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

XI

IT ONLY TOOK SLAVA half a minute to find out Karpov’s home address; he printed it out and brought Mefody the printout and stood at attention by the door, awaiting further orders. Mefody dismissed Slava with a wave to let him know he would call for him. It was obvious that he shouldn’t call but go there himself—who knew how Karpov would react to a call out of the blue from a total stranger who knew what was going on in his mind. For obvious reasons Mefody had seen too many movies in his life, and all too easily called to mind images of demented mad scientists obsessed with ideas of taking over the world, and provincial loonies, tinkering with perpetual motion in their garage (Mefody had gone through a period of being entertained by Soviet movies at one point).

Within an hour Slava was driving Mefody to the third terminal at Vnukovo Airport, and after three hours the Falcon 7X with its lone passenger on board landed at a small airport in the south of Russia; this was the first-ever business jet to land there in the history of the airport, and the air traffic controllers had prepared a celebratory welcome table for the occasion, complete with a locally-made cognac, Praskoveya—over the next month, Mefody, who had never heard of this cognac before, would drink so much of it that at some point he would decide to buy a local cognac distillery when he returned to Moscow. But that would happen later, for now Mefody was being driven by Slava’s colleague in the FPS that he had contacted for the occasion—there’s no better guarantee for confidentiality than a personal relationship. This guy (Mefody would never remember his name) had also served as a patriarch’s guard at one point, but then he returned to his native region and started a transportation business, and now, at Slava’s request, was himself taking Mefody to where he needed to go. We’re not going to be ironic about this guy’s transportation business—it was not so much transportation-related as it was ceremonial: in the dark a Lexus hearse could pass for an official state vehicle (all the more so since they really were a ceremonial class), and Mefody, like all midgets, wasn’t superstitious at all, and just laughed at how silly everything was the provinces.

The security keypad at the entrance was broken; Mefody stepped into the darkness, realized there was no elevator either, and angrily took the stairs. He rang for a long time at the door, which was finally opened by a sleepy Karpov, and while Mefody tried to come up with the right words to start the conversation, the master of the house himself, having invited the guest in, started to call for his wife, shouting, “Hey, it seems like the midget grapevine is working, and Vasya sent his friend over.”

“He’s not my friend,” Mefody mumbled, and having let his receiving party extract some information about Vasya from him (“Yes, something like one meter sixty centimeters or more, excellent complexion, and happy.”), he could finally move on to the heart of the matter. He knew that Karpov held some kind of secret that could transform short people into tall ones, and he wanted the same experiment performed on himself as had been done on Vasya. He was ready to pay or, if Karpov was interested, even to discuss the possibility of further business cooperation, in the long run, Mefody had the resources to turn an ingenious idea into a profitable business.

Karpov was confused. He had known that an investor would find him, but he didn’t think that it would happen right here and now, when he couldn’t even say with full certainty that his invention worked. Yes, he used the serum on Vasya, but to start processing it right then, no, it’s too soon, but if Mefody will come back in three months or so, then the they could have a more substantial conversation, but for now—have some borscht, if you’re hungry. If not, here’s some coffee.

Certain that he was talking to a schizophrenic, Mefody, for his part, settled down—first, it’s always easier when you know who you’re dealing with; and second, schizophrenics are, as a rule, open to suggestion, and it shouldn’t be too hard to talk Karpov into giving him an injection.

“So you want to get taller too?” Karpov suddenly realized and for some reason gave another happy laugh. “Listen, of course, it’s no big deal. Let’s just talk about compensation.”

Mefody recalled how Vasya’s face had screwed up when he asked for the five thousand, and as then smiled—it would be interesting to compare the requests of these two idiots, the one from the circus and this one. He asked, “How much?” and, you have to give credit to Karpov, was genuinely surprised when his interlocutor said that he wouldn’t charge Mefody a kopeck, but he would ask him to spend two weeks—the amount of time needed to grow fully—here, in his apartment, because it was very important and necessary for Karpov to observe the process of growth in his test midget—it’s a pity that it didn’t work out with Vasya, but this time Karpov wasn’t going to miss the opportunity.

It wasn’t Mefody’s intention to stay at the apartment; the hearse was waiting downstairs, and the Falcon at the airport—the billionaire hesitated for a second, and then thought that it might be even better this way. He sent Slava an explanatory text message and then answered that it would be a pleasure to stay with Karpov. And Karpov was already coming out of his room joyfully waving the syringe with the yellowish liquid.