High by Andrew Osmond
Chapter Nine
In the autumn of 1985 the town of Pripyat was largely unknown to the world at large; even within the Soviet Union it was something of a non-entity: a few more knowledgeable types in Moscow might nod their head in recognition of the word, might offer the opinion that it was the name of a fairly uninteresting tributary of the Dneiper River, some might go as far as to say that it was a town not so very far distant from Kiev, or that it was one of the more prosperous industrial areas in the still largely agricultural Ukraine. Anyone who had actually been there would have described Pripyat as thriving, a town to be proud of, a shining example that the new economic policies of perestroika of the recently elected, liberal president Mikhail Gorbachev were working, despite a general opinion within the country to the contrary. Less than six months later, Pripyat would be known throughout the globe as the scene of the worst, man-made, peacetime catastrophe the world had ever seen. It was during this six month lull that Garnet began his second attempt to create the world’s tallest structure.
It had taken three months of repeated letter writing and protracted telephone calls to secure an interview with Leonid Zhulinsky, special advisor within the Department of Building, Architecture and Planning located in Lvivska ploshcha in Kiev, and even then, on the day of the appointed meeting, Garnet still found himself having to wait an additional two hours in a small ante chamber, while the man himself finished his lunch. When Garnet was finally admitted to the inner sanctum of the governmental offices and, by way of an interpreter, permitted to outline the details of the ambitious construction project he had in mind, it took Zhulinsky only a matter of a couple of minutes to decide that it would be necessary for Garnet to recount his plans to the head of the Department, Viktor Yershov, State Committee Chairman for Ukraine, and only an additional ten minutes before Garnet found himself in the lavishly decorated quarters of that influential individual. Where Zhulinsky’s office had been utilitarian, the décor purely functional, the wallpaper bland and peeling, revealing a black residue of dampness on the exposed plaster beneath, Yershov’s suite reminded Garnet of the ostentatious displays of status that he had been familiar with in New York. Back then, it was often the case that such exhibitions of grandeur were only paper fine, a thin veneer of gloss to disguise a floundering ability beneath: with Yershov, this was clearly not the case; the man exuded power and competence; here, there was none of the pointless bureaucracy that had thwarted him in so many of his dealings with the Russians to date, instead Garnet was faced with a man who purely wished to know facts, and on the basis of them would then give his decision, yes or no, final, no further discussion. Forty-five minutes later, a deal had been settled, several papers had been signed, and Yershov was slipping a large cheque into the top pocket of his jacket, at the same time pulling out a bottle of pepper vodka from the bottom drawer of his magnificent mahogany desk. The two men exchanged a toast, clinked glasses and each settled back in satisfied repose in their respective chairs, pleased at the conclusion to a mutually beneficial business arrangement. Yershov poured himself a second glass of vodka, and downed the fiery spirit in one gulp in the same fashion as the first. “We finish the bottle, no?” Yershov spoke English tolerably well, with the thick, guttural accent typical of his Slavic ancestors. Garnet smiled indulgently, extending the arm holding his own glass. He had no concern for either his own or the Ukrainian's linguistic shortcomings: in his world, money was the preferred language of choice, and it managed to subvert all cultural or country boundaries. It was reassuring to know that there was such a positive unifying force for mankind: it restored some of Garnet’s faith in humanity.
Yershov insisted that Garnet must take a tour of his home city before he departed again, and also offered to accompany Garnet personally to the finest restaurant in Kiev that evening, to cement their deal with a further partaking of food and drink.
••••••••••
A black Mercedes limousine picked up Garnet from the Intourist President Hotel Kyivsky, where he was staying, on the outskirts of the city, and swiftly whisked him along the wide, largely car-free boulevard which runs parallel to the green belt of parkland on the west bank of the Dneiper, to Tsarske Selo, Yershov’s restaurant of choice. Several of the landmark onion dome towers on the Russian Orthodox churches were illuminated on the hills in the distance, as was the odd window, high up in a concrete apartment block which should have housed thousands, but most of the rest of the city was cloaked in darkness, and Garnet found that he could no more get to grips with his bearings than he had been able to earlier on in the day, when two of Yershov’s colleagues had proudly shown him the sights.
