Free The Senility of Vladimir P by Michael Honig

different matter if they were out for a walk in January with the snow a metre high on either side of the path.
    Vladimir didn’t look tired yet, but it had been a turbulent night, and the doctors’ visit had meant that they had started their walk later than normal. Sheremetev checked his watch. Lunch wasn’t far away. Hunger was another thing he had to watch out for.
    â€˜I think we might go back,’ said Sheremetev. ‘Do you want to go back now, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’
    Vladimir shrugged.
    â€˜I think we’d better go.’
    â€˜Goodbye, then, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Goroviev.
    Suddenly Vladimir looked at him probingly. ‘What do you do?’
    â€˜I’m a gardener, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
    Vladimir stared at Goroviev a moment longer. Then the energy went out of his gaze and he grunted and turned away.
    Sheremetev led Vladimir back towards the dacha. As they came in sight of the house, he saw Stepanin pacing around on the grass behind the kitchen. Even from a distance, the cook looked agitated. He marched up and down like a caged animal, head bowed, one fist clenched, a cigarette clutched in the other. Suddenly he stopped and kicked out at a branch that lay on the ground, sending it flying.
    The cook was given to explosions of rage, Sheremetev knew, but normally a good shout at one of the potwashers was enough to mollify him.
    Suddenly Sheremetev looked around. Vladimir had kept walking. He hurried to catch up.
    Upstairs, they went back to the sitting room, where Vladimir’s lunch would soon be brought.
    â€˜Shall we get changed out of your suit?’ said Sheremetev.
    â€˜Why?’ demanded Vladimir. ‘I won an election in this suit.’
    â€˜I know, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
    â€˜Do you think the election was rigged? Is that what you’re saying?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Seventy-two percent!’ said Vladimir, his voice rising. ‘On a turnout of seventy.’
    â€˜Yes, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
    Vladimir gazed at him suspiciously for a moment. ‘Get Monarov.’
    â€˜I don’t think Monarov’s —’
    â€˜Get him! I’m waiting.’ He tapped on his watch portentously.
    â€˜Would you like to sit at the table, Vladimir Vladimirovich?’ said Sheremetev. ‘It’s almost time for lunch.’
    â€˜Good. Here he is.’
    â€˜There’s no one else here, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’
    â€˜Monarov, have you eaten?’
    â€˜No,’ said Monarov.
    Vladimir laughed, rubbing his hands.
    Dishes of caviar, herring, roe and pickles were laid out on the table. Monarov took a spoonful of caviar and ate it neat, chasing it with a glass of vodka, as he liked to do. Vladimir did likewise, spilling a little of the caviar on his jacket sleeve as he raised the spoon. He brushed it away. ‘Shit!’ he said, looking at the stain it had left.
    Monarov laughed.
    â€˜Caviar never comes out,’ muttered Vladimir.
    â€˜It’s good luck.’ Monarov filled their glasses again. ‘To another election! To all those who voted again . . . and again . . . and again . . .’
    Vladimir pretended to still be angry for a moment, then they both roared with laughter.
    There were few people with whom Vladimir allowed himself to be at ease – actually, no one – but with Evgeny Monarov he came closest. Monarov was a true Chekist, one of the old boys from the Leningrad KGB. He had been with Vladimir ever since he came to Moscow, filling various roles, from chief of the president’s staff to chairman of a state oil company to finance minister to head of homeland security. But whatever he was nominally doing, there was one role he had always had: handling the money. The arrangement was that he kept for himself twenty percent of Vladimir’s share, building his own not inconsiderable fortune, and, as far as Vladimir could ascertain from the various secret investigations