The Senility of Vladimir P by Michael Honig Page A

had your breakfast, Vladimir Vladimirovich.’ Sheremetev raised him from his chair. ‘Come. Let’s eat.’
    Sheremetev guided him to the table and put a napkin around his neck. He tied it cautiously. ‘Is this okay? Not too tight?’
    â€˜It’s okay,’ said Vladimir.
    There was a bowl of chicken soup on the tray. Sheremetev put a spoon in Vladimir’s hand.
    Vladimir fidgeted with it. After a couple of minutes, Sheremetev gently released it from his hand and raised a spoonful of the soup to Vladimir’s lips.
    â€˜How is that? Is it good?’
    Vladimir smiled. ‘It’s good.’
    Sheremetev raised another spoonful. Vladimir sipped at it noisily.

6
    Stepanin had about as much ability to hide his feelings as a Russian bear trying to hide itself in a snow field. That night he sat brooding in the staff dining room, stubbing out one cigarette and lighting another, throwing back one glass of vodka and reaching for the bottle to pour himself the next. Whatever it was that had had him fuming outside the dacha that morning was still eating at him.
    â€˜Something wrong?’ asked Sheremetev eventually.
    The cook grunted. He got up and opened the door to the kitchen and yelled at one of the potwashers, then came back and slumped disconsolately in his chair, fingering his vodka glass with a look of disgust.
    â€˜Vitya?’
    Stepanin looked up. ‘What’s the boss been like today? Okay? Give you any trouble?’
    â€˜I was going to take him out, but the cars were broken down.’
    â€˜Both cars?’ said Stepanin disbelievingly.
    Sheremetev shrugged.
    â€˜An S-class Mercedes and a Range Rover?’
    Sheremetev shrugged again.
    â€˜What fuckery! Broken down? Sure. Eleyekov! What a gangster.’
    â€˜He’s a gangster?’ said Sheremetev.
    â€˜No, I don’t mean a gangster. Not a gangster .’
    â€˜Then what do you mean?’
    Stepanin gave Sheremetev a look, the kind Sheremetev had been accustomed to receiving ever since he first confided to one of his fellow conscripts in the army his belief that their captain would soon be exposed and punished for hiring them out like slaves. ­‘Eleyekov’s okay,’ muttered Stepanin. Everything’s okay for him .’ The cook angrily stubbed out his cigarette, picked up the box, toyed with the idea of lighting another one, then threw it down in disgust.
    Sheremetev watched him.
    â€˜It’s the chickens,’ growled the cook.
    Sheremetev was none the wiser.
    â€˜The chickens! Barkovskaya, that slut, suddenly has a cousin who sells chickens. Where has he come from, this cousin? From under which stone has he crawled? Yesterday there was no cousin – today there is. They’re probably stolen chickens, if you ask me.’
    â€˜Stolen from where?’
    â€˜Who knows?’ Stepanin fixed Sheremetev with a furious glare. ‘Do you have any idea how many ways there are to steal chickens? Do you even know how many places you can steal them from?’ Stepanin poured himself another vodka, watching the liquid cascading into the glass. ‘Not only chickens! Ducks, pheasants, geese. Anything with feathers.’ The cook threw down the vodka, swallowed hard, and grimaced. ‘Put a feather on it,’ he rasped, momentarily hoarse, ‘give it wings, put a beak on its face – and Barkovskaya’s cousin, the shit, has it.’
    â€˜Aren’t they fresh?’ inquired Sheremetev.
    â€˜They’re fresh!’ retorted Stepanin. ‘Why shouldn’t they be fresh?’
    â€˜What about the quality?’
    â€˜The quality’s fine!’
    â€˜Then . . . ?’
    Stepanin sighed, and gave Sheremetev another one of those looks, but worse this time, as if he was gazing upon a fool whose imbecility was of a depth so extraordinary, whose innocence was of a simple-mindedness so complete and so utterly unsullied by knowledge or experience, that