The Senility of Vladimir P.
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HE DIDN’T KNOW HOW long he had been sitting there. Could have been two hours. Could have been two years.
Suddenly, a connection in his brain sparked to life and set off a chain of ignitions, like a momentary flickering of stars lighting up across a darkening, dying galaxy.
‘Why am I here?’ he yelled angrily. ‘What am I doing?’
‘Waiting,’ said Sheremetev, plumping up one of the pillows on his bed.
‘What for?’
‘For the meeting.’
Vladimir’s eyes narrowed. ‘Have I been briefed?’
‘Of course,’ replied Sheremetev calmly.
‘Good.’ Vladimir nodded. His expression changed, losing its anger. Already, he was forgetting what he had been upset about. The connection, wherever it was in his brain, had been snuffed out, perhaps never to spark again, and the self-awareness that had erupted momentarily into his consciousness was gone. He sat quietly and watched Sheremetev work. Vladimir couldn’t have said exactly who the other man was, but nonetheless he was at ease with him. Somehow, he knew that it was right for him to be making up the bed, and he had a feeling that it might even have happened before.