The Senility of Vladimir P by Michael Honig Page B

in the five billion years of its existence the world had never witnessed the like. ‘Today, my chicken supplier calls me and says he’s been terminated. Half an hour later, this other one turns up with chickens and grouse and God knows what. Now, Kolya, tell me, who’s the chef? Stepanin or Bolkovskaya?’
    â€˜You are, of course.’
    â€˜So who decides on the suppliers? Stepanin or Bolkovskaya?’
    Sheremetev, not knowing the protocol amongst chefs and housekeepers, guessed. ‘Stepanin?’
    â€˜So what’s Bolkovskaya doing? Hmmm?’
    â€˜It’s her cousin. Perhaps she thought —’
    â€˜Exactly! Her cousin. Okay, so let’s say, in this one case, I say, it’s Bolkovskaya’s cousin, it’s fine. Let’s get the chickens from her cousin. Not to mention the fact that my chicken man is a friend who goes back with me twenty years. We stood guard duty together in Crimea. Even then he was stealing chickens. He stole – I cooked. What feasts we had! Okay, but let’s forget that. Let’s say Bolkovskaya’s cousin is more important than twenty years of friendship and guard duty on some shitty base in Crimea.’ Stepanin leaned closer, his eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know what else happened today?’
    Apart from both cars being broken down – and Sheremetev had a hunch that wasn’t what Stepanin was talking about – nothing out of the ordinary, as far as he was aware.
    â€˜A certain restaurant in the town didn’t get their chickens either. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
    â€˜No,’ said Sheremetev. He was utterly confused. What restaurant was Stepanin talking about? Did the friend from his days on the Crimean base supply it as well? And why should it make a difference if he did?
    Stepanin stared at him, then shook his head and sat back in the chair. He pulled out another cigarette and lit it.
    Sheremetev had a feeling that there was something the cook wasn’t telling him. But what? There seemed to be more to this, he sensed, than mere loyalty to an old army buddy.
    â€˜What about everything else you’re responsible for buying? Has Barkovskaya done anything about the rest?’
    â€˜Look, first, there’s the principle!’ retorted Stepanin angrily. ‘It’s as old as the ages. The cook chooses the suppliers. Without that principle – chaos! And second . . .’ He hesitated, gazing shiftily at Sheremetev.
    â€˜Second . . . ?’
    â€˜Second . . . Second . . . This is the thin end of the wedge! If I let her do this, it’s exactly as you say. Next, it’ll be the fishmonger. Then the butcher. Then the cheesemonger. Then the fruit and veg man. Then the dried fruit merchant. Then —’
    â€˜Dried fruit? Do we eat a lot of dried fruit?’
    â€˜A lot! You’d be surprised.’
    â€˜I never see any.’
    â€˜Well, most of it . . . there’s a confectioner I know in town. Anyway, the point is, this is only the start.’
    â€˜Vitya, how many cousins could she have?’
    â€˜Cousins? In Barkovskaya’s position, if you’re looking for cousins, you’ll find them everywhere!’
    â€˜But for a cousin you need an uncle and an aunt,’ pointed out Sheremetev. ‘You can’t just —’
    â€˜If I let Bolkovskaya do this, the bitch will do it with everything, just you see. And that, Kolya, isn’t right. It’s not just. Things should be as they were. She’s happy, I’m happy, everyone eats well, and there’s peace in the world.’
    â€˜I still don’t understand about the dried fruit,’ said Sheremetev, deciding to forget about Stepanin’s theory of endless cousins, which made no sense to him, whichever way he tried to look at it. ‘Where does it go, this dried fruit? I can’t remember the last time I had a piece.’
    â€˜What do you