Penguin Lost by Andrey Kurkov Read Free Book Online

off!”
    Viktor nodded.
    “Bit off colour today, are we?” he asked with sudden concern.
    And Viktor found himself relating the situation at his flat.
    “Poor chap, but you’ve only yourself to blame,” said Andrey Pavlovich. “ ‘Thou shalt admit to thy home neither stranger, nor semi-stranger, nor semi-intimate’ – Snail’s Law, Article 3.”
    Viktor shrugged.
    “Either you’re no judge of people, or just can’t be bothered. Who, out of that lot, really matters?”
    “Sonya.”
    “Right. So tomorrow – no, tomorrow we’ll be busy – the day after tomorrow, you shall have back the keys of your flat.”
    “But how about Sonya? She can’t live there alone.”
    “We’ll think of something. Meanwhile you stay put.”

15
    Next morning the image makers turned up in a black jeep, travelling light with sports bags and three cardboard boxes containing “a state of the art computer, their mobile brain,” as head imager Zhora, a man in his thirties, put it. With him were Slava, the computer expert, and twin brothers, bright-as-buttons Sasha and Vova, in their young twenties. Desiccated, round-shouldered, pebble-be-spectacledSlava, though about 40, still had the look of a brilliant schoolboy.
    “No computers?” Zhora asked in amazement, touring the house in search of where to establish himself.
    “My games I play live,” said Andrey Pavlovich.
    “But information, where do you store it?”
    Andrey Pavlovich tapped his forehead.
    Zhora looked disappointed.
    The old nursery on the first floor was declared suitable and the image makers took up their bags and computer. Viktor, introduced as “aide to Andrey Pavlovich”, Zhora treated with interest and respect, shaking hands and introducing him to the others. They lunched together in the lounge, off cheese, sausage, fresh rolls and coffee. Andrey Pavlovich sat in for five minutes, then disappeared.
    After lunch, Viktor accompanied Zhora outside, where the latter produced a packet of Gauloises and lit up. “Been here long?” he asked. “Not very.”
    “But clued up.”
    “I think so.”
    “Your boss, what’s he like?”
    “All right.”
    “Fond of money?”
    “I wouldn’t say so.”
    “Good. What does he pay you?”
    “Enough.”
    Zhora betrayed signs of weariness.
    “Don’t worry. We’re battling on the same front, you and I. It’s just that to do a good job I need to know … Every client has his little oddities … His submerged rocks … It’s nice to know …”
    “As I said, he’s all right.”
    “Any serious oppo?”
    Viktor shrugged.
    “No war in progress?”
    “How do you mean?”
    Zhora ground his Gauloise into the gravel with the stub toe of his designer shoe and unnecessary vigour.
    “ ‘How do I mean’ means, any casualties to date?”
    “Only a hunting fatality.”
    “Involving?”
    “Andrey Pavlovich’s son-in-law.”
    “Uh-huh …” Zhora thought for a moment. “That’s the kind of thing to keep me up to speed on – I’ll make it worth your while.”
    “Will do.”
    This exchange with the notion of their “battling on a front together” left Viktor with a nasty taste in the mouth. But elections, as now practised,
were
war – no longer simply a seizing of territory, but a killing off of opposition, as in big business, on a front of anyone’s choosing.
    “Loitering?” demanded Andrey Pavlovich, emerging from the house and encountering Viktor. “Pay our image makers a call. They’ve got your manifesto.”
    *
    Where the cot had been, there was now a desk with computer. Slava was busy with leads, Zhora recumbent on the couch with Viktor’s manifesto.
    “This OK by the boss?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Bloody good! So we bung it on computer, print it off, knock up posters … And make ourselves a nice little bit on the side.”
    “How so?”
    “On computer I’ve got 50 or more manifestos: party, non-party, populist, what-have-you, you name it. But your ideas are quite new ones on me … A