The Senility of Vladimir P Read Online Free PDF

then, the rest of the inhabitants of the dacha had usually eaten and Stepanin would make sure there was something set aside for Sheremetev. The staff dining room with its long green formica table would be otherwise deserted, and the cook would march in through the ­connecting door from the kitchen as Sheremetev ate, apron tied at his waist, dishcloth over his shoulder, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a plate of chillied pork scratchings in the other, and pull up a chair. At that time of the evening, he would have only a set of snacks still to prepare for the security shift that would be working overnight. For half an hour he would sit and talk and drink a glass of vodka and chew on the scratchings, occasionally getting up to throw open the door and yell at his assistants and potwashers who were cleaning up inside.
    Sheremetev couldn’t help but like the big-hearted, voluble cook who wore his heart on his sleeve. Stepanin’s great dream, as he had told Sheremetev countless times, was to open his own restaurant in Moscow. Russian Fusion! Minimalist décor! Sheremetev didn’t know how cooking here at the dacha was going to help him do that, since the pay, to judge by his own salary, was nothing special. He also didn’t know how Stepanin – classically trained, after all – got much satisfaction from cooking for the dacha staff, who probably had never in their lives eaten at the type of establishment he dreamed of opening and were not – Sheremetev included, he would readily admit – the most discerning in the culinary arts. Yet somehow the cook seemed certain that he would one day realise his dream, and in the meantime he strode around his kitchen like a fuming colossus, berating his assistants and inventing startling recipes which, he assured Sheremetev, would feature on the menu of the fantasy restaurant that Sheremetev was equally certain would never come to be.
    That night, the cook was eager to know about Vladimir’s meeting with Lebedev, and most importantly, what had happened with the delicacies he had sweated so hard to produce.
    â€˜Everyone loved the food,’ Sheremetev assured him.
    Stepanin beamed with pleasure. Then he sat forward, a glint in his eye. ‘But Constantin Mikhailovich, Kolya, what about him? What did he say?’
    Sheremetev shrugged, as if it was beyond question that the new president had enjoyed the food. The truth was, Sheremetev hadn’t seen the president touch a thing. As far as he could tell, the snacks had disappeared down the gullets of his security men and aides. The cameramen too, he noticed, had started grabbing them as they packed up to leave.
    â€˜Well?’ said Stepanin, eager for details. ‘What did he like? What about the bulochki ? Huh? The ones with cheese. They’re not the usual ones – a new invention! Russian Fusion: traditional, but with a twist. I put a bit of quince in, and just a tiny pinch of sumac – a hint, a sniff, that’s all. Lebedevki , I’m going to call them, in honour of the new president. What do you think? Did he eat them? Did he like them? Come on, Kolya! For God’s sake, tell me!’
    â€˜I think . . . he liked everything.’
    â€˜Everything? He tasted everything? But what did he say , Kolya?’
    â€˜I can’t, Vitya. It’s . . . you know, when it’s the president, they make you promise you can’t repeat anything you hear.’
    Stepanin’s eyes widened. ‘Do they?’
    Sheremetev nodded.
    Stepanin sat back, his imagination overflowing with images of President Lebedev scoffing his miniature cheese bulochki with quince and sumac and praising them in compliments so rarefied, so exorbitant, so . . . presidential that they couldn’t be repeated, not even between two people sitting in an otherwise deserted dining room. After a moment he looked up. ‘Seeing two presidents in one place! You’re lucky, Kolya. That doesn’t happen