Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov Page B

off.
    “What did that man come for?” Sonya asked, looking into the kitchen.
    “For you,” he said under his breath, without turning to her.
    “What did he come for?” she repeated, not having heard.
    “Just for a talk.”
    She went back to the TV, and Viktor sat down at the kitchen table to think – about his life, and Sonya’s part in it. An inconspicuous one, it might seem, but one that still bound him to look after her and think about her. Except that
looking
after amounted to no more than food and the odd conversation. Sonya’s presence in his life was much like that of Misha the penguin in his flat. Still, when someone had turned up to take her away, alarm had given rise to sudden determination. Again there had been talk of
protection, of security
, of which he knew nothing. His life was split in two halves, one known, one unknown. And what was in the other half? What did it consist of? He bit his lip. Riddles were the last thing he wanted to contend with. The Chief’s red pencil had trained him in the use of basic facts as starting points for any text or idea. That evening he was hard put to it to determine which of the ideas dancing around inside his head would, when committed to paper, merit red pencil.

41
    It was strange, but in a couple of days Viktor had forgotten Sergey Chekalin’s visit, being, after a polite telephonic hastener from the Chief, completely absorbed in his work. In brief breaks between obelisks he drank tea and thought that he ought to devote more attention to Sonya, take her to the puppet theatre and that sort of thing. But all that would have to be deferred pending more free time. One way he did manage to make the little girlhappy was with the ice-cream and other sweets he now purchased in large quantities. Shopping excursions provided his only opportunities for a breath of fresh, frosty air. The more frequently he sallied forth, the happier Sonya and Misha were. Sonya’s happiness, unlike Misha’s, took vocal expression. More often than not she called him Uncle
Vik
, and that pleased him. But the main thing was that she didn’t object to spending most of her time in the flat. And in the evening, when they sat in front of the TV watching the latest episode of a Mexican serial, Viktor had a calm, comfortable feeling, while giving no thought to what he was watching. He was enjoying this winter. Anything bad was quickly forgotten over work, or in front of the TV.
    “Uncle Vik,” began Sonya, pointing at the screen, “why does Alejandra have a nanny?”
    “I expect she’s got rich parents.”
    “Are you rich?”
    Viktor shrugged. “Not very …”
    “Am I?”
    He turned and looked at her.
    “Me, am I rich?” she asked again.
    “Yes,” he nodded. “Richer than me.”
    It was a conversation he recalled the next day during one of his tea breaks. How much a nanny cost he had no idea, but the notion of engaging one for Sonya came that day as a revelation.
    That evening his district militiaman friend looked in with a bottle of red wine. They sat in the kitchen. Wet snow was falling and flakes were sticking to the window pane.
    Sergey was a bit on edge.
    “Do you know, I’ve been offered a district militia job in Moscow. Ten times what I’m paid here … Free flat.”
    Viktor shrugged. “But you know what it’s like there,” he said. “Shooting, explosions …”
    “Got that here, too,” said Sergey. “But it’s not Special Task I’m joining … I’ll be what I am now … I don’t know – maybe I’ll go for a year, earn a bit of money.”
    “Up to you.”
    “Yes.” Sergey sighed. “How about your troubles? Over and done with?”
    “Looks like it.”
    “Let’s hope so.”
    “Don’t happen to know of some normal young woman, do you?” Viktor enquired earnestly. “I’m looking for a nanny for Sonya … Reliable and not too expensive?”
    Sergey thought. “I’ve got a niece. Twenty. Unemployed. Like me to ask?”
    Viktor nodded.
    “How much a