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

XXIII

“WHEN YOUR GUYS burned down that asshole’s shack, was the liquid in there?” Slava repeated his question, and Filimonenko suddenly thought that he probably should have gone to the bathroom before his buzzer was rung—but you can’t think of everything.

“I can’t remember,” he whined. “But I can check. I will definitely find out,” he rephrased it, looking at Slava no longer pathetically, but with deep devotion—Nikolai Georgievich really could change his tune to match his companion’s, as though he may be an ataman.

“You have twenty-four hours,” Slava answered; he stood up and walked out without saying goodbye. That happened in the evening, but the next morning Slava called and said that his department had lost interest in the liquid and that if Filimonenko for some reason would like to talk to Karpov, then he could go right ahead; it no longer had anything to do with Slava. Slava could send shivers down the spine of his listeners just by the tone of his voice, but at that moment if he was mad at anyone, it was at himself; although perhaps he wasn’t to blame, logistics are always tough in big schemes, and at least it’s better that he received a call that day instead of a week later from someone at an unknown number who said that everything was fine with the serum, that the samples and the formula were already in Moscow. He headed to the airport, reasoning to himself that although his first mission had failed, in any case the second would soon follow, and that with this one there would be no misfire; some time back the deceased Patriarch had called Slava a quick learner and that meant something. With such thoughts, Slava took off over the hills crisscrossed by forest belts and fields; and somewhere below, on the third floor of a shabby Stalin-era building in the institute’s town, Karpov was lying in a corridor on linoleum that had been set by his grandfather and trying to show with gestures that he was ready to talk, but with his Adam’s apple pressed by a paratrooper’s boot, the words got stuck in his throat. Filimonenko didn’t understand him at first, but then he got it and said: “Take your foot off him,” and the young Cossack captain with three St. George’s crosses on his camouflage peasant’s coat (Kolya Chernikov had really served in the Airborne Corps until the previous autumn, but the crosses had been presented to him by Filimonenko as a sort of advance honors), spit on Karpov between his eyes, dragged his boot off of Karpov’s neck, and then Karpov could see Kolya’s zipper—and it seemed that Kolya had an erection.

“Can I get up now?” Karpov lay where he was, realizing that he couldn’t do anything without permission in this situation.

“Yeah, get up,” Filimonenko apathetically answered, and Karpov hoisted himself up off the linoleum and stood at the same height as the ataman.

“So it was you who burned down my shed?” Without getting an answer, Karpov spit a piece of tooth onto the floor; he had been beaten up before, but this was the first time it had cost him a tooth, and, as a silly habit of his, he decided to make note of the date, but it turned out that he didn’t know what day it was.

“This isn’t right,” he said to the ataman, who maintained his silence. “I also understand words, as a matter of fact.”

And then he also fell silent, felt sorry for himself, and nearly shed tears.