‘You’ll need six or seven stitches,’ he said. ‘It’s not just a nick.’
Sheremetev nodded.
The doctor set to work. ‘So how’d this accident happen?’ he asked, as he drove the suture needle in for the first stitch.
‘A zipper.’
The doctor looked up for a moment with an inquisitive glance, then began to tie the suture in a series of quick hand movements.
‘Vladimir Vladimirovich threw a jacket at me,’ said Sheremetev, as Rospov paused before inserting the second stitch. ‘I took him out for a walk and he got agitated.’
The doctor nodded. ‘How’s that going now, the agitation?’
‘He has his moments.’
‘It’s worse?’
‘About the same.’
‘The drugs are helping?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘And Professor Kalin, is he still coming to see him?’
‘Every month. He brings another professor with him. Andreevsky. Do you know him?’
The doctor shook his head. He put in the second stitch, tied it and snipped the suture thread. ‘I think we’ll need seven here, Nikolai Ilyich. Is that okay?’
‘Whatever you think.’
He put the next stitch in. ‘Who was it you told me that he always talks about when he gets agitated? Who was it again? A Georgian? A Ukrainian? A Syrian?’
‘A Chechen.’
‘That’s right! A Chechen. I knew it was someone he’d got us into a war against. What do you think it’s about? Do you think he feels guilty?’
‘I don’t know.’ Sheremetev couldn’t recall anything to suggest that Vladimir felt any guilt towards the Chechens. His tone of voice and the way he struck at whatever he thought he was seeing weren’t exactly suggestive of contrition. But then why did he constantly sense the Chechen’s presence around him, and why did he feel so threatened by it?
‘So that was it today? That Chechen again?’
‘No, today we were at the lake.’
Sheremetev gave a brief account of the outing and the ten minutes of mayhem that ensued beside the lake. The doctor chuckled at the story of Vladimir stripping off for his imaginary photoshoot. ‘When I was a kid,’ he said, ‘that’s all you used to see. On horses, on boats, killing tigers, I don’t know what. Every month, it seemed, there was a new picture of our macho president taking on the world.’
Sheremetev didn’t reply. The doctor worked quietly for a couple of minutes, completing the sutures. Then he sat back and examined the wound. He prodded at it, then took another iodine-soaked swab and gave it a last rub.
‘Okay, I’m finished. Once the anaesthetic wears off, if it’s causing you pain, take an aspirin.’ He pulled off his gloves, separated the needles and bundled everything else up.
‘Leave it,’ said Sheremetev. ‘I’ll get rid of it.’
‘Will you need me to come back to take out the stitches or can you do it yourself?’
‘I can do it myself.’
‘Leave it for a week, then see. If you think it’s closed, take them out. If not, leave them a couple of days longer. If you’re not sure, I can come back.’
Sheremetev nodded.
‘You’ll have a scar, Nikolai Ilyich. I’ve done my best to close it neatly. As long as the laceration stays closed and has a chance to heal, it shouldn’t be a bad one.’ The doctor picked up his bag. ‘Maybe I’ll say hello to Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
They went along the corridor. Vladimir was sitting in front of the television. The doctor greeted him. Vladimir appraised him without a flicker of recognition in his eyes.
‘I’m Dr Rospov,’ said the doctor.
‘Is someone sick?’ replied Vladimir.
The doctor smiled. ‘No, I was just passing, so I thought I’d say hello. Are you well, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
Vladimir looked at him suspiciously.
‘I’m just asking.’
‘I’m well. Who are you?’
‘Do you know?’
‘Do you?’
‘I’m Dr Rospov.’
‘I know a Rospov. In the duma.’
‘That was my father,’ said the doctor. ‘He died eight years ago.’
‘Very reliable man. Always sold his vote to the highest bidder.’
The doctor coughed nervously.
‘Absolutely no honour,’ continued Vladimir, perhaps taking the doctor’s cough as a sign of interest. ‘Absolutely no principle except one – whoever pays the most gets the vote. But I’m not opposed to that. Let me tell you, a man like that, at least you know where you stand. You know exactly what you’re getting. You pay more than anyone else, you get him – you pay less, you lose him. Simple. And the ones with principles, you know where you are with those ones, too, although they’re not too thick on the ground. No, the tricky ones are the ones with principles and with a price. Sometimes one, sometimes the other. They’re like a woman – one day yes means no, the next day no means yes… how the hell do you know? Just get into bed and spread your legs already, like Rospov! I’ll take a man like him any day.’
‘Well,’ said the doctor. ‘I was just—’
‘I liked him. A real Russian! No airs. No shame. Always holding his hand out. Give me the money, and I’ll do what you say. He’s dead, you say?’
‘Eight years ago,’ murmured the doctor.
‘Tragedy. Did I go to the funeral?’
‘No, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
Vladimir laughed. ‘Well, he got enough out of me over the years. How do you know him?’
‘He was my father.’
‘Are you in the duma too?’
‘No. I’m a doctor.’
‘Why are you here? Is someone sick?’
‘Do you feel sick?’
‘No.’
‘Let me have a look at you, now that I’m here.’ The doctor reached for Vladimir’s pulse. As he counted the beats, his eye wandered. ‘That’s a beautiful watch, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’ The doctor’s fingers were still on Vladimir’s pulse, but he was no longer counting. ‘A Hublot. Very nice.’
The doctor took a stethoscope out of his bag and listened to Vladimir’s chest. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the watch that Sheremetev had fastened on Vladimir’s wrist before the outing to the lake.
‘That’s enough!’ snapped Vladimir.
‘Alright. You look fine, Vladimir Vladirovich.’
‘Are you Rospov’s son?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell the old bastard that if he doesn’t vote the right way next week, he’ll never get another ruble. Nothing, understand? Make sure you tell him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Go.’
‘Goodbye, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said the doctor, stealing a last, lingering look at the watch on the old man’s wrist.
Vladimir waved him away without a word.
Outside the suite, Sheremetev didn’t know what to say after hearing those things about the doctor’s father. As they descended the stairs, the doctor shook his head. ‘What a crook that man was.’
Sheremetev wasn’t sure if the doctor was talking about Vladimir or his father.
‘Did you see the watch he was wearing? Do you have any idea what it’s worth?’
‘A lot?’ guessed Sheremetev.
The doctor laughed. He pulled back his sleeve and showed Sheremetev the watch he was wearing, a chunky, silver timepiece with a dark blue face and a silver band. ‘I like watches, alright? It’s my weakness. My wife tells me it’s childish but I don’t care. This is a Breitling Chronospace, so it’s not nothing. Do you know what you’d pay for this one? Seven thousand. Dollars, Nikolai Ilyich, not rubles.’
Sheremetev stared at the watch on the doctor’s hairy wrist.
‘That’s right. Seven thousand dollars, and believe me, it wasn’t easy for me to find that money. But a watch like that one… that’s out of my league. Way out of my league.’