Free The Senility of Vladimir P by Michael Honig Page A

he had ordered into him, doing it with scrupulous honesty.
    Monarov took another spoonful of caviar, then stopped with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘You’re not happy, Vova? I can see that look on your face.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t say I’m unhappy. Thoughtful.’
    â€˜About?’
    Vladimir sighed. ‘I can’t go on forever. One more election victory, yes, but when I go, who follows? Where are the great men, Evgeny? Only a strong man can rule Russia. Where’s the next Czar?’
    â€˜In jail,’ said Monarov, smiling. ‘Or in London. Or dead. You should know that better than anyone, Vova.’
    â€˜Very funny.’
    Monarov put the caviar in his mouth.
    â€˜They’re in jail or in London or dead,’ said Vladimir, ‘precisely because they were not great. One way or another, they had a poor conception of the reality of Russia. Look at the oligarchs. For them, it was only about money.’
    â€˜Kolyakov, yes. He’d do anything you said if it would get him another contract. But the others? Trikovsky? What about him?’
    â€˜Trikovsky more than any of them! The hypocrite. A democrat, sure – a democrat once he had a television station to broadcast his propaganda and the money to buy an election. Before that, Zhenya, where was his love of democracy then? Let him rot in Switzerland, issuing his manifestoes. Water off a duck’s back. Okay, then look at the liberals. They’d take us back to the days of Boris Nikolayevich. Do you remember what it was like? People forget, they have a rosy view. Chaos! Another year of it and the whole country would have been down the pan. The only smart decision the Old Man made was to get out when he did, the bloated pig.’
    â€˜And to appoint you.’
    â€˜And to appoint me. True. Alright, two smart decisions. At the end I couldn’t bear to look at him. I’d think: what have you done to Russia, you fucking pig? Look at the chance you had and what you did with it! I knew then it would take me years to get us back. And it did. Years! And now what’s going to happen?’
    Monarov shook his head.
    Vladimir noticed that others were at the table as well, Luschkin, Narzayev, Serensky, all boys from the KGB who had been with him in the Kremlin for years. Not everyone from the agencies had supported him. His old supervisor from the KGB, Grisha Rastchev, had joined the refounded communist party and had turned into a real thorn in his side, even ending up in jail on various charges over the years. That was a shame. Rastchev had helped him in his early career and Vladimir would have liked to make him rich – but you can only do so much. What can you do if the horse won’t even go near the water, let alone drink it? And not only that, but keeps yelling to the other horses that you’ve poisoned it? But the ones who had come with him, the loyal ones, they were the rocks on which his governments were erected, from whom shot out the iron fists needed to keep the opponents at bay. They had reaped the rewards. And why not? In every country, someone has to be rich. Why should Russia be an exception?
    Yet none of them had the strength and the vision that he had, none of them were capable of taking his place. And besides, the boys were old now, older than him. Only Narzayev was younger.
    They all agreed that there was no one. It didn’t even need to be said.
    â€˜What can we do, Vova?’ said Serensky. ‘No one lives for ever.’
    â€˜Who knows what our Vova can do?’ said Luschkin. ‘Maybe he’ll never die!’
    Vladimir glanced at him, wondering how someone could say something so stupid. Oleg Luschkin was a big man with strong, Slavic cheekbones of which, as a fierce Russian nationalist, he was inordinately proud. A face lift had stretched his skin tight. It was almost painful to watch him smile, so close did the skin seem to be to the point of tearing across those