Hero Page 3

  “Now listen. I have to run. There’re people waiting for me. I have two groups: one trains Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the other Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Both start at 7 p.m. Come and we’ll see. If you can’t keep up, I’ll kick you out, as simple as that. You sign up and pay at the reception. That’s it, I need to rush. See ya!”

  He left, leaving me to decide how to fit it into my schedule. I wanted to keep the weekend evenings free, just in case I wanted to take Vicky out. So it looked like it would have to be Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

  Consumed by these thoughts, I headed to the locker room when some jerk barged past me, knocking my shoulder.

  “Is the corridor not big enough?” he asked, swinging round. “I could cut you down to size a little bit, if you want.”

  I decided not to make a big thing of it. “Sorry. I was miles away.”

  “Yuri!” another guy called him from the boxing hall. “We’re all waiting for you! Get your ass in gear!”

  “Coming!” Yuri shouted, then turned back to me. “Listen, are you the guy who trains with Matov?”

  “Yes, and what of it?”

  “Aha, I see now! You’re the daddy’s boy who takes private lessons every day. Fancy sparring with me?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “As you wish. See you around... wuss,” laughing, he disappeared into the hall.

  Yeah right! I don't think so! He had Boxing all leveled up. Compared to his 7 pt., my four were a joke.

  I looked at the calendar on my smartphone. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to stick to a strict schedule. I wouldn’t even know which day of the week it was. Aha! Today was Wednesday which meant this had been the group which I wanted to join. No, I didn’t fancy training with such a bunch of uncourteous and unfriendly individuals.

  Having thus come to a decision, I headed for the reception and laid the magnetic locker bracelet on the desk.

  A petite blonde called Katia scooped up the bracelet and gave me my card. “Are you all done, Phil?” she flashed me a pearly smile. “How did it go?”

  “Everything went fine, thanks. Listen Katia, I’m stopping one-on-one training with Matov and transferring to his group. Can you sign me up for Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays?”

  “Just a minute. When are you starting?”

  “Next week. I’m leaving town for the weekend. I’ll finish up the one-on-ones for this week if it’s possible.”

  “Of course,” she replied, tapping something into the computer. “Now: evening boxing sessions starting Tuesday at 7 p.m. Don’t be late, otherwise Matov might not let you in.”

  “I know,” I smiled, remembering his proverbial ‘one minute late and it’s finished!’

  “Are you gonna pay straight away? It’s four thousand a month.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have it on me. I’ll pay just before the session.”

  “Very well. See you, then!”

  * * *

  BACK HOME, I was greeted by Boris the she-cat who complained bitterly, peppering her diatribe with a feline equivalent of f-words. I’d been out the whole day and she’d missed me. Having said that, she was probably just hungry.

  “Can I at least change into something dry?” I begged. “I’m soaked through!”

  Still, she wouldn’t leave me alone, rubbing against my legs.

  My conversations with Boris — and with Richie the pooch before that — probably didn’t fit the pattern of a completely sane person. But I couldn’t help it. I understand that it’s probably naïve and stupid to see a human being in every man and animal. But that was just me.

  I opened the kitchen cupboard. The shelf where I kept cat food was empty. I’d forgotten to buy it again. I had this urge to get dressed and rush out to the shop but hesitated. I really didn’t want to get wet again.

  “Go and drink some milk,” I remonstrated with the cat.

  Contrary to stereotypes, Boris wasn’t fond of milk. No idea why but she’d always preferred industrial cat food to milk and even meat. Could they be indeed lacing it with something? Nevertheless, her hunger was so strong she attacked her milk with gusto.

  Still, unwilling to upset her, I called Vicky.

  “Hi,” she replied. “I’m coming over to see you soon.”

  “Great, I’ll be waiting. Can you go past the shop for me?”

  “Easy. What do you need?”

  “Just some coffee and a bag of cat food. Could you bring that?”

  “Not a problem. Kisses! See you soon!”

  I turned on the TV for some ambience, peeled off my soaked clothes and threw them in the washer when I overheard an anxious voice off-screen,

  “An all-points alert has been put out for Joseph Kogan, a six-year-old boy last seen in the local mall... dressed in... please contact the search and rescue team...”

  That was the mall where I did my shopping! I hurried into the room to catch the precious snippets of identification data: the boy’s picture, date of birth... description and height. Now I had enough KIDD points.

  I opened the map. He was alive. He was out of town though, somewhere in the north east.

  I zoomed in to the max on the house. It didn’t look like a posh villa. I surveyed the outhouses and the fenced-off yard. A white SUV was parked by the house. I didn’t observe any movement; the boy’s marker was quivering on the map indicating that the object was moving around slowly inside.

  I reached onto the bookshelf and pulled out a fat encyclopedia, reaching for a sturdy well-used Nokia stashed behind it. I’d bought several such antiques in a seedy phone repair shop by an underground crossing specifically for occasions like this.

  I got dressed, slid the phone, the charger and a SIM card into my pocket and went outside, calling Uber on the way.

  So as not to get wet, I waited for the cab in the doorway. After about five minutes, a battered old Lada pulled up. The driver’s rating was very low and I saw why the moment we’d pulled away. He started grumbling, complaining about everything.

