyr is standing up there on his pedestal? Everyone suffers. Uncle Oleg suffers. You suffer. And if anyone knows he’s my cousin, I suffer.’
‘Why will you suffer?’
‘Why will I suffer?’ demanded Vasya angrily. ‘Papa, what world do you live in? If the world knows that I have a cousin who’s done what Pasha has done – and the world will know, or suspect, because his name’s Sheremetev just like mine – then the size of some of the commissions I have to pay has just doubled. Do you understand me?’
‘No, I don’t understand you. What commissions?’
‘Commissions! How do you think the world goes round? Mother of God! Get real, Papa! If I gave him the money to get out – which I don’t have, as I told you – but if I gave him the money, do you know what would happen then? With some people, I couldn’t do business at all, no matter how big the commissions I would pay. So you can say to Uncle Oleg, I’m sorry his son is such an idiot, but maybe after a couple of years inside he won’t be such an idiot when he comes out.’
‘I’m not going to say that to Uncle Oleg.’
‘Fine. Don’t. Only don’t judge me. You live your way, I’ll live mine. But tell me this: who’s going to be paying for your retirement, Papa, when you’re too old to work? Who’s going to keep you alive when you suddenly discover that the money you’ve scraped to save from your salary isn’t enough for even a year? Is it me or is it Pasha?’
‘I’m not asking you to pay for my retirement. I’m asking if you have—’
‘I don’t have it! Okay? And I’m saying, if I did, I still wouldn’t give it, and you can tell whoever you like!’
Sheremetev was silent.
‘So how are you, anyway, Papa?’ asked Vasily.
‘I’m fine,’ muttered Sheremetev.
‘How’s your patient? Is he still alive?’
‘Of course he’s still alive.’
‘Are you sure? I saw him on the TV the other day with Lebedev. Was that him or have they stuffed his corpse like Lenin?’
‘Don’t say a thing like that!’
Vasily laughed. ‘Do you need anything? Have you got enough money?’
‘I don’t need anything. Your cousin—’
‘Don’t start that again, Papa. I’ve told you. Pasha’s old enough to know what he’s doing. He’s not a fool, and he’s not a child. We live in Russia. If he did what he did, he knew what the consequences might be. Lucky he didn’t end up dead. I’m serious, Papa, he should take this as a warning. People who get a reputation for writing such things don’t live long in this country. Say that to Uncle Oleg.’
‘I’m not going to say that to Uncle Oleg. He’s worried enough.’
‘Well, I can’t tell you what to do.’
There was silence again.
‘Papa? Is there anything else? I’ve got things to do.’
Commissions, thought Sheremetev. What did that really mean? To whom was Vasya paying these commissions, and what was he getting in return?
He remembered Vasya as a small boy, always smiling, running, cheeky, always pushing to the limit and sometimes beyond. He thought of Karinka and wondered what she would have made of their son now. It was the same Vasya, the same little boy he had carried to bed each night, and yet at the same time it wasn’t and he felt that he hardly knew this child they had brought into the world.