Pekinese duck was served, and when waiter girl closed the door Rebrov asked, “So what’s happened to our money, Leonid? How are things?” By Levko’s carefree grin, familiar to Rebrov for twelve years, he guessed that it was too bad.

“So-so. But one bank promised me to help with credit. Don’t you worry; we’ll break through as usual. Don’t worry.”

“Very bad, and I am sick of it already. It’s so shaky, Leo.”

“In two weeks you will be billionaire. It suits you?”

“I doubt it.”

“Ivan, I just ask you to be honest with me. You know where we’re heading, and we should stick together as one fist. And please, don’t you trust this Communist maniac.”

“Did he find a madman for this job?”

“I don't know and I don't want to know. That homicidal part is strictly your business, and don’t you ever talk with me about it.”

“Since when did you turn into such a saint?”

“Long enough, and please never even mention these things to me.”

“OK, Leo, and don’t you worry too. They say he hired some private detective. I guess for this job.”

“Did you see him?”

“Not yet. Perhaps, I’ll see him tomorrow at the funeral.”

“Probe him, talk to him, we don’t want this sniffer dog spoil us everything.”

They ate the duck in silence. Rebrov just pecked his plate with the spoon.

“Why don’t you eat? Does it hurt?” Levko asked going on with his duck, not even looking up.

“No appetite.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you really question him?”

“When I die? Not yet.”

Levko knew better than his partner when he will certainly die, because he consulted this matter with a renowned doctor. With the symptoms of the cirrhosis of the liver that Rebrov told him once, with the bleedings from the bowel veins, he was already on the last stage of the decease and could live no longer than half a year, but perhaps even less. When Levko was told about it he wasn’t much distressed. He wasn’t glad too, because he considered himself a decent man, but certainly he was not distressed. Levko was afraid of Rebrov for a very long time. He often had nightmares with this man doing something cruel to him. He even called him in his mind nelud, werewolf in Russian, or devil. Twelve years ago, as it was apparent now, he underestimated Rebrov. He thought then that he could easily get along with this illiterate village lad, or bend him down, or at least do away with him any time he wanted to. Levko was wrong. This youngster happened to be much cooler than anyone he ever met before, and very clever. Since then Levko never felt himself a total boss in his bank. The only argument his new partner and security chief ever proposed for all business conflicts was death. In fact, that was quite a common argument in the business circles during those wild ninetieth years.

Rebrov didn't stay for a dessert, and Levko didn't implore him to. The moment he left Levko rushed to his computers and peered into figures appeared there during his absence. Today these figures, or maybe the stars in the sky, were favorable to him. With the eyes on the screens he familiarly groped for a long brass chain with the key of his Porsche, and whirled it around his finger. This cheap brass chain was very special for Levko, because it was bringing him luck. He noticed it twenty years ago when he was a black market money changer on the street. That’s when he bought his first car, secondhand Lada, and since then, standing in the street, waiting for customers, he whirled this brass chain with a car-key around his finger. Car-key was visible sign of his rising status, and a long brass chain was a clear warning to anybody who would approach him with malicious intentions. Many thugs and trumps had such intentions on that street.

Keeping his eyes glued to the figures, Levko quickly and cheerfully twirled the brass chain with a Porsche key in front of the computer screens.

Because of the heavy rain that showered me on the motorbike, I came to the crematorium later, and at once had to go the men’s room to wash my spattered with dirt face. When I found the assigned ritual hall, all the mourners were there, with bunches of flowers waiting for the doors to be opened.

I saw many familiar faces there and solemnly nodded them. Those were twenty or so men and women I saw in the corridors of the party headquarters, all of them colleagues of the deceased. Although, there was nobody who looked like his relative, or fan, or lover. That seemed quite unnatural to me. After all, this Sergey was a poet, and not just another unhappy poet, but someone bearing striking likeness to the great, long dead Russian genius. One person there attracted my attention, because he wore a red turban on his head. Apparently, he was the Indian Consulate official, to testify the transition of his compatriot to another world. At last, the doors were slowly opened, and the solemn crowd was let inside the ritual hall.

Poet lay in casket dressed in a black suit, with a white strip of cloth and a small wooden cross on his forehead. The wreaths and bouquets of flowers were heaped around, and still more was being laid, covering up the polished wood of the coffin.

Just behind the head of deceased his portrait was placed on adjoining pedestal. It was black and white, and extraordinarily enlarged. When I looked at it closer I was just dumbfounded. “My God,” I thought in amazement. “What a bad-taste spectacle!” Because it wasn’t a portrait of the unfortunate poet Sergey from India, but it was the portrait of great Sergey Yesenin himself, his widely known photograph that was made a hundred years ago, with his blond hair parted in the middle. In a deep amazement and shocked to the core, I looked around at the mourners: “Why don’t they notice it, they look like educated people!” All of them now silently and mournfully stood around the coffin, looking at the pale face there, at the portrait, and apparently awaiting for some speeches.

I was also surprised yesterday, being introduced to the subject of my job in the party. Whatever I asked seemed to be the top secret no one had authority to disclose. All the day I was taken care of by the party official of high rank, comrade Myacheva. She was a tall and massive woman with a shock of a blond hair, in a bland dress and with a loud voice. Most noticeable about her were long and red shining nails, warning perhaps of some danger. I was put in some kind of a library, and Myacheva had brought me a pile of their election leaflets, flyers and a complimentary textbook on the history of the Communist Party in this country, and asked me to acquaint myself with it. I think that was a standard procedure for all new members of this party, because she wasn’t sure of my function here. With a feeling that I'm wasting my time in vain, I honestly flipped through all these glossy papers, and even read some pages of textbook, though I knew this embellished party history from my college years, and there was nothing new to me.

Finally, when Myacheva was passing me by in the aisle, looking like a stern school teacher, I addressed her very politely, “Madam, I have acquainted with all these, thank you, but I was invited to work here. I was told there would happen something extraordinary very soon. What’s that? Who will tell me?”

At first her eyes widened like angry teacher’s, then looked warily sideways, right and left, as if checking foes, and then her hand jerked with frightened gesture to her lips.

“Who, who told you that!”

“Your Secretary General told me that.” I said. It seemed as if I unintentionally offended her because her face turned red.

“I am not authorized to discuss it with you.”

“Who is authorized? Let me see that one, because I waste my time here.”

“I’ll find out. You study meanwhile.” She turned around and almost ran out of the room.”