One Cup Chronicles. Tales Within a Tale of the Russian Underworld

They embraced one another and left the room, oblivious to anyone around them.

***

“Now, this is something entirely new, Valdemar!” After a long pause, Senya scratched his head, and for the first time since these gatherings began, expressed his complete devotion to the only reading of that story. “I say, you should bring it to the publisher of The New Yorker. He’ll take it; he’ll take it and thank you. You brought forth a style which our Anastas here lacks. Surely, our gatherings have influenced your writing, Mr. Salvador Dali.”

“Senya, Dali was a true artist…”

“But I tell you what. You just created a masterpiece the king Dali never could’ve imagined in his lifetime. Simply astounding, my friend!”

After Anastas shot him a stern look, Senya nodded.

“Yes, little Vova is breaking all of the records.”

“Well, you two must have quite the conspiracy between you. Perhaps I can order something stronger for you, so that you hypocrites may go on deluding yourself.”

“Oh come now, it was a harmless joke. No need to get up in arms. I was only speaking of the style.” Senya exuded genuine interest as if discovering a new author for the first time.

“Indeed, the Muse has been unselfishly kind to me over the last few days,” I interjected.

“There now, come along! I suggest a walk to our favorite park. Let us get some fresh air remember in solitude the chiding Americans who, in recent days, have come down as with chains upon us Russian folk…”

That day we no longer returned to creativity. We talked about politics and Russian emigration and basked in the sun, which radiated a welcoming smile to anyone who needed it. Full of endorphins, embracing, each returned to his usual way of life.

All the next week I worked on a new story called “Silver Absolution,” and I couldn’t wait for Tuesday to come around. When I tried to call Senya on Monday evening to confirm our meeting, I found that I couldn’t reach him. My first instinct was alarm, but I didn’t put too much thought into it, and the next day I ran to our café with a particular fervor.

My anxiety flared back up when I reached the front of the café. Senya’s ever present Cadillac was absent. Overcoming my doubts, I ran into the hall, quickly glancing around, but didn’t find the familiar faces of either of my friends. I dialed Senya’s number, but the familiar voice of the operator echoed that he was out of reach. I then flipped through my notebook and sighed with relief when I found Anastas’ number. The voice on the other end sounded hoarse.

“Valdemar, not on the phone. I will arrive and speak to you there.”

I drank several cups of coffee in nervous anticipation before the familiar Greek heralded his presence. Anastas’s face was unreadable and, torn by curiosity, I could no longer sit still.

“What the hell is going on?” I shouted.

“Calm yourself, Valdemar.” The bridge of Anastas’ nose seemed to be a bit shinier due to an increased amount of rubbing from his large thumb. “I can say that we’ll be fine to do a little extracurricular reading without Senya. All I know is that he was forced to go into hiding underground.”

I could think of no words to accurately convey my astonishment, but I’m sure my face reflected those unhappy occupants of the painting “The Last Days of Pompeii.” I have always believed in the honesty and integrity of old thieves, but I can’t see why, for no apparent reason, one such thief who is in his seventies would be forced to lie low. It was beyond my comprehension.

“Don’t get worked up, Vovchik. I came to hear a story, so come now, read. I know I alone cannot provide a complete criticism, but so be it. Let’s read first, then we shall talk, okay?”

“Well brother, this is a story from the category of, how do I put it, “Inevitable Retribution.”

So for the first time, I decided to put my story forth to only Anastas.

Silver absolution

Only a select few of the city’s residents hadn’t heard of Yuri Nikolayevich Bakharev’s wealth and prestige. He was a renowned philanthropist, family man, father of two wonderful daughters – quite simply, a gentleman. His kindness and empathy when solving the city’s issues was astounding. Nobody seemed to know or care when this outstanding gentleman arrived in the city for the first time. He seemed to have lived here for ages, seeing how people quickly become accustomed to generosity.