  “Jesus Christ, I’ve just washed the car and now it’s bucketing down! It’ll take me ages to clean all those muddy footprints!”

  I gave a sympathetic chuckle which he must have taken as me being contrary.

  “Something you don’t like?” he snapped. “I’m in my own car! I can do what the hell I want! Where to?”

  “I gave my destination when I booked you,” I said, slightly annoyed. I was trying to word a search query and he was distracting me.

  “Is it so hard to give me an answer?”

  “Absolutely not. Vernadsky St. 306.”

  “Which Vernadsky is it?” he decided to show off. “The geoscientist?”

  “Dunno. Maybe.”

  “That’s young people for you these days! Nobody knows the history of their own country! When I was young...”

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Vicky.

  “Where’ve you got to?” she laughed. “Did you go out yourself to get cat food? Was Boris too impatient for her dinner?”

  “I’m going to go and look at an office,” I adlibbed. “It’s a good offer, I don’t want to lose it.”

  “No way! You don’t mean it! How cool is that? Okay, I’ll wait for you. You tell me about it later. I’ll cook something for dinner. Love you.”

  “Likewise,” I took the telephone from my ear.

  “He’s gonna look at an office!” the driver muttered under his breath. “Everyone’s a businessman these days. All those iPhones, offices, businesses... Everywhere you turn, it’s nothing but commerce!”

  I tried to distance myself from his grumbling. I’d already come far enough to do what I’d intended to do when I’d left the house and ventured back into the rain.

  I inserted the battery into the phone and waited for it to boot up. Then I typed a text message,

  You can find the missing boy Joseph Kogan at a house located on the north east highway 20 miles from town. The exact coordinates are...

  I sent the message to
the two numbers I had for the search and rescue team, pulled the SIM card out, broke it, removed the battery, opened the window a crack and flung everything out by the roadside.

  “Are you hot?” the driver asked, casting an unhappy glance at the window.

  “Me? Yes, it’s a bit stuffy in here. Could you take me somewhere else instead? I’ve changed my mind. I won’t be going to Vernadsky St.”

  Having lied to Vicky, now I had to lay the groundwork for my fib. I opened the map and searched for all business centers with rentable premises. I then narrowed my search to the offers of less then 500 square feet, security and cleaning staff included, in the immediate vicinity of my house with a rentable value between...

  I found a suitable offer six blocks away from my place. I Googled it, then dialed the number given on the site but nobody picked up.

  Never mind. Even if there was no one in administration at this late hour, at least I could go and see for myself. That way I’d have something to tell Vicky.

  That’s it, then. Let’s go there!

  The driver kept grumbling. I looked up.

  “Hello!” he demanded. “Where to now?”

  “Chekhov St. 72, please.”

  The moment I leaned back in the seat and tried to relax, my phone rang again.

  The number didn’t show. For a while, I just stared at the screen wondering if I should answer it. It wasn’t as if I was afraid of phone calls from strangers but I was a bit reluctant to talk to the likes of Police Investigator Igorevsky just now.

  Finally, I decided that the uncertainly was worse than taking the call from a potential police officer.

  The driver, too, was getting annoyed. “Are you gonna pick it up or what?”

  I did.

  “Hello,” a strange male voice said. “You’ve just phoned our number.”

  “That’s right. Is this Chekhov business center?”

  “Yes, go on, I’m listening,” the voice urged, impatient. “What was it you wanted?”

  “I called you about office rental. Could I come now and take a look?”

  “What exactly do you have in mind?” he asked, all businesslike. “What surface area?”

  “Something around five hundred feet.”

  “We do have something to offer you. But I’m leaving in half an hour, do you think you can make it?”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you at the entrance.”

  Even though he’d never introduced himself, he was apparently happy to land a potential customer. I too felt slightly elated. The initial reason for my phoning — my desire to justify my sudden disappearance from home — had already taken a back seat. I was curious to see the office where I might possibly start my first real business. What if I actually liked it?

  We finally arrived at the center. The driver pulled up by the curb without continuing to the parking lot.

  “Have a nice day,” I sincerely wished him. He could use some positivity.

  Not bothering to reply, he pulled away sharply as soon as I closed the door.

  I took a good look around. The parking lot was almost empty if you didn’t count two rather shabby cars parked in the slots for the company administration.

  The four-story Soviet-era administrative building was rather squat and unpresentable. A massive staircase faced with crumbling tiles led to the front doors. Two flowerbeds lined the entrance; a long-unkempt hedge grew along the fence. A cumbersome concrete awning overhung the façade, sporting an unassuming sign of vinyl letters, Chekhov Business Center.

  I climbed the stairs and leaned my weight against the heavy wooden door.

  I was greeted by a typical office smell. The hall still preserved the aura of a Soviet-style government building, complete with the local version of Maxwell’s demon: an old lady doorkeeper sitting at a flimsy desk with an ancient rotary-dial telephone. Her kind usually decided who deserved the right to be let in. Although apparently dosing off, she was nevertheless vigilant, my arrival provoking a knee-jerk reaction in her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she asked cantankerously the moment I’d crossed some invisible threshold.

