July 8th 2024
The leader of the Red Revolution accepted with good will to prepare the dinner for his political heir, who was also the natural descendent of his personal cook. Perhaps Putin could have also learnt something from Lenin’s reaction, but both of them were pragmatic enough to nourish no illusions that their encounter would have led to a long term friendship. Two of the major enemies of the Western civilization were facing each other like in a John Wayne’s movie. There was no place for both of them in the city and the loser would have soon been dressed with a wooden suit. Lenin wore a black jacket while Putin a white one, the colour of the good gunslingers. In the cinematic edition of the Alexander Nevsky, however Sergej Eisenstein chose to provide the army of the evil with candid mantles, intentionally reversing the role of tonalities. The grey bureaucrat, in that combination of shades, sat far away as if asserting his own neutrality. He would have sworn his own allegiance to the winner. The Russian PResident was looking around himself, enjoying his triumph.
While waiting, the art dealer inspected the Canalettos on the walls, understanding that they were as authentic as Heidi's book. It had been decided that the inexperienced concierge should have tasted the food and the wine at first, thus mimicking the ceremonies of court tasters. The young lady was now carefully selecting the wines, among those available in the cellar. She had a wide choice, although the quality of the labels was so undisputable that she only had to pay attention not to pick up a white wine for an intensive and spicy meat. The task was easy, but she was worried about Heidi's book being in the hands of Putin. What could have she told to Graf von Pazze if the Russian czar had destroyed it, or even damaged the first page? The young lady's mind travelled in a dream far away from the surrounding walls. The whole party could have faced certain death if the volume had been torn up or even burnt, but the woman was worried only to keep the promise she had made to the museum in Hirzel. Or at least to its curator. When she was back in the room, she realised that the food had already been served. Putin looked into her direction, revealing all the strength of his evil smile. The terror of the Western politically correct world appeared as a serial killer waiting for his prey. The young woman put the decanter on a side table and poured the wine in the glass of the newly promoted royal taster.
The young Briton drank the nectar and served himself the dish prepared by Lenin. He was wishing that the food were delicious, it could have been his last meal. Vladimir Putin was now quite focused to analyse the art dealer’s reaction, while firmly holding Heidi’s book. The son of Belfast, graduated in Cambridge, but at the University of West Anglia, gallerist, concierge and now food taster, did not suffocate, but enthusiastically devoured all he found on the table. He did not care about anything else, expecting to be executed within the day.
Putin did not care about those people surrounding him. He was looking into his dish, thinking about his childhood, the few traditions that could be handed over from father to son during the cold war, if you were born on the wrong side of the iron curtain. The Russian czar looked into the eyes of his predecessor, perhaps even his patron, at least the one who had allowed to his grandfather to survive the Revolution and his father to obtain a decent access to the apparatchik. Putin was aware that if Lenin ahd not succeeded during his early life to astonishingly climb the ladder of power, he would have not become the most dreadful enemy of the XXI century left-liberals. Perhaps he could have enjoyed a senior management position in any main enterprise of the country and enjoyed his private life without any major responsibility. Yet he realised that, beside judo, and even that mostly for propaganda reasons, he had no hobbies or personal ambitions. Putin understood at that moment that without the power he was detaining, his life had no worth. Driven by rage, much more than for self preservation or tactical reasoning, he suddenly took the cover of Heidi's book and tore it into pieces.
Even Lenin did not anticipate that move, nor he had been able to stop the Russian President. The business consultant suddenly woke up from her dream, she took courage and jumped on Putin’s chair. The man in the grey suit had no time to intervene either. Only the former art dealer continued to enjoy his meal and, with absolute self control, poured himself a glass of wine.
