Fardwor, Russia!: A Fantastical Tale of Life Under Putin

XVI

“GOING HOME?” SLAVA ASKED, trying not to act discomfited by Mefody’s new appearance.

“I don’t know,” Mefody responded, suddenly at a loss, but he quickly got ahold of himself and asked to be taken, with Marina, to the Ritz-Carlton—there they could all talk together.

The conversation was short. Mefody again asked Slava not to say anything to Kirill and basically to behave as though Mefody was still traveling around somewhere far from Moscow. Slava promised that he wouldn’t let him down and took the opportunity to compliment Mefody’s companion: she’s a beautiful girl and it’s plain to see she’s a good person too. Then he left, while Mefody and Marina stayed to spend the night in the hotel. They ate breakfast with a view of the Kremlin, then Mefody sent Marina off to Tretyakovsky Drive (“Find yourself some clothes”) and took himself for a walk a ways up Tverskaya (damn, for the first time in his life he was actually walking on a street in the center of Moscow!), and with a wave of the hand, flagged a cab—also for the first time in his life.

Now everything amazed him: the nightmarish Humor FM in the gypsy cab and the gypsy cab driver himself (who was obviously a Tajik), and the traffic jam on the Third Ring, and the skyscrapers of the Moscow-City business center—still under construction—which Mefody was also seeing for the first time in his life. This feeling that everything that was happening to him right then—for the first time in his life—made him feel crazy and, gasping in amazement, Mefody made a great effort not to burst into tears, and suddenly understood that the emotion he felt wasn’t joy. The thing was that he was afraid, he’d never felt such a terror before. At some point his teeth even started chattering.

The security at the entrance to the tower politely listened to what Mefody had to say and allowed him to call up to Kirill’s waiting room. Mefody dialed four twos, a pleasant female voice answered: “Hello, Vremya-Kapital,” and Mefody, feeling that his voice was shaking, informed the receiver that he needed to see Kirill Arkadievich, to whom his unfortunate younger brother sends his regards, at once.

Mefody was expecting Kirill to be in a meeting or involved in some important negotiations, or simply to be holed up in his office, doing something important, asking not to be disturbed by any calls, but the hold music played no longer than a minute, and the secretary told Mefody to come up and that Kirill Arkadievich would receive him right away.

It’s easy to understand Kirill’s situation—everyone knew that he had a brother, but not everyone knew that fifteen days had already passed since he’d heard anything from his brother, who had conveyed a vague message through his assistant (“I’ve decided to head south”)—usually Mefody called to check in when he was traveling, irritating his brother, and Kirill was himself surprised to find that Mefody’s silence was no less irritating—who knew what trouble this dwarf could get into? Maybe he had been killed, maybe kidnapped, or maybe he found himself a lady-dwarf and was going to build her a seven-star hotel on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey—he had the means to do that. So when he heard that some guy had shown up with a message from his brother, Kirill, of course, gave the order to bring the guy in to him at once.

And now a handsome brunette of medium height sat smiling in the guest chair in front of Kirill, enjoying the view of Moscow through the floor-to-ceiling office windows, not in any rush to explain what had happened to Mefody. Kirill told him that he had little time and that if the guest didn’t want to talk to him, then perhaps he would like to have a word with his security service. Mefody snapped to and answered that Kirill shouldn’t worry, his brother was alright, and moreover—he was already in Moscow. “In Barvikha?” Kirill asked, and Mefody answered, no, no, right here in Moscow, and in fact, in this very Federation Tower. Kirill reached for the phone; Mefody again felt afraid that his brother’s nerves could ruin the surprise and, hating himself for his frightened voice, asked:

“You really don’t recognize me?”

Kirill said nothing, but looked at his guest with curiosity. In his thirty-six years the billionaire had seen lots of things, and, as a matter of principle, an adult-size midget didn’t seem to him like something that could absolutely ever happen. But really, who said that Mefody couldn’t grow to adult size in two weeks?

Meanwhile, Mefody explained about Vasya, about the hearse at the airport, about Karpov, about the borscht, about Marina, “You’ll be sure to like her,” about Slava, who had turned out to be a good fellow and hadn’t told Kirill anything (“While we’re at it, why not?” Kirill mentally asked Slava; for the primary duty of the retired captain was really to report everything that Mefody did). Kirill listened and said nothing, and when Mefody stopped talking—and he had already said everything he had to say—the silence became uncomfortable, and Mefody was the first to give in and cried out to his brother: “Kiri-i-i-iill!”

Kirill, returning to his senses, looked intently at the man sitting before him and asked very gravely:

“I have only one question for you. What have you done with my brother Mefody? What. Have. You. Done. With him.”