  “Good evening! Sorry I don’t know your name,” my Empathy prompted the right approach: as long as I showed respect to her age, everything would be fine.

  “I’m Auntie Ira.”

  “Excuse me, Auntie Ira, I’m here about renting some space. When I called, they told me to come here for a viewing.”

  “Who told you that? You know what time it is? There’s nobody here now!”

  “Some guy but I don’t know his name.”

  “Come tomorrow,” she announced, then mumbled under her breath, “I should have locked the doors, lazy cow...”

  While she was still grumbling, complaining about all sorts of folk who kept “coming and going at every ungodly hour”, I dialed the number again. Before it even started ringing, the old lady waved her hands and exclaimed,

  “Mr. Gorelik! You still here?”

  “I am,” a man mumbled, walking down the stairs in the company of a woman. “Do me a favor, Auntie Ira, and try to at least pretend you’re not asleep.”

  “God forbid!” the old lady exclaimed with another wave of her hands.

  The man left his companion and headed over to me with a spring in his step. “Was it you who called me about the space?”

  “That’s right. I just spoke to you not long ago. My name’s Phil.”

  “I’m Stephan Gorelik. I’m the manager here.”

  His female companion — an ample peroxide blonde with hair permed into tight curls — walked over to us. “Are we finished, Steve? I need to be off. My husband keeps calling.”

  “Yes, thank you very much, Mrs. Frolova,” the man said with a faint smile. “I really appreciate your help with the paperwork.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she replied with a blush, then left.

  While Gorelik watched her leave, I quickly studied his profile.

  Stephan Gorelik.

  Age: 46

  Current status: manager

  Social status level: 6

  Class: angler. Level: 5

  Married

  Wife: Maria Gorelik

  Children: Vasily, son. Age: 25

  Criminal record: yes

  Reputation: Indifference 0/30

  Interest: 58%

  Fear: 14%

  Mood: 49%

  The fact that his interest in me was pretty high was quite clear. When you have available premises that don’t pay for themselves, every new tenant is a feather in the manager’s cap. His rather average Mood could be explained by the long working day and possibly a missed lunch break. But fear? What could he be afraid of? Could it be just a light anxiety brought about by his adultery? Possible.

  Not wanting to increase his anxiety by focusing on his unzipped fly, I elected not to say anything.

  “Come and have a look,” he called me.

  As we climbed the stairs, he asked, “What kind of company have you got?”

  “A recruitment agency.”

  “How many staff?” he asked, wheezing.

  “At the moment, just myself,” I replied, then added, seeing the surprise in his face. “We haven’t started yet.”

  We went up to the third floor. My eye fell on the ubiquitous fire hazard regulations on the wall next to a fire extinguisher. An endless corridor stretched out on both sides of us.

  “To the right,” Gorelik wheezed.

  He stopped by a metal door painted a cheerful light blue which admittedly didn’t look very serious.

  “This one was previously occupied by some MLM guys,” he explained. “They sold makeup, perfume, that sort of thing. Things went well for them so they moved to the center.”

  He sorted through a bunch of keys, found the right one, unlocked the door and gestured me inside, “Come in, please.”

  As I stepped in, a faint wave of excitement swept over me. Behind my back, the manager flipped
the light switch, flooding the room with a cold fluorescent light.

  “It’s just been recarpeted,” he said. “The blinds are new. They even left a couple of desks and chairs behind as part of their rent. If you need the landline, you’ll have to have it reconnected.”

  “And the Internet?”

  “They’ll do it at the same time as they connect the landline. We have a permanent contract with the providers so they’ll get it all done within twenty-four hours. In total, it’s under five hundred square feet which will cost you forty-six rubles[5] a square foot,” he produced his phone and made some quick calculations. “In total it’s twenty-three grand a month[6]. If you pay for an extended period, I can give you a discount.”

  “What kind of period? And what kind of discount?”

  “If you pay upfront for the first quarter, we could make it twenty grand a month.”

  “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “Think but not too long. A lot of people come and ask us about available premises and this office is the best we have. Would you like to look at something else? Something cheaper, maybe?”

  I took another wander around the room to check out all the little things that might need fixing or redecorating. The walls were a bit shabby in places, one of the plinths had come away from the wall; there was also an oily patch on the floor and a window catch that didn’t work.

  “A thorough cleaning will cost you a couple grand,” the manager said. “And you can count the same for a paint job.”

  “Thanks,” I said sincerely. Considering my lifestyle over the last years, I was a total noob in everything concerning cleaning, painting and decorating. If I made up my mind, I’d have to have a chat with Alik. He might know someone who could use a little job like this.

  “Do you want to look at anything else?” the manager said impatiently. “I really need to go.”

  “Yes, why not? Just to compare.”

  Ten minutes later, we went back downstairs. Their other offers hadn’t impressed me at all. In fact, they shocked me. One of the rooms hadn’t been redecorated since Soviet times. Its parquet floor had sunk, its walls painted a ghastly dark blue to shoulder height, its window frames loose and crumbling. Another room was too big and a third one too small, resembling a broom closet. Having viewed this last one, I decided to do a bit of haggling for the first one.