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

XVII

KIRILL REALLY HAD understood everything right away—well, not exactly right away, but when Mefody asked if his brother recognized him, Kirill nearly nodded—he did. And so he didn’t listen very intently to his story—it didn’t matter in the end who the douchebag was who had injected some shit into Mefody’s vein. While Mefody was talking, Kirill looked at him and as he gradually calmed down noticed with satisfaction that it was nearly impossible to find facial features in this man that were similar to those of the Mefody he knew. When Mefody finished his tale, Kirill had already devised the appropriate facial expression and tone of voice. It was the same tone with which Putin had once spoken to him.

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

And walking to the window, he turned away, awaiting a response. If Mefody had looked closer at the reflection of Kirill’s face in the window, he would have seen that his brother was smiling. But Mefody didn’t look any closer, he still thought that this was some kind of game—his game, his surprise.

“Ha ha ha,” he tried to laugh. “You really didn’t recognize me!” He jumped out of the guest chair, came up to his brother (who didn’t turn around) and tried to put his arms around his shoulders. His brother stepped aside. Now Mefody stood by the window alone, and Kirill thought that it would be great if this person, at this moment, would break the window and throw his customized body out, freeing Kirill from the necessity of having to continue with this ridiculous scene.

“Listen,” Mefody said again in a frightened tone. “If you don’t believe me, let’s call Slava, he knows the story.”

“And who told you about Slava?” Kirill answered in a bored voice, but he went ahead and pushed a button and asked the secretary to find Mefody’s assistant and call him into the office. Slava was in Barvikha, the ride took forty minutes—in the meantime, Kirill relocated Mefody out of the office, but not into the waiting room, but into a conference room, and closed the door so Mefody didn’t see how Slava entering Kirill’s office. When Mefody next saw Kirill, he was together with Slava.

“Well,” Kirill joyously asked. “Look familiar?”

“Yeah, not really,” Slava answered, and Mefody realized there had been a change.

Kirill again put on his worried expression and, addressing himself primarily to Mefody, informed Slava that the crappiest thing in this whole situation was that it was not at all clear where his unfortunate brother had disappeared to, but seeing as how this guy—a nod in Mefody’s direction—had just seriously tried to pretend that he was him—obviously he knew something, and Kirill was placing his hopes on Slava, for his professionalism and experience, and was tasking him to work with this scumbag to find out the real story.

“Slava,” Mefody said, now really terrified, “we aren’t joking around any more, tell him everything.”

“Now you will tell me everything,” Slava answered gravely and, letting Kirill out of the room, strode over to Mefody. “Shall we talk?”