The restaurant was to the south of the city, in the opposite direction from the offices where he had first met Yershov, and as Garnet watched the comforting lights of familiarity gradually disappearing in the rear-view mirror behind him, he had the paranoid thought that perhaps this was all a grand trap; that Yershov had taken his money, and was now arranging for him to be quietly disposed of. It would all be so easy. Wheelchair-bound, what resistance was he likely to offer? The Russian mafia were supposedly rife. He had read all about it. It had been one of the reasons he had opted for the Ukraine as a possible location for his new building project: no lengthy planning applications; certainly no awkward, do-gooder environmental groups; and - for the simple exchange of a requisite sum of hard currency - no questions asked. Except, the same was probably true of their criminal investigation system too. A man is required to be killed: no questions asked. A famous businessman goes missing: no questions asked. Evidence of the crime is concealed: no questions asked.
“You need help, sir?”
Garnet was brought around from his reverie by the sudden realisation that his driver was asking him a question.
“Sir?” The chauffeur had swivelled around in his seat so that he could face his backseat passenger, and was indicating with his hands the pushing motion of a wheelchair. Garnet looked around himself, blankly, and then, realising that the car had come to a halt, and also seeing outside the vehicle a bright light on a building which revealed the name of the appointed restaurant, regained something of his composure, snapping, “Of course.”
Garnet was wheeled to a table set for four diners, although of his fellow companions there was, as yet, no sign. The driver of his car doffed his cap in apparent genuine respect, and then took his leave, saying that he would be waiting outside, ready to drive him back to his hotel whenever his meal was finished. A waiter arrived, wearing a straw hat and colourful, traditional dress, not out-of-place in the faux rustic interior, carrying a bowl containing nugget sized chunks of what looked like soft white fudge, and deposited this on the table in front of Garnet. “Salo,” the man said knowingly, at the same time miming putting one of the morsels in his mouth, and savouring the taste longingly. Garnet picked up one of the white cubes, which felt slightly sticky to the touch, and eyed it suspiciously, before replacing it on its plate, and requesting to see the wine list. At the rear of the restaurant, largely hidden - Garnet was thankful to note - from the table that he had been allocated, a folk band played, comprising of one seated man, wearing a thick fur-collared jacket, playing an oversized, multi-stringed lute-like instrument, and a second individual in a sheepskin waistcoat, standing and wailing in a melancholy fashion. It was only Yershov’s sudden arrival that prevented Garnet from recalling his driver then and there.
Yershov’s companion was introduced as Sasha. Yershov apologised for keeping Garnet waiting, while Sasha had difficulty sitting down on the carved, wooden seat, her black, vinyl mini-skirt being so tight that it prevented such bold movements. Finally, after she had manoeuvred the offending garment, such that she was capable of bending her legs at the knees, and was seated beside the two men, she reached out and took one of the white, sticky cubes from the table, letting it sit, provocatively, on her tongue for a moment, before it melted away, leaving a white liquid residue to run out of the side of
“Do not worry about her,” Yershov said reassuringly, noting the direction of Garnet’s horrified, yet fascinated, stare, “She does not understand English. She does not need to.” Yershov laughed out loud, slapping Garnet good-humouredly across the shoulders. “You understand? Yes?” He continued, “Have no fear. We can talk... how you say... in candour?”
“Candidly. Yes,” Garnet corrected.
“But first we eat. Yes?” Yershov wrapped his arm around the shoulders of his companion. “I have much exercise this afternoon. You understand? It has given me an appetite.” He laughed again, transferring his fleshy hands to his own corpulent stomach, rubbing them back and forth, suggestive of an urgent need to be fed. Sasha eyed him suspiciously, aware that she was the butt of the big man’s humour, but uncertain as to whether she should defend her corner.
Yershov clicked his fingers above his head and called out loudly, “Raymond!” As an aside, he said to Garnet, “It is ironic, no? The finest Ukrainian cooking in the country, and the chef... he is from France.” He ended cryptically, ”It is what is wrong with this country, you know,” although not continuing to explain exactly what he meant by the observation.
Garnet, normally accustomed to being the object of a restaurant’s waiting staff’s most attentive service, on this occasion, was happy to take a backseat, and allow his host to hold court. Also, normally someone who prided himself on being something of a food connoisseur, when faced with a menu written entirely in impenetrable Cyrillic, was content for Yershov to order for the whole table without consultation with either himself or Sasha.
“What are the...?” Garnet pointed at one of the glistening, white cubes, as the platinum blonde proceeded to devour another of their number, throwing her head back as she swallowed the morsel, allowing her unnaturally silver-coloured hair to flow back and forth across her forehead like a moonlit wave. Her hair was cut in a neat bob style, the individual filaments well-conditioned and free from split ends, Garnet appraised, professionally: it was an expensive haircut, at odds with the rest of her appearance.
