all.’
5
At the confectioner’s
Sunlight flashed in the vast window of Ballet’s the confectioner’s, a white blaze that transformed the glass into a field of living energy. Lieutenant Salytov watched his reflection as it was consumed by the glare, his cockaded hat being the last of him to disappear. Ballet’s was on the sunny, even-numbered, side of Nevsky Prospekt. In general, and particularly in summer, Salytov preferred to keep himself to the shady side of the street.
His startled reflection reappeared for an instant. He drew himself up and regarded his ghostly double with a disdain it had the effrontery to reciprocate. For a moment it appeared that he was about to challenge himself to a duel. But then he looked through himself and took in the interior of the shop. Most of the twenty or so tables were empty. Circular, draped in sharp-edged linen, they seemed like miniature suns, with the same relentless brilliance. He spotted only three customers. Sitting on his own at a table by the window was a young man, somewhere in his twenties, of surprisingly impoverished appearance, considering the tariff at Ballet’s. He was reading one of the newspapers that Ballet’s provided for its customers, with a half-drunk cup of coffee on the table before him. At another table, further into the interior, two men were deep in conversation, their heads inclined conspiratorially. Other than that, he couldn’t ascertain anything meaningful about their appearance. The glass flared again, obscuring his view, and he went inside.
As Salytov crossed the floor of the shop, the two men broke off talking and watched him warily. One of the men had a red, pock-marked face and tiny eyes. The other was almost handsome, though his collar was very grubby and he had dark rings around his eyes, as if the grubbiness had spread there.
There was a stout woman serving behind the counter. Her expression, as well as her build, suggested a reluctance to part with the pastries and sweets she was selling.
Salytov looked down at the display of goods in a glass-fronted cabinet, as if he might buy something. ‘The chocolates that you sell, they are made here on the premises?’
‘That is so, sir.’ The woman had a strong German accent; her nationality was possibly significant, it seemed to Salytov.
‘Were you serving here in the shop Saturday last?’
‘I . . .?’ She regarded him uncertainly.
‘You must answer my questions.’
‘Yes. I was here. I am here every Saturday.’
‘You have many customers for your chocolates, I imagine?’
She shrugged and at that moment looked over Salytov’s shoulder. Salytov turned around. The two men had risen from their table and were heading for the door. The German woman took up a small pommelled stick and beat angrily on a gong that was on the counter top. The sound of the gong was curiously muted, given the energy she put into striking it. ‘You men! You do not leave without paying. This man is a policeman. He will arrest you.’
The two men stopped in their tracks. The pock-marked one whispered something to his friend, who glared and was about to say something but ran out of the shop instead. The remaining man turned slowly to show a premeditated smile. ‘A simple oversight, Fräulein. You know us. We are friends of Tolya’s. We always pay our way. And if we are temporarily embarrassed, for whatever reason, Tolya is usually magnanimous enough to extend us reasonable credit. Is Tolya in today?’
‘That is no business of yours. And no business of Tolya’s to do this thing. You will pay now. Forty kopeks.’
‘Ah! How insignificant a sum for men of enterprise and industry such as ourselves. A mere forty kopeks! Fräulein, shame on you, for presuming that we were unable to pay this paltry sum.’
‘Pay it then!’
‘Pay it then! Pay it then! she cries, giving voice to my very intention. It is as if you have read my
5
At the confectioner’s
Sunlight flashed in the vast window of Ballet’s the confectioner’s, a white blaze that transformed the glass into a field of living energy. Lieutenant Salytov watched his reflection as it was consumed by the glare, his cockaded hat being the last of him to disappear. Ballet’s was on the sunny, even-numbered, side of Nevsky Prospekt. In general, and particularly in summer, Salytov preferred to keep himself to the shady side of the street.
His startled reflection reappeared for an instant. He drew himself up and regarded his ghostly double with a disdain it had the effrontery to reciprocate. For a moment it appeared that he was about to challenge himself to a duel. But then he looked through himself and took in the interior of the shop. Most of the twenty or so tables were empty. Circular, draped in sharp-edged linen, they seemed like miniature suns, with the same relentless brilliance. He spotted only three customers. Sitting on his own at a table by the window was a young man, somewhere in his twenties, of surprisingly impoverished appearance, considering the tariff at Ballet’s. He was reading one of the newspapers that Ballet’s provided for its customers, with a half-drunk cup of coffee on the table before him. At another table, further into the interior, two men were deep in conversation, their heads inclined conspiratorially. Other than that, he couldn’t ascertain anything meaningful about their appearance. The glass flared again, obscuring his view, and he went inside.
As Salytov crossed the floor of the shop, the two men broke off talking and watched him warily. One of the men had a red, pock-marked face and tiny eyes. The other was almost handsome, though his collar was very grubby and he had dark rings around his eyes, as if the grubbiness had spread there.
There was a stout woman serving behind the counter. Her expression, as well as her build, suggested a reluctance to part with the pastries and sweets she was selling.
Salytov looked down at the display of goods in a glass-fronted cabinet, as if he might buy something. ‘The chocolates that you sell, they are made here on the premises?’
‘That is so, sir.’ The woman had a strong German accent; her nationality was possibly significant, it seemed to Salytov.
‘Were you serving here in the shop Saturday last?’
‘I . . .?’ She regarded him uncertainly.
‘You must answer my questions.’
‘Yes. I was here. I am here every Saturday.’
‘You have many customers for your chocolates, I imagine?’
She shrugged and at that moment looked over Salytov’s shoulder. Salytov turned around. The two men had risen from their table and were heading for the door. The German woman took up a small pommelled stick and beat angrily on a gong that was on the counter top. The sound of the gong was curiously muted, given the energy she put into striking it. ‘You men! You do not leave without paying. This man is a policeman. He will arrest you.’
The two men stopped in their tracks. The pock-marked one whispered something to his friend, who glared and was about to say something but ran out of the shop instead. The remaining man turned slowly to show a premeditated smile. ‘A simple oversight, Fräulein. You know us. We are friends of Tolya’s. We always pay our way. And if we are temporarily embarrassed, for whatever reason, Tolya is usually magnanimous enough to extend us reasonable credit. Is Tolya in today?’
‘That is no business of yours. And no business of Tolya’s to do this thing. You will pay now. Forty kopeks.’
‘Ah! How insignificant a sum for men of enterprise and industry such as ourselves. A mere forty kopeks! Fräulein, shame on you, for presuming that we were unable to pay this paltry sum.’
‘Pay it then!’
‘Pay it then! Pay it then! she cries, giving voice to my very intention. It is as if you have read my
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