and trust that your diligence will be rewarded.’
Solinsky smiled again. It would take a while for the old forms of address to die away. ‘What is in the folder?’
‘We trust that the accused will be found guilty on all charges.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Such a verdict would be greatly helpful to the PSF in their current restructuring.’
‘Well, that’s a matter for the court.’
‘And a matter of evidence.’
‘General …’
‘Of course, sir. This is a preliminary report on the case of Anna Petkanova. The core files have unfortunately been destroyed.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
‘No, sir. But even though the core files were destroyed much has been patriotically saved. Even if access and identification are not always easy.’
‘…?’
‘Yes. As you will see, there is preliminary evidence ofthe involvement of the Department of Internal Security in the case of Anna Petkanova.’
Solinsky was barely interested. ‘There are dead pigs under every hedge,’ he replied. Frankly, there was little in the public life of the nation over the last fifty years which, on examination, would not disclose preliminary evidence of the involvement of the Department of Internal Security.
‘Yes, sir.’ Ganin was still holding out the folder. ‘You wish us to keep you informed?’
‘If …’ Solinsky accepted the file almost absent-mindedly. ‘If you think it appropriate.’ Hmmm. How easily he fell back on the old formulas. If you think it appropriate . And why had he said There are dead pigs under every hedge? That wasn’t the way he talked. It sounded like the defendant in Criminal Law Case Number 1. Perhaps he was being infected. He must practise saying Yes and No and That’s stupid and Go away .
‘We wish you good fortune with the continuation of the prosecution, Mr Prosecutor, sir.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Go away. Put a soldier into civvies and the length of his sentences doubled. ‘Thank you.’ Go away.
Vera crossed the Square of St Vassily the Martyr, which had, in the course of the last forty years, also been Stalingrad Square, Brezhnev Square, and even, briefly, in an attempt to get round the whole problem, the Square of the Heroes of Socialism. For several months now it had lapsed into anonymity. Bare, stumpy metal posts imitated the dormant chestnut trees. Both were waiting for spring:the trees to get back their leaves and the posts to sprout name-plates. Then the city would once again have a Square of St Vassily the Martyr.
Vera knew she was pretty. She was pleased with her high cheekbones and wide-set brown eyes, approved her legs, felt that the bright colours she wore suited her. But crossing the public gardens in the Square of St Vassily, as she did each morning at ten o’clock, mysteriously turned her into a frump. This had been happening now for months. There were up to a hundred men clustered by the garden’s western gate, and not a single one of them looked at her. Or if they did, they looked away at once, not even bothering to check her legs, not smiling at the chiffon burst around her neck.
Before the Changes, any public gathering of more than eight people had to be officially registered, and the registration procedure might be very ad hoc , consisting of men in leather coats demanding to know names and addresses. Since the Changes, sights like this, of a loosely swirling vortex of people, had become common. Some passers-by joined in automatically, as they would attach themselves to any queue outside a shop in the theoretical hope of a few eggs or half a kilo of carrots. The odd thing about the crowd here was that it consisted entirely of men, most between the ages of eighteen and thirty: in other words, the sort of men who always looked at her. But instead they were in a state of ordered excitement, as one by one, in a scarcely observable, apian process, they were sucked from the outer fringe of the group to the middle, and then, after a few minutes, expelled. Some seemed to have
Solinsky smiled again. It would take a while for the old forms of address to die away. ‘What is in the folder?’
‘We trust that the accused will be found guilty on all charges.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Such a verdict would be greatly helpful to the PSF in their current restructuring.’
‘Well, that’s a matter for the court.’
‘And a matter of evidence.’
‘General …’
‘Of course, sir. This is a preliminary report on the case of Anna Petkanova. The core files have unfortunately been destroyed.’
‘Hardly surprising.’
‘No, sir. But even though the core files were destroyed much has been patriotically saved. Even if access and identification are not always easy.’
‘…?’
‘Yes. As you will see, there is preliminary evidence ofthe involvement of the Department of Internal Security in the case of Anna Petkanova.’
Solinsky was barely interested. ‘There are dead pigs under every hedge,’ he replied. Frankly, there was little in the public life of the nation over the last fifty years which, on examination, would not disclose preliminary evidence of the involvement of the Department of Internal Security.
‘Yes, sir.’ Ganin was still holding out the folder. ‘You wish us to keep you informed?’
‘If …’ Solinsky accepted the file almost absent-mindedly. ‘If you think it appropriate.’ Hmmm. How easily he fell back on the old formulas. If you think it appropriate . And why had he said There are dead pigs under every hedge? That wasn’t the way he talked. It sounded like the defendant in Criminal Law Case Number 1. Perhaps he was being infected. He must practise saying Yes and No and That’s stupid and Go away .
‘We wish you good fortune with the continuation of the prosecution, Mr Prosecutor, sir.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Go away. Put a soldier into civvies and the length of his sentences doubled. ‘Thank you.’ Go away.
Vera crossed the Square of St Vassily the Martyr, which had, in the course of the last forty years, also been Stalingrad Square, Brezhnev Square, and even, briefly, in an attempt to get round the whole problem, the Square of the Heroes of Socialism. For several months now it had lapsed into anonymity. Bare, stumpy metal posts imitated the dormant chestnut trees. Both were waiting for spring:the trees to get back their leaves and the posts to sprout name-plates. Then the city would once again have a Square of St Vassily the Martyr.
Vera knew she was pretty. She was pleased with her high cheekbones and wide-set brown eyes, approved her legs, felt that the bright colours she wore suited her. But crossing the public gardens in the Square of St Vassily, as she did each morning at ten o’clock, mysteriously turned her into a frump. This had been happening now for months. There were up to a hundred men clustered by the garden’s western gate, and not a single one of them looked at her. Or if they did, they looked away at once, not even bothering to check her legs, not smiling at the chiffon burst around her neck.
Before the Changes, any public gathering of more than eight people had to be officially registered, and the registration procedure might be very ad hoc , consisting of men in leather coats demanding to know names and addresses. Since the Changes, sights like this, of a loosely swirling vortex of people, had become common. Some passers-by joined in automatically, as they would attach themselves to any queue outside a shop in the theoretical hope of a few eggs or half a kilo of carrots. The odd thing about the crowd here was that it consisted entirely of men, most between the ages of eighteen and thirty: in other words, the sort of men who always looked at her. But instead they were in a state of ordered excitement, as one by one, in a scarcely observable, apian process, they were sucked from the outer fringe of the group to the middle, and then, after a few minutes, expelled. Some seemed to have
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