Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov Page A

that he had, at Sonya’s insistence, bought a colour television on their return from the dacha. And now they came together in front of it, but always with Sonya in charge of the remote control.
    “It’s my telly!” she said, which Viktor, having in fact bought it with her money, had to concede.
    Misha also took an interest in the television, sometimes going right up to the screen and blocking Viktor and Sonya’s view. Sonya would then gently lead him off to the bedroom, where he liked to stand in front of the mirror studying his reflection. Viktor was surprised how easily she managed him. Although that was not surprising perhaps, seeing that she spent far more time with him than he did. Several times she even took him for a walk on the waste area by the dovecotes.
    One evening the doorbell rang, and seeing a complete stranger through the spyhole, he was filled with alarm. He at once thought back to the photos of the two dead young men who had been after him. Sighing audibly, the stranger, a man of about 40, gavethe button another press, jangling the bell right above where Viktor stood with bated breath.
    Behind him the living-room door creaked and Sonya called: “Do go to the door. Someone’s ringing!”
    “Open up. Nothing to be afraid of,” came a voice from the other side of the door.
    “Who do you want?”
    “You! Who else! What are you afraid of? I’ve come about Misha.”
    Viktor reached for the lock, wondering which Misha, and finally opened the door.
    A thin, unshaven, sharp-nosed man in a Chinese down jacket and a black knitted hat came in. From his pocket, he pulled out a sheet of paper folded in two or three, and passed it to Viktor.
    “My calling card,” he said with a grin.
    An icy shiver ran down Viktor’s spine as he unfolded it and held it up to read. It was his
obelisk
on Misha-non-penguin’s friend-cum-enemy, Sergey Chekalin.
    “Know me now?” asked the visitor coldly.
    “Sergey Chekalin,” said Viktor, and seeing Sonya still standing in the open door, told her sternly to go back in, before turning again to his visitor.
    “Could we sit down somewhere? We need to talk.”
    Viktor took him into the kitchen, where he sat straight down in Viktor’s chair, leaving him to sit opposite.
    “Got some bad news,” said the visitor. “Misha, I’m sorry to say, is dead. And I’ve come for his daughter. There’s no longer any sense in keeping her hidden. OK?”
    Very slowly, bit by bit, what had been said got through to Viktor. But the two basic facts: that Misha was dead and that thisman had come for Sonya, somehow refused to connect. He put his hand to his forehead, as if at a sudden stab of pain, and it was as cold as ice.
    “How did he die?” Viktor asked suddenly, looking down at the table top, his expression one of dismay.
    “How?” Sergey responded. “As they all do, tragically.”
    “And why does she have to go with you?” Viktor asked after a short pause to collect his thoughts.
    “I was his friend. It’s my duty to look after her.”
    Viktor shook his head. The visitor stared, astonished.
    “No,” said Viktor, his voice suddenly firmer. “Misha wanted me to look after her.”
    “Listen,” said his visitor wearily, “with all due respect to your protection, you’ve got it wrong. And can you prove he wanted you to?”
    “I have a note from him,” Viktor said calmly. “I’ll show you.”
    “Do that.”
    Viktor went into the living room and searched through a sheaf of papers on the window ledge for Misha’s note promising to be back when the dust settled. As he turned to where Sonya and the penguin were absorbed watching figure skating on the TV, he heard the front door bang. He went and poked his head into the kitchen. His visitor had beaten an unceremonious retreat, leaving his obituary on the kitchen table.
    A few minutes later an engine started up. Viktor looked out, and in the light of a street lamp, saw a long car just like Misha-non-penguin’s moving