Almost every week the citizens learned about a new project undertaken by Yuri Nikolayevich. Sure enough, when a church was in want of money for repair and restoration, priests in their robes and collars ran like mad to him. If there was a need to build an orphanage, bureaucrats knocked on the same door. If someone wanted to support gifted young people, wily producers artfully gained an audience and discussed their cause. It was an easy job that required no sacrifice of pride to receive patronage for those who did not overuse his kind-heartedness. All that’s required is finding the most extravagant mansion in the city, ringing at the entry phone, introducing oneself, and explaining the purpose of the visit. After a short pause, the private secretary with her charming voice announces the date and time of the meeting, and all that remains is to arrive punctually and state one’s case. Some bureaucrats appeared in Bakharev’s luxuriously furnished receiving room so often that one could start to take a pride in one’s statesmen for solving so many vital problems!

So then, if a man loves to help his city and facilitate the achievement of many great social causes with undisguised pleasure, wouldn’t it be the height of ingratitude to bite the hand that feeds? Five years ago, one of the city administrators had doubts regarding the great local sponsor’s honesty. Rumor had it that an official enquiry would be made into the source of his incredible wealth. But an outlandish tragedy in the form of a freak car accident soon occurred to the inquisitive administrator. Only an urgent intervention of German surgeons could save the inspector’s life. As always, Yuri Nikolayevich generously helped. After that, there were no volunteers willing to commit the sin of questioning the holy man.

Bakharev was a cofounder of several companies and was quickly named an honorary citizen, thanks to putting all his efforts into solving problems for the community. However, his cornucopia of virtues hid Yuri Nikolayevich from inquisitive glances like a dense wall. The honorary citizen spent most of his time at home drifting from the receiving room to the study and back. On Saturdays, watchful neighbors witnessed a regular departure. The headlights of his Mercedes could be seen emerging from his garage and speeding off into the country. The first idea that occurred to his fellow citizens was that Bakharev of the carefully manicured reputation let off steam by wantonly amusing himself in some other city. Some gossipers said that in the neighboring city a whole restaurant or even an entertainment complex would be reserved for his revelry, and that the money spent on even one of these occasions could easily repair all the dilapidated roads in the city or buy more advanced equipment for the local clinic. The majority of the city scoffed at the wild fantasies of the envious.

The whole mystery surrounding Yuri Nikolayevich was complicated by one more oddity – tormenting nightmares. However, this was a very well-kept secret. The consulted neurologists, psychoanalysts, and doctors received a stern warning that it would be tactless to dig into the psyche of the honorable gentleman; they would depart leaving behind endless bottles and instructions, baffled by the fact that Bakharev was a paragon of health. Throughout nine years of visits, he took a cocktail of drugs before bedtime.

Sturdy young men acting as bodyguards were present day and night throughout the mansion. One guard was always stationed in the room adjoining the bedroom, while three others paced about the yard. Only at the crack of dawn would they disappear into the annex designated for the staff.

Bakharev was extremely zealous about his security. He would wake up before dawn, listen attentively to the silence accompanying the cautious steps of the guard of honor and peep into the neighboring room. The slightest doubt in the quality of protection, be it muffled chuckles behind the window or a sleepy, inattentive face, would spiral into immediate dismissal of the whole “secret service.”

One night, after waking up in the darkness, Bakharev rubbed his head, still spinning from the tranquilizers, and spat an oath.

“Oh, hell! Even a double dose is useless!”

The noise drifting under his door did nothing to ease his anguish. A merry fellow with whom he entrusted his life was passing the dull hours of the night listening to sugary hits on a popular radio station. Apparently immersed in one such banal tune, he was singing in a nasally falsetto and tapping his foot in time to its pulsing rhythm.

“Three days have passed since I employed the new service. I shall have to fire them again. Such diversion is unacceptable during work hours. Someone could be in my room at this very moment smothering me to death, and he wouldn’t even notice. What date is it today? Oh, yes, it’s the twenty-eighth.”

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