‘More than seven thousand dollars?’
The doctor laughed again. ‘I bet he didn’t even pay for it. Someone would have given it to him, for sure. A little sweetener to help him make a decision, a little thank you for giving someone what he wanted. A lifetime’s wages for a working man, right there on his wrist, for doing someone a favour. It’s absurd, Nikolai Ilyich. With all the wealth that he had, he probably never had to pay for a thing. You’ve got to take your hat off to him. What a crook – a world champion.’ The doctor mused on it for a moment, then his expression changed. ‘Did I hear from someone that you have a new housekeeper here?’
Sheremetev nodded.
‘You should introduce me.’
‘Certainly. I’ll just have to see if she’s —’ The sound of Vladimir yelling came out of the monitor in Sheremetev’s pocket. He looked at the doctor apologetically. ‘I’d better go back to him. I don’t want him to get worked up.’
‘Okay. I’ll meet her another time. Take care of that cut, Nikolai Ilyich. It’ll be a bad scar if it opens. Don’t disturb the sutures.’
Vladimir needed to go to the bathroom, and Sheremetev was soon able to settle him in front of the television again.
Later that evening, Oleg rang. He said that he had been to see Pasha, and the boy had a black eye. Apparently the kid gloves were off now, perhaps in an attempt to make the family pay up. Conversing under the watchful eye of a prison guard, Pasha had refused to say how it had happened.
‘He was trying to be brave, but… I can’t bear it, Kolya! We have to get him out.’
‘Does he actually want you to do that?’ asked Sheremetev.
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Oleg.
Sheremetev was thinking of what Vladimir had said – some people stand by their principles, no matter what. ‘Have you asked him? He might not want you to pay a bribe.’
‘That might have been how he felt the day he went in, but not now. Not with a black eye. Kolya, I don’t know what they’ll do to him in there… I don’t know if he’ll survive it.’
His brother sounded on the verge of breaking down.
‘Oleg, it’s okay. We’ll get him out.’
‘How?’
‘Have you seen if anyone else has any money? I’ve got two thousand dollars. Perhaps, little by little, we can get it.’
‘Kolya, no one will give me a kopeck once they hear what he’s in for. I’m a leper. “Oh, he insulted the president? And the ex-president? Goodbye, Oleg Ilyich.” Pasha’s right, Kolya – this is the Russia your Vladimir Vladimirovich made. He’s almost dead, but we have to go on living in it. And now, Pasha – just because he has the courage to stand up and tell the truth – he’s the one who has to pay. Is that right, Kolya? Who should pay? He should, the old man, the one who made this mess! He should be the one in prison, he should be the one who’s treated like a leper! Oh, he’s old, and forgetful. Oh, let’s leave him alone. Well, what about it? Pasha’s young and has everything in front of him, and he says one thing, he tells the truth, and look what happens! That’s our Russia, Kolya. And who’s to blame?’
Sheremetev was silent.
Oleg sighed. ‘What about Vasya?’ he said eventually. ‘What does he say?’
‘He can’t do anything.’
‘Not even for his cousin? Come on, Vasya knows all kinds of people. He’s like a cat, always falling on his feet. Don’t tell me there’s nothing he can do. What did he say?’
‘He said he doesn’t have money.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all.’
‘He doesn’t have the money?’
‘Not on the scale we’re talking about. I think… I don’t know about his business. Maybe it’s not going so well.’
‘Kolya, I swear to you, I feel people watching me. At the school. I look around and I see them. They know. They’re thinking: he’s the one whose son insulted the president. He’s the one with the boy in jail.’
‘Olik, don’t be paranoid.’
‘I’m not paranoid. Nina’s noticed also.’
Us and them, thought Sheremetev. That was what Barkovskaya had said. Us and them. Was that how people thought, just as in the old Soviet days?
‘Come on, Olik,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ll get him out.’
‘How?’ cried Oleg again.
Sheremetev closed his eyes. He wished he knew.
Images came to his mind. Pasha as a little boy, a thoughtful child, always quiet when you first started talking to him, but then warming up, bright and clever and confiding… A photograph that he had from Karinka’s funeral, when Pasha was fourteen years old, standing next to Vasya, a full head shorter than his cousin… The serious, selfless young man into which he had developed, so quick to take up a cause.
One heard of things happening in Russia, so-called injustices, but one never thought of them happening to a person one knew. Beside, you never knew what the truth was – there are always two sides to a story. But now it wasn’t just a name, a face on a television screen. It was Pashik, whom he had held in his arms the day he was born. And there weren’t two sides to the story – there was only one.
‘It’ll be alright, Olik, we’ll find a way.’
‘How?’ said Oleg again.
Sheremetev didn’t have an answer. ‘I’ll come and see you on Saturday,’ he said instead. ‘I’ve got the day off.’
He put his phone back in his pocket, and went upstairs to give Vladimir his medications and get him ready for the night. As he walked in and saw the ex-president, the thought of the distress he had heard in Oleg’s voice and his brother’s bitterness towards Vladimir hit him like a slap and made him stop in his tracks. But he endeavoured to put it out of his mind, reminding himself that he was a nurse and the old man sitting in the armchair, looking at him with a benign blankness, was his patient.
Vladimir was still wearing the T shirt and jeans from the excursion to the lake. Sheremetev could see him peering at the cut on his face as he helped him undress.
‘What happened to you?’
‘Nothing, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
Vladimir put out a finger and poked at the cut.
Sheremetev jumped back. ‘Don’t!’ he shouted angrily.
Vladimir smiled, seeming to enjoy the response.
‘It hurts,’ murmured Sheremetev. ‘Don’t touch, please.’ He turned away, confused by the mist of rage that had engulfed him. His heart was thumping. Never before, in the six years he had cared for Vladimir, could he remember being angry with him. Impatient, frustrated, fed up ... yes, all of these, of course, as one was occasionally with any patient. But never anger. He took a deep breath. As a nurse, anger towards a patient wasn’t an emotion he could allow himself to feel.
He waited a few moments, until he sensed the mist subsiding. Then he came closer again and cautiously helped Vladimir into his pyjamas, warily watching out for any more sudden jabs. He unfastened the watch that the doctor had envied so much and took it back, together with the clothes, to the dressing room. He opened the drawer from which the watch had come and laid it in its niche, then put his finger to the front of the tray to push it in, but hesitated. The watch he had just put back was out of his league, the doctor said, and his league obviously went up to seven thousand dollars. A lifetime’s wages for a working man, he had said. And here, on this tray, was not one such watch – but fifteen.
Sheremetev opened another tray at random. Watches in gold and silver, some with white faces, some with faces in blue or green, some with what appeared to be tiny jewels set into faces or hands, some with metal wristbands, some with leather. He examined a couple of the leather straps. They were utterly smooth, never worn. He opened another tray. In this one, a niche was empty, like a missing tooth in an otherwise full jaw. Another tray. This one was full.