Maybe Rodionov would show up next time with the editorial board of Izvestia or cartoonists from Krokodil .
And what would become of the crates and dioramas of the militia museum? Were they really going to be replaced by a computer centre? And what would become of all the bloody axes, knives and threadbare overcoats of Soviet crime? Would they be stored? Of course, he answered himself, because the bureaucratic mind saved everything. Why? Because we might need it, you know. In case there was no future, there was always the past.
Jaak drove, skipping lanes in the manner of a virtuoso pianist going up and down a keyboard.
'Don't trust Rodionov or his friends,' he told Arkady as he shouldered another car to the side.
'You don't like anyone from the prosecutor's office.'
'Prosecutors are political shits, always have been. No offence.' Jaak glanced over. 'But they're Party members. Even if they leave the Party, even if they become a people's deputy, in their hearts they're Party members. You didn't leave the Party, you were thrown out, that's why I trust you. Most prosecutor's investigators never leave their office. They're part of the desk. You get out. Of course, you wouldn't get far without me.'
'Thanks.'
One hand on the wheel, Jaak handed Arkady a list of numbers and names. 'Plates from the black market. The lorry nearest Rudy when he blew up is registered to the Lenin's Path Collective Farm. I think it was supposed to be carrying sugar beets, not VCRs. There are four Chechen cars. The Mercedes registered in the name of Apollonia Gubenko.'
'Apollonia Gubenko,' Arkady tried it on the tongue. 'There's a round name.'
'Borya's wife,' Jaak said. 'Of course Borya has a Mercedes of his own.'
They looped ahead of a Lada whose windscreen was patched with pins, paper and glue. Windscreens were hard to come by. The driver steered with his head out of the side.
'Jaak, what is an Estonian doing in Moscow?' Arkady asked. 'Why aren't you defending your beloved Tallinn from the Red Army?'
'Don't give me any more of that shit,' Jaak warned. 'I was in the Red Army. I haven't been to Tallinn in fifteen years. What I know about Estonians is that they live better and complain more than anyone else in the Soviet Union. I'm going to change my name.'
'Change it to Apollo. You'd still have an accent, though - that nice Baltic click.'
'Fuck accents. I hate this subject.' Jaak made an effort to cool down. 'Speaking of dumb, we're getting calls from a coach at Red Star Komsomol who says Rudy was such a club supporter that the boxers there gave him one of their trophies. The coach thinks it should be among Rudy's personal effects. An idiot but a persistent guy.'
As they approached Kalinin Prospect, a coach tried to cut in front of Jaak. It was an Italian bus with tall windows, baroque chrome and two tiers of stupefied faces - almost a Mediterranean trireme, Arkady thought. The Zhiguli accelerated with a burst of blue smoke. Jaak tapped the brakes just enough to threaten the finish on the bus's front bumper and raced ahead, laughing triumphantly. 'Homo Sovieticus wins again!'
At the petrol station Arkady and Jaak got into separate queues for meat pies and soda. Dressed like a lab technician in white coat and toque, the pie vendor whisked flies from her wares. Arkady remembered the advice of a friend who picked mushrooms - to stay away from those surrounded by dead flies. He reminded himself to check the ground when he reached the barrow.
A far longer queue, all male, stretched from a vodka shop at the corner. Drunks sagged and leaned like broken pickets on a fence. Their clothes had the greyness of old rags, their faces were striped red and blue, but they clutched empty bottles in the solemn knowledge that no new bottle would cross the counter except in exchange for an empty. Also, it had to be the right size empty bottle: not too
And what would become of the crates and dioramas of the militia museum? Were they really going to be replaced by a computer centre? And what would become of all the bloody axes, knives and threadbare overcoats of Soviet crime? Would they be stored? Of course, he answered himself, because the bureaucratic mind saved everything. Why? Because we might need it, you know. In case there was no future, there was always the past.
Jaak drove, skipping lanes in the manner of a virtuoso pianist going up and down a keyboard.
'Don't trust Rodionov or his friends,' he told Arkady as he shouldered another car to the side.
'You don't like anyone from the prosecutor's office.'
'Prosecutors are political shits, always have been. No offence.' Jaak glanced over. 'But they're Party members. Even if they leave the Party, even if they become a people's deputy, in their hearts they're Party members. You didn't leave the Party, you were thrown out, that's why I trust you. Most prosecutor's investigators never leave their office. They're part of the desk. You get out. Of course, you wouldn't get far without me.'
'Thanks.'
One hand on the wheel, Jaak handed Arkady a list of numbers and names. 'Plates from the black market. The lorry nearest Rudy when he blew up is registered to the Lenin's Path Collective Farm. I think it was supposed to be carrying sugar beets, not VCRs. There are four Chechen cars. The Mercedes registered in the name of Apollonia Gubenko.'
'Apollonia Gubenko,' Arkady tried it on the tongue. 'There's a round name.'
'Borya's wife,' Jaak said. 'Of course Borya has a Mercedes of his own.'
They looped ahead of a Lada whose windscreen was patched with pins, paper and glue. Windscreens were hard to come by. The driver steered with his head out of the side.
'Jaak, what is an Estonian doing in Moscow?' Arkady asked. 'Why aren't you defending your beloved Tallinn from the Red Army?'
'Don't give me any more of that shit,' Jaak warned. 'I was in the Red Army. I haven't been to Tallinn in fifteen years. What I know about Estonians is that they live better and complain more than anyone else in the Soviet Union. I'm going to change my name.'
'Change it to Apollo. You'd still have an accent, though - that nice Baltic click.'
'Fuck accents. I hate this subject.' Jaak made an effort to cool down. 'Speaking of dumb, we're getting calls from a coach at Red Star Komsomol who says Rudy was such a club supporter that the boxers there gave him one of their trophies. The coach thinks it should be among Rudy's personal effects. An idiot but a persistent guy.'
As they approached Kalinin Prospect, a coach tried to cut in front of Jaak. It was an Italian bus with tall windows, baroque chrome and two tiers of stupefied faces - almost a Mediterranean trireme, Arkady thought. The Zhiguli accelerated with a burst of blue smoke. Jaak tapped the brakes just enough to threaten the finish on the bus's front bumper and raced ahead, laughing triumphantly. 'Homo Sovieticus wins again!'
At the petrol station Arkady and Jaak got into separate queues for meat pies and soda. Dressed like a lab technician in white coat and toque, the pie vendor whisked flies from her wares. Arkady remembered the advice of a friend who picked mushrooms - to stay away from those surrounded by dead flies. He reminded himself to check the ground when he reached the barrow.
A far longer queue, all male, stretched from a vodka shop at the corner. Drunks sagged and leaned like broken pickets on a fence. Their clothes had the greyness of old rags, their faces were striped red and blue, but they clutched empty bottles in the solemn knowledge that no new bottle would cross the counter except in exchange for an empty. Also, it had to be the right size empty bottle: not too
Similar Books
