One Cup Chronicles. Tales Within a Tale of the Russian Underworld. Vladimir Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ when a church was in want of money for repair and restoration, priests in their robes and collars ran like mad to him. If there was a need to build an orphanage, bureaucrats knocked on the same door. If someone wanted to support gifted young people, wily producers artfully gained an audience and discussed their cause. It was an easy job that required no sacrifice of pride to receive patronage for those who did not overuse his kind-heartedness. All that’s required is finding the most extravagant mansion in the city, ringing at the entry phone, introducing oneself, and explaining the purpose of the visit. After a short pause, the private secretary with her charming voice announces the date and time of the meeting, and all that remains is to arrive punctually and state one’s case. Some bureaucrats appeared in Bakharev’s luxuriously furnished receiving room so often that one could start to take a pride in one’s statesmen for solving so many vital problems!

      So then, if a man loves to help his city and facilitate the achievement of many great social causes with undisguised pleasure, wouldn’t it be the height of ingratitude to bite the hand that feeds? Five years ago, one of the city administrators had doubts regarding the great local sponsor’s honesty. Rumor had it that an official enquiry would be made into the source of his incredible wealth. But an outlandish tragedy in the form of a freak car accident soon occurred to the inquisitive administrator. Only an urgent intervention of German surgeons could save the inspector’s life. As always, Yuri Nikolayevich generously helped. After that, there were no volunteers willing to commit the sin of questioning the holy man.

      Bakharev was a cofounder of several companies and was quickly named an honorary citizen, thanks to putting all his efforts into solving problems for the community. However, his cornucopia of virtues hid Yuri Nikolayevich from inquisitive glances like a dense wall. The honorary citizen spent most of his time at home drifting from the receiving room to the study and back. On Saturdays, watchful neighbors witnessed a regular departure. The headlights of his Mercedes could be seen emerging from his garage and speeding off into the country. The first idea that occurred to his fellow citizens was that Bakharev of the carefully manicured reputation let off steam by wantonly amusing himself in some other city. Some gossipers said that in the neighboring city a whole restaurant or even an entertainment complex would be reserved for his revelry, and that the money spent on even one of these occasions could easily repair all the dilapidated roads in the city or buy more advanced equipment for the local clinic. The majority of the city scoffed at the wild fantasies of the envious.

      The whole mystery surrounding Yuri Nikolayevich was complicated by one more oddity – tormenting nightmares. However, this was a very well-kept secret. The consulted neurologists, psychoanalysts, and doctors received a stern warning that it would be tactless to dig into the psyche of the honorable gentleman; they would depart leaving behind endless bottles and instructions, baffled by the fact that Bakharev was a paragon of health. Throughout nine years of visits, he took a cocktail of drugs before bedtime.

      Sturdy young men acting as bodyguards were present day and night throughout the mansion. One guard was always stationed in the room adjoining the bedroom, while three others paced about the yard. Only at the crack of dawn would they disappear into the annex designated for the staff.

      Bakharev was extremely zealous about his security. He would wake up before dawn, listen attentively to the silence accompanying the cautious steps of the guard of honor and peep into the neighboring room. The slightest doubt in the quality of protection, be it muffled chuckles behind the window or a sleepy, inattentive face, would spiral into immediate dismissal of the whole “secret service.”

      One night, after waking up in the darkness, Bakharev rubbed his head, still spinning from the tranquilizers, and spat an oath.

      “Oh, hell! Even a double dose is useless!”

      The noise drifting under his door did nothing to ease his anguish. A merry fellow with whom he entrusted his life was passing the dull hours of the night listening to sugary hits on a popular radio station. Apparently immersed in one such banal tune, he was singing in a nasally falsetto and tapping his foot in time to its pulsing rhythm.

      “Three days have passed since I employed the new service. I shall have to fire them again. Such diversion is unacceptable during work hours. Someone could be in my room at this very moment smothering me to death, and he wouldn’t even notice. What date is it today? Oh, yes, it’s the twenty-eighth.”

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