Yershov repeated the waiter’s earlier words, “Salo,” going on to explain, “It is... how you say... pig fat.” Garnet wrinkled his nose, a gesture which was not lost to Yershov. He continued, “In Ukraine it is a tradition to eat salo. It is very good for the...” He thumped his chest, indicating his heart.
Garnet reached out tentatively to take one of the white chunks, conscious of not wanting to be seen to offend the hospitality of his companion’s country but, equally, horrified at the prospect of actually putting the lard ball in his mouth. Yershov stopped him as his hand hovered over the plate. “No, my friend. This is peasant food.” He laughed loudly, before snapping his fingers once more, “Raymond! Take this shit away. Where is our vodka?”
The meal, when it arrived, was simple yet substantial, the lack of strong flavours compensated by generous helpings of thick dumplings and pastries, which served to insulate the body against the already chill autumn air, more effectively than several layers of clothing. A warm borshch was followed by what Yershov informed Garnet was varenyky, a soft, doughy savoury pudding, filled with a generic meat, potatoes and cabbage, alongside which was served holubtsi, a cabbage roll stuffed with more of the same fatty meat. Garnet pushed his food unenthusiastically around his plate, as if hopeful that in some way perpetual motion would contrive to reduce the remaining portion. His companions ate with gusto, drowning out the bland tastes with liberal quantities of vodka.
It was not until the meal was cleared away, and all that remained on the table were three shot glasses set before each diner, and what remained of the bottle of lemon vodka, that Yershov turned the conversation around to matters of business.
“You have your own labour force?”
“No,” Garnet said, “I would need you to provide one.”
Yershov shook his head, thoughtfully, while saying contradictorily, “That should not be a problem. And materials? You will be wanting to import?”
Again Garnet said no. “I would prefer to use local materials and equipment. Is that going to be a problem?”
“No. No, not at all. Materials. We have plenty of materials. We just do not have any money to make anything from them. It would have been more of a problem if you had wished to import. That is another department.” Yershov rubbed his fingers together suggestively, “It would have needed more... how you say... outlay.”
“And you do not need to clear any of this with Moscow?”
Yershov laughed, “Times are changing. Moscow knows very little of what we do down here. I believe it will not be long before we have our independence. Not that I think it will make any difference, but that is just the way things are. No, if you wish to build anything in Ukraine, new factory, office block, even a barn to keep your pigs, I am the man you see. No one else. You understand? We have a deal, do we not?”
Garnet held up his glass to his associate. “We have a...”
The explosion that ripped through the restaurant was anticipated by a blinding orange flash, a sudden invasion of sound and a rush of hot air. Where Garnet had been expecting to delicately touch his vodka glass with Yershov’s, instead he found himself showered by a thousand sharp shards from where the front windows of the restaurant had blown inwards. He felt a warm trickle running down from his hairline, across his brow, still wrinkled with bewilderment and shock, eventually to form a sticky pool in the corner of his left eye, before finding a new pathway, continuing down the side of his nose and into the corner of his mouth. He spat, instinctively, and a globule of red saliva stained the previously white tablecloth. He touched his hand to his forehead and was surprised to encounter a hard, thin object, sticking out at right angles to his skin: a bizarre juxtaposition of materials. He pulled on the glass splinter and was relieved to discover that it came away without any great effort. He was still looking at the would-be missile when he felt a violent shove from behind and heard a man’s voice shouting at him, distinctive above the surrounding sounds of chaos, almost as though his ears had just popped on a transatlantic flight and his hearing was restored. Looking around, Garnet saw that it was Yershov, his face splattered with minute specks of blood, as though he had been shaving blindfold, desperately struggling with Garnet’s heavy wheelchair.
Yershov cursed aggressively in Russian, as he pulled on the arms of the obstinately immovable chair, before shouting at Garnet, “How do you move this fucking thing?”
Without answering, Garnet released the brake mechanism at the side of the wheel, and Yershov was able to pull the disabled man out from where he still sat at the table, looking as though he were patiently expecting a dessert course, amidst the devastation of the bomb blast.
“We must go.” Yershov was still having to shout, in order to make himself heard above the surrounding cries. “I have a car outside. You come with me. I know somewhere safe.”