‘Is it true what I heard, that all these greenhouses grow produce that you sell for your own profit?’
‘And the profit of a few other people,’ said Goroviev. ‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘But it’s not legal?’
Goroviev shrugged. ‘Legal? Illegal? Is there a difference in Russia, Nikolai Ilyich? All that matters is whether something is possible or impossible. That’s the correct question.’
‘I don’t understand, Arkady Maksimovich. From what you tell me, this corruption, this thievery… this was exactly what you fought against.’
‘But Nikolai Ilyich… I lost’ Goroviev shrugged, a helpless smile on his face. ‘I couldn’t change the world. I tried, in my way, but by the time I was twenty-six, I had failed. And I discovered then that I wasn’t very brave, and that was actually a surprise to me. I thought I had enough courage to face up to anything. But when people were being murdered around me, when the man who had been my editor one day was shot to death in front of our office the next, I found out that I didn’t, not enough to go on trying. I didn’t want to die as well.’
‘Is that really how it was?’ whispered Sheremetev.
Goroviev nodded. ‘Your nephew, Nikolai Ilyich, get him out of jail and send him far away, out of this country. If he has a voice, it will only be silenced here, one way or another.’ The gardener gestured towards Vladimir. ‘In the Russia that this man made, you can’t exist in opposition. In the end, either you give in, or they put an end to you.’
‘Do you think he made it? I thought you said no man can do everything alone?’
‘No, but he used the others to do what he wanted. This is his country, Nikolai Ilyich. Everything about it is his. Nothing is an accident – whatever you see, he wanted.’
Sheremetev gazed at the gardener, frowning, shaking his head slightly.
‘Look, Russia is what it is, and he did what he did. What really matters to me now is what he thinks. Does he believe this is his creation? Is there anything he would have changed? If not, whether he could have done it alone or not, it’s the same as if everything is his responsibility.’
Sheremetev turned to look at the ex-president. So did Goroviev. They both stared down at the old man on the bench, who gazed blankly at the plastic sheeting of the greenhouse in front of him.
‘Listen, Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Goroviev. ‘You ask me how I can do what I do. At my second trial, when I was found guilty – actually, I had been found guilty the day they decided to try me, so I should say, the day I was pronounced guilty – the judge, who was not such a bad man, really, and in sending me to jail for five years was only doing what he had been told to do by this man here, which was his job, after all… He said to me, Arkady Maksimovich, you’re obviously a man of talent. You must learn to adapt your talent to reality. As our president, Vladimir Vladimirovich has often said, we must all do what we can to build the new Russia.’ Goroviev glanced at Vladimir, who was still sitting on the bench, gazing at nothing obvious. ‘What did he do to build the new Russia? I’ll tell you. He gouged us every way he could. He took our money by the truckload and sent it to his banks all over the world, and he let his friends do the same. That was the way he showed us. Now, obviously, I’m not in his league. I’m nothing but a gardener. But I have to do my bit, as we all must, like the judge said. It’s our patriotic duty. So I do. Every time I send a tray of vegetables from here to the market, grown on his land, in greenhouses that he paid for, by labourers that he pays but for money that I keep, I like to think that Vladimir Vladimirovich would be proud of me, even in a small way, for gouging him back.’
11
JUST AS STEPANIN HAD promised, chicken Georgian style arrived on Vladimir’s lunch tray the next day. Sheremetev wasn’t there to witness this miracle of modern peacemaking. It was his day off, and he had gone to visit Oleg. Vladimir was being looked after by the relief nurse, Vera. Vladimir had no recognition of her, although she had been coming for almost two years now. He usually thought she was his mother.
Vera worked occasional shifts in a hospital in Odintsovo, as well as doing private work, such as the weekly shift covering for Sheremetev. She was a single mother of two, abandoned by a husband who, from her account, was a drunken womaniser with bad breath and strong body odour. From the stories Vera told, Sheremetev had built a picture in his mind almost of a beggar lying in a gutter with a bottle of rotgut and his hand out trying to cadge a kopeck or two from the people stepping over him. It had been a genuine surprise when Vera let slip one day that he was a pharmacist with a shop in Odintsovo. It also eventuated that his abandonment involved an orderly divorce, support payments for the children and regular contact with the kids, aged eleven and eight.
Still, Sheremetev was quite fond of Vera – who was more than fond of him. She was loud, over-made up, and opinionated, but funny, warm and generous, and the hair-raising stories about her ex-husband were always told with a certain knowing, tongue-in-cheek humour. Early on, she had coyly admitted to Sheremetev that she found small men attractive, even batting her eyelids as she spoke, and each week, when she took over from him, she always insinuated that he must be off to visit a lady love, while at the same time managing to convey that she knew perfectly well that he wasn’t, but that if he was interested in such a thing…
Sheremetev was supposed to have a full twenty-four hours off, with Vera staying to cover for him overnight, but he always came back after dinner, or even before, and let her leave. Vladimir’s disorientation was greater at night, and if he was to awake and find an unfamiliar face trying to calm him, it was likely to send him off into a full blown episode that only the security men and an injection of tranquilliser would be able to quell.
Vera had arrived at ten. ‘Where are you off to today, Kolya?’ she asked. ‘Just once, I’d love to come with you. But I suppose,’ she said, her eyes twinkling with innuendo, ‘that would be inconvenient.’
‘Particularly because if you did come with me, there’d be no one to look after Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ replied Sheremetev drily.
Vera laughed.
‘I won’t be late, Verochka.’
‘With you, it would never be too late,’ she said suggestively. She paused, letting the double entendre sink in, then laughed.
There was no bus on the road that led to the dacha. Sometimes Eleyekov or his son, if they were heading to town, gave Sheremetev a lift. Otherwise it was possible to call for a taxi. On pleasant days, he sometimes walked the two kilometres to the main road and waited there for the bus that ran to Odintsovo.
This time, Artur took him. He was driving a dark blue BMW with darkened windows and a smell of fresh leather. Artur took a look at Sheremetev’s face as he got in and said: ‘That was really a nasty cut. Is it healing alright?’
‘I think so.’
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Not hurt, really. It’s tight, for instance, if I smile.’
‘Then you mustn’t smile, Nikolai Ilyich,’ said Artur.
Sheremetev did just that.
‘How is Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
‘He’s well, thank you.’
Artur nodded. He started the car and they set off down the drive to the dacha gate. As they turned onto the road, Artur said that he had heard about Sheremetev’s nephew and hoped the situation would soon be resolved. Sheremetev thanked him. He glanced at Artur as the younger man drove. It was odd, he thought, to find someone so well mannered in security.