Red Pyramid by Vladimir Sorokin

Author:Vladimir Sorokin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New York Review Books
Published: 2024-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

She went through the door.

In the large, bright entryway, a security guard in a black uniform loomed and a young female porter was seated.

“Hello, who are you here to see?” she asked with a smile.

“I’m here to see your . . . boss,” Olya said, then realized that she’d forgotten Horse Soup’s last name, remembering only his first—Boris.

“We have two of those.” The receptionist smiled. “Do you want to see the director or the chairman?”

“I’m here for Boris—” Olya began.

“Boris Ilyich?” the receptionist interrupted her. “Does he know you’re here?”

“No. It’s . . . a personal matter.”

“You’re lucky he’s in. Who shall I say is here to see him?”

“Olya Slavina,” Olya said, not realizing that she’d never told Horse Soup her last name.

“OK.” The girl picked up the phone. “Marina Vasilievna, I have a visitor here for Boris Ilyich on a personal matter. Her name’s Olya Slavina . . . Yes, Slavina.”

The girl waited for a minute, nodding politely at Olya, then put down the phone.

“You can go up now. Second floor. Last office on your right.”

Olya climbed the marble staircase with no trouble, but, in the hallway, her head began to spin and she had to lean against the wall for support.

Please don’t kick me out, Horse Soup

Coming back to her senses, she made her way to Burmistrov’s waiting room.

“Head on in—Boris Ilyich is waiting for you,” said his secretary, opening the door.

Holding her breath, Olya walked into the office. Burmistrov was sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. Taking a quick look at Olya, he raised his index finger and began to stand up from his chair as he finished his conversation.

“I’m telling you for the third time—they don’t need gas masks, they only need the metal part and the filters, do you understand? What? Well, tell him to wear those masks on his dick! What? What??? Vitya! Were you born yesterday or somethin’? Just get twenty suckers, put ’em on the barge, and they’ll disassemble it in a day! Throw the masks over the side. End of conversation. Goodbye.”

He slammed down the phone.

Olya was standing at the center of his office.

Burmistrov circumnavigated his desk with a frown, went over to Olya, and stared at her silently for a long time.

Olya’s lips and knees were shaking.

“So, were you trying to cash in your chips?” he asked her good-naturedly, then slapped her across the face.

Completely exhausted, Olya fell to the floor.

“How many days has it been since you last ate?”

“Four . . . five . . .” she mumbled.

“Idiot . . .” He picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Polina Andreyevna? Hello. I need you today. Yes. Please get there as fast as you can, start cooking right now. We’ll see you in . . . how much time do you need? Let’s say an hour. Yes. Thank you.”

Still on the floor, Olya sat up.

“Sit over there.” Burmistrov nodded at two armchairs around a coffee table.

She stood up, walked over, sat down.

Burmistrov sat on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his chest.

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