The President’s Last Love by Andrey Kurkov

Author:Andrey Kurkov [Kurkov, Andrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vintage

109

Kiev, September 2004, Tuesday evening

‘FANCY TELLING ME to meet you at a place like this.’ Husseinov waved disgruntled at the large, yellow ‘M’ above us. ‘With such a beautiful church nearby, why couldn’t we meet there?’

‘Maybe if it had been a mosque, I would have suggested it.’

‘I’m not a believer. But Hello anyway.’

‘Hello, Lieutenant,’ I said and we embraced.

‘Not Lieutenant any more,’ said Husseinov loosening his grip. ‘So where shall we go?’

I looked around. At that time of day Post House Square was a beautiful sight. Across the road, carriages of the funicular railway were making their way up Vladimirski Hill, while identical carriages made their way down, illuminated by the occasional street lamp. On the other side of the square neon lights decorated the river port terminal with its busy terrace restaurant emitting the sound of music for the over forties. To the left, at the quay a river cruise ship was also lit up and full of life.

‘Let’s go to the Americans,’ Husseinov suggested.

‘You mean Arizona?’

‘Yes.’

We turned off the Embankment road into the cosy, but brightly lit courtyard of the restaurant and I was at once struck by my old friend’s taste in clothes. Everything he wore was of the latest fashion.

‘The best table you’ve got, young lady,’ he commanded and the waitress led us to a table in the left-hand corner of the restaurant, turning away to get the menu.

‘What’s your name?’ Husseinov asked her.

‘Vita.’

‘Vita, we don’t need the menu. I don’t like reading. Why don’t you just tell me about the most expensive and tastiest thing you got.’

‘And if the tastiest is not the most expensive?’ asked the waitress, intelligently I thought.

‘Then the tastiest.’

‘Mutton à la Argentina.’

‘So two portions of that with a variety of salads. Is that OK with you?’ He turned to me.

‘If you’re paying, I’m easy.’

‘Of course. I owe you. And to drink?’

‘With mutton, a Chilean or Argentinian red.’

‘Fine. But that’s no good for me, the Koran forbids it. I’ll have vodka.’

‘But less than half an hour ago, you were a non-believer.’

‘Yes. A non-believer, but nonetheless a Muslim.’

‘You used to knock back our port.’

‘That was in USSR days when all were equal and drank on equal terms.’

While Husseinov ordered, I called Svetlana on my mobile so she wouldn’t wait up for me.

‘Another flat-warming?’ she asked, but with no trace of irritation.

‘Met an old friend. We’re in Podol. Restaurant on the Embankment.’

‘Say a few words to reassure my wife,’ I said, passing Husseinov the mobile.

‘Good evening. My name is Husseinov. I’ve known your husband since childhood, when he was first brought into the police station. We’re here all by ourselves. Not a woman in sight. So goodnight to you.’

Husseinov returned my mobile to me and I said goodnight to Svetlana.

‘Is she beautiful?’ he asked

‘Very lovely. We’re expecting twins.’

‘I promise to give them a pram.’

The wine and vodka came, then the order, the latter remarkable for a preponderance of meat over chips, and as we ate Husseinov held forth.

‘Well, I went back to Dagestan, and there made Militia Colonel rather more easily than I could have done here.

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