“That is not your calculations,” Zykov answered coldly, also raising his voice. “Where did this graph come from?”
He showed him the page from afar and pointed to a crooked line.
“From my head!” Malianov shouted. “Right from here!” He struck his temple with his fist. “That is the relation of the density to the distance from the star!”
“This is the graph of the growth of crime in our district for the last quarter!” Zykov announced.
Malianov was dumbfounded. And Zykov, flapping his lips wetly, went on.
“You didn’t even copy it right. It’s not really like that, it goes this way.” He picked up Malianov’s pencil, jumped up, put the paper on the table, and, pressing heavily with the pencil, drew another line over Malianov’s chart. “There. And over here it goes like this, not like that.” When he was finished, and the pencil point was broken, he threw away the pencil, sat down again, and looked at Malianov with pity. “Eh, Malianov, Malianov. You’re a highly educated man, an experienced criminal, but you behave like the lowliest punk.”
Malianov kept looking back and forth from his face to the graph. It didn’t make any sense at all. It was so ridiculous that it was pointless to say anything, or scream, or say nothing. Actually, the best thing to do in this case would be to wake up.
“And is your wife on good terms with Snegovoi?” Zykov asked, once again polite to the point of colorlessness.
“Good terms, yes.”
“Do they use the informal you?”
“Listen. You’ve ruined my graph. What’s going on?”
“What graph?” Zykov was surprised.
“This one, right here.”
“That’s of no consequence. Does Snegovoi drop over when you’re not home?”
“Of no consequence,” Malianov repeated. “It may be of no consequence to you,” he said rapidly, gathering his papers and stuffing them into the drawers. “You sit here and work and kill yourself like a damn fool and then anyone who wants to comes around and tells you it’s of no consequence,” he muttered, getting down on all fours and gathering the rough drafts scattered on the floor.
Igor Zykov watched him expressionlessly, neatly screwing his cigarette in the holder. When Malianov, huffing, sweaty, and angry, got back to his chair, Zykov asked politely:
“May I smoke?”
“Go ahead. There’s the ashtray. And get on with your questions. I have work to do.”
“It all depends on you,” Zykov maintained, delicately letting smoke escape from the corner of his mouth. “For example, here’s a question: What do you usually call Snegovoi—Colonel, Snegovoi, or Arnold?”
“Depends. What’s the difference what I call him?”
“You call him Colonel?”
“Well, yes. So?”
“That’s very strange,” Zykov said, carefully flicking his ash. “You see, Snegovoi was promoted to colonel only the day before yesterday.”
That was a shock. Malianov said nothing, feeling his face turn red.
“So how did you find out he was made colonel?”
Malianov waved his hand.
“All right. I was bragging. I didn’t know he was a colonel, or lieutenant colonel, or whatever. I dropped in on him yesterday and saw his tunic with the epaulets. And I saw he was a colonel.”
“When were you there yesterday?”
“Last night. Late. I got a book. This one.”
That was a mistake, mentioning the book. Zykov grabbed the book and started leafing through it. Malianov began sweating again because he didn’t have the slightest idea what was in it.
“What language is this?” Zykov asked distractedly.
“Er…” Malianov mumbled, sweating for a third time. “I would imagine English.”
“I don’t think so,” Zykov said, peering into the text. “It looks like Cyrillic to me, not Latin. Oh! It’s Russian!”
Malianov broke out in a sweat for a fourth time, but Zykov merely replaced the book, put on his dark glasses, leaned back in the armchair, and stared at Malianov. And Malianov stared at Zykov, trying not to blink or to look away. A thought ran through his mind: You son of a bitch. I won’t tell you where our boys are.
“Who do you think I look like?” Zykov suddenly asked.
“Like a Tonton Macoute!” Malianov blurted without thinking.
“Wrong,” Zykov said. “Try again.”
“I don’t know.”
Zykov took off his glasses and shook his head accusingly.
“That’s bad! It won’t do! You have strange ideas about our investigatory organizations. How on earth did you come up with that—Tonton Macoute?”
“Well then, who do you look like?” Malianov asked, faltering.
Igor Zykov waved his sunglasses under Malianov’s nose as though giving the whole thing away.
“The Invisible Man! The only thing in common with Tonton Macoute—the only one—is that they’re both capitalized!”
He fell silent. There was a thick, heavy silence in the air; even the cars outside stopped making noise. Malianov couldn’t hear a single sound, and he desperately wanted to wake up. And then the silence was shattered by the telephone.
Malianov jumped. It seemed that Zykov did, too. The phone rang again. Leaning on his forearms, Malianov raised himself up and glanced questioningly at Zykov.
“Yes. It’s probably for you.”
Malianov climbed over to the bed and picked up the phone. It was Val Weingarten.
“Hey, stargazer,” he said. “Why don’t you call, you pig?”
“You know how it is… I was busy.”
“Fooling around with the broad?”
“No—what do you mean, ‘with the broad’?”
“I wish my Svetlana would force her girlfriends on me!”
“Y-yes…” He felt eyes on the back