28 June, 2:15 PM, “The Czernograd Gazette” newsroom
When he got back to the office there was a message pinned with sticky tape to his monitor so that he couldn’t miss it or pretend it has fallen off his desk. Judging by handwriting, it was from Nina, his next desk neighbour. “Please see L as soon as you are back from wherever the hell you are.” L for Lis, L for nuisance.
He knocked at the glass door and was ushered in with a beckoning hand that also invited him to sit down while Lis was finishing a phonecall. Lis always seemed to be on the phone, and always had a perfectly legitimate reason to be on the phone, but Igor often thought that the metro editor was going through the charade to demonstrate to his guests who was the top dog. Regardless, the length of time between the invitation to step in and the time Lis had put the handset down usually offered a pretty fair indication of the height from which he was going to piss on whoever uncomfortably sat in the chair opposite.
It wasn’t too long this time. That was good news, of sorts.
“You’re off the Maciar coverage,” he said, not a question, but a statement. A simple, incontestable one.
“Am I?” Igor said.
“It’s no longer a local crime story. We decided-“ though Igor knew that ‘we’ most likely meant the editor in chief, with minimal, if any, input from Lis, “-that the story, or whatever’s left of it, will be run by our political boys.”
“Are you quite sure it’s no longer a local crime story?” Igor leaned back in the chair. “An undead guy falls on a stake, out of the blue, lots of questions left unanswered.”
“The answers are being finalised as we speak. By the police,” Lis reached forward to his desk and pulled out a cigarette out a half-empty Marlboro pack. There was a non-smoking policy in the building, but it applied only to mere mortals. Maybe that’s why Lis didn’t offer Igor one. “But I gather they will be rather unnewsworthy. Basically,” he lit up with an old silver flick-on lighter, “they will confirm the initial assessment of no suspicious circumstances and no other parties involved.”
“Circumstances might not be suspicious on their face, but the very incident is at the very least intriguing,” Igor said, suddenly getting an urge to whip out his own cigarette and join Lis in flaunting the company rules. He did not, less an exercise of strong will than a realisation that he had left his pack back on his desk. “As in: ‘why?’, for example.”
“Ah, the perennial ‘why’,” Lis exhaled and tapped the ash off into an empty teacup. “There won’t be another official statement from the Palace – there wouldn’t be, considering the delicate nature of this matter – but the word has already filtered down that the deceased has been under a great deal of stress lately on the account of a rather unfortunate gambling habit that got out of hand. Leading to significant debts. And to acute embarrassment and distress, in turn leading to the ultimate escape. A sad story, but an educational one, about a problem that can affect everyone, from a suburban housewife to a confident of princes.”
“I see you’re already writing an editorial,” Igor said. “Very touching. And very respectful and socially responsible at the same time. That’s why I admire you so much.”
Lis gave him a pale simulacrum of a smile and took another drag of his cigarette. “You sound awfully cynical for a young man your age.”
“Even for a journalist?”
“Ah, all these pesky stereotypes,” Lis laughed mirthlessly. “Twisting young impressionable minds since 1815.”
“Any significance of the date, or did you just pull it out of your ass?”
“A bit of both; it’s impossible to pinpoint with any accuracy the exact time at which our profession emerged as a distinct entity,” Lis dropped the butt into the cup. It died with a hiss in a puddle of cold tea. “You’re not buying it?”
“As a loyal subject, I have no reason to disbelieve a word that comes from the Palace.”
“Full of shit, as always,” Lis sighed, and then coughed. And again, and then some more, until he was bent over in his seat, racked by a fit.
“A glass of water?” Igor asked. Lis waved his off, the cough receding, his face still bright red, hand trembling slightly as he patted his chest.
“Actually, there won’t be any editorials. The Palace has asked, informally, and very politely, to leave off the gambling angle. Out of the respect for the deceased and the good name he had enjoyed in his position.”
“Of course,” Igor rolled his eyes. “It’s all about the respect for the deceased.” Not his employers, at all.
“The explanation was off the record and for our information only, so that we know why not to keep asking questions.”
“And we’ll do our patriotic duty and not ask any questions.” Of course. Why be a fucking journalist when you can be a stenographer for the powers that be and get patted on the head and promised some mildly tasty morsel down the line as quid pro quo.
“I don’t imagine you’ve got any?” Lis reached out towards his Marlboros but overcame the instinct mid-movement. “Under the circumstances…”
Igor didn’t say anything. Only a black Audi outside the house and a scared Black Widow.
“Thought so,” Lis said. “A word of advice from the wise: you have to try to be less possessive of stories. They don’t belong to anyone in particular. They’re like one of the sluts you seem to pick up every night; one night she’s yours, another night she’s someone else. You don’t cry over that, so don’t cry over the blood-sucker story.”
“Do you see me crying, Lis?”
“No, but don’t do anything stupid that could make you cry.”
“You know me, boss,” Igor said, standing up.
“Yes, I do. Sadly. Hence the word from the wise,” Lis said. A ringing phone saved them from the pain of continuing the conversation.
Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash
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