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

XXV

KARPOV DIDN’T UNDERSTAND what had happened at the institute—on the one hand, the Federal Target Program, “A Well-Fed Russia,” had spelled out in black and white that this institute should receive nine hundred million rubles through 2020 for the development of innovative technologies in the cultivation of leguminous crops and livestock; but on the other hand—all of the work on the serum, which was now called “Ivan Ilyin”—dumb, of course, but the envoy liked it—was suspended, and Elena Nikolaevna herself could not explain what had happened. She didn’t really want to fire Karpov but, looking him not so much in the eye as at his broken nose, told him that she wasn’t sorry about it and that she would be in his debt until the end of her days, but he would hardly be interested in a position at the institute at a salary of three thousand rubles; and the federal billion was, of course, a billion, but, first, she still hadn’t figured out how she would cash it out, and secondly, she wasn’t sure if would be fair to share the money with Karpov. Karpov didn’t want to haggle, he had come to say goodbye anyway; he pulled a bottle of cognac out of his bag, and toward midnight, when Elena Nikolaevna had fallen asleep on his no-longer marital bed, Karpov, trying to move as stealthily as possible, got out from under her heavy forearm, went over to the computer, and wrote on Twitter: “I hatte scumbags”—with a typo, he was drunk, after all.

Then he finished off the vodka and fell asleep on the couch in the other room. When he woke up, Elena Nikolaevna was gone; he went into the kitchen, drank some water out of the tap, and looked out of the window—there was Gennady strolling along below. Karpov wanted to call out to Gennady from the window and invite him in, “I’m leaving, and I wanted to say goodbye,” but then the doorbell rang—could it be Marina?—and, limping, he walked over to open the door. He didn’t ask “Who’s there?” although that wouldn’t change anything anyway—an unknown man was standing in the foyer and waved an ID card and with the intonation of a standup comedian greeted him:

“Federal Security Bureau.”

There were two of them. The one who had rung walked in while the second stayed outside on the stairs, but they could have both waited outside—all they required was for Karpov to get dressed and follow them outside. Outside, a white Niva SUV was waiting.

“It’s mine, not the bureau’s,” sighed the one who had rung. Karpov was shoved in the back seat, and they drove off. Gennady silently stood and watched them as they left.