The Senility of Vladimir P Read Online Free PDF Page A

fucking Chechen never leaves me alone.’
    â€˜There’s a Chechen here?’ asked the billionaire.
    â€˜Can’t you smell him?’
    Kolyakov’s eyes narrowed. ‘I think . . . I’m not sure . . .’
    â€˜Smell! Come on! Try! That’s him. It’s the Chechen.’
    Vladimir had first seen the Chechen on a visit to Grozny early in the war that he had started, while inspecting an area of the city that had recently been taken back from the rebels. The Chechen’s head protruded from a reeking shed or outhouse or shack of some kind behind a house that had been almost totally destroyed. Vladimir couldn’t see whether it was still attached to a body. From the look of it, the head must have been there for a few days. The lips were retracted from its grinning yellow teeth, and the tongue emerging from the mouth was swollen and black, like a gigantic slug crawling out of his throat.
    â€˜He never says anything,’ said Vladimir. ‘Just hangs around. You know, I told the whole world once we killed him in a toilet. Just to see what they would say, the western press. Everyone went crazy. One dead Chechen in a shithouse and they’re up in arms. If only they knew what else we did!’
    Vladimir noticed Kolyakov shifting uncomfortably. He was as ruthless as anyone in business, but when it came to things of flesh and blood, he was squeamish. Vladimir had no real respect for him, but he was a goose who knew how to lay golden eggs, and knew how many he could keep and how many to give away. Kolyakov was said to be worth eight billion dollars. Good luck to him. Vladimir himself had no idea how much he was worth, but it was many times as much.
    â€˜Usually he comes at night,’ said Vladimir, enjoying the spectacle of the billionaire squirming. ‘That’s when I see him.’
    â€˜What does he do?’
    â€˜What do you think he does?’
    Kolyakov stared at him. ‘I don’t know,’ he whispered.
    â€˜I’d cut his head off, but I think someone already did that. At least he’s dead, huh?’ Vladimir laughed. ‘The only good Chechen . . .’
    The billionaire, who had a Chechen grandmother, said nothing.
    â€˜Look!’ said Vladimir, ‘it’s Monarov.’
    â€˜Sheremetev,’ said Sheremetev.
    â€˜Monarov, Dima has an arrangement to tell you about. Deal with it in the usual way, huh?’
    â€˜It’s Sheremetev, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ said Sheremetev again, unsurprised by the fact that Vladimir was addressing him as someone else. For much of the time, Vladimir would engage in conversations with chairs and benches on which, presumably, he believed that people were sitting, and if Sheremetev came in while the conversation was in full swing he often took him for someone out of his past.
    Vladimir looked at him in confusion.
    â€˜It’s alright, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It’s almost time for lunch. You’ll enjoy it. The chef’s made chicken in the Georgian style for you.’
    A smile came over Vladimir’s face. He rubbed his hands enthusiastically. ‘Georgian chicken! Is it ready?’

3
    The chef at the dacha, Viktor Alexandrovich Stepanin, was a barrel-chested man with a seemingly permanent stubble. Stepanin was a creature made by nature and perfected by nurture for the kitchen – classically trained, as he often reminded people – totally entranced and enraptured by cooking, ugly, crude, loud and fractious, and yet despite all those qualities – or perhaps because of them – surprisingly attractive to women. He was having an affair with one of the maids, and she wasn’t the first one who had found her way to his bed.
    Stepanin had developed a habit of chewing the fat with Sherem­etev at the end of the day. Normally, Sheremetev gave Vladimir dinner at around eight and settled him in bed at nine-thirty, after which he would come downstairs for his own meal. By