Y.T.

2004

A day went by before I managed to get hold of Kurochkin. Kurochkin was a big fish in our rather small pond. He was now a Member of Parliament, and five years ago he was a Member of Parliament, but in between, he had been First Deputy Premier—I beg your pardon, they now style themselves First Deputy Prime Minister, a splendid title that is the secret posthumous envy of all the Viceroys of India. Kurochkin now had a stake in a reputable bank, and for his sustenance he had been given a fund through which ethereal American dollars were pumped into decrepit Ukrainian industry.

I had to ring him from the office. Not good. Once a month our office receives a list from the telephone exchange of all the numbers we’ve dialed. Including numbers dialed from mobiles. If they noticed that I’d rung Parliament two days in a row they would start asking me all kinds of stupid questions. But only if they noticed. And that was pretty unlikely.

Which reminded me of a time when it hadn’t taken days to get through to Kurochkin, when I knew by heart all the numbers where I might find him, and he knew mine just as well. We could meet up at any time and for any reason, and reasons weren’t hard to find. We didn’t even look for them. At school we’d been in the same class, sat at the same desk, prepared for examinations using the same textbooks. I called him Kurkin, usually just Kur. We were both in love with Natasha Belokrinitskaya, and our chances were an even nil. And we were both searched at the same time and arrested on the same day.

‘Kurochkin,’ I said, when I was finally put through, ‘have you received a letter?’

He didn’t ask what kind of letter. Perversely he said, ‘I just knew this was one of your idiotic jokes.’ And sighed heavily. Meaning it was his lifelong burden to endure me and my jokes. Laborer. Defender of the People’s Welfare. Victim of Davidov.

But it meant he’d received the letter.

‘No, Kurochkin, it’s not one of my jokes. It’s someone else’s joke. I thought you might know something.’

‘Davidov,’ the note of fatigue was gone, but the perversity remained, ‘have you any idea how busy I am? Today alone I…’ Here he yawned loudly and began shuffling familiarly through his parliamentary papers. As if he were about to read through the day’s entire order of business from the lectern in Parliament.

‘Enough! I believe you,’ I said, interrupting so that he wouldn’t actually start reciting all his business.

‘And here you are with your letter,’ concluded Kurochkin with satisfaction.

‘It’s not my letter. And the text—word for word, it’s…’

‘Well, yes…’

‘It’s exactly the same. I know because I know it by heart. The only difference is the date.’

‘I noticed. So it wasn’t you?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to say.’

At that he grew thoughtful, and there was certainly plenty to think about.

‘Which e-mail account was your letter addressed to?’

‘My parliamentary e-mail. Why?’

‘Can someone outside of Parliament get hold of it?’

‘It’s pretty straightforward—it’s open access.’

‘So will you write back, then?’ I asked simply, incidentally, as if that’s not why I had called in the first place.

‘Write back? Me? Are you pulling my leg, Davidov?’

‘Well, just imagine it’s an e-mail from one of your electorate. You do have voters, right? One voter’s pension has been miscalculated, another hasn’t received the tax credit he’s due…’

‘And a third sends an ultimatum.’

‘By the way, it’s already four o’clock.’

‘So?’

‘You have until six to write back. You’ve got another two hours.’

‘And the third,’ Kurochkin suddenly roared, ‘sends me an ultimatum signed by Emperor Karl and demands the withdrawal of troops before six o’clock… Where does he want troops withdrawn from?’

‘Leibach.’

‘From Ljubljana, in other words. And the return of Istria. It would look just great if I used my parliamentary e-mail to answer this… this… Words fail me, honestly.’

‘Then use a different e-mail address if that’s the problem.’

‘It’s not the address. Don’t play the idiot.’ Kurochkin was already more composed. ‘You know it’s not the address.’

‘Fine. Then let’s think on it for a few days. Okay? And talk later.’

‘Okay. Although… Well, you know where to find me.’

I knew he wanted to say one more time that he wasn’t interested. But he didn’t say it. And it’s a good thing, too. Because I knew this was interesting and important. As important as it had been before, although twenty years had passed since it had all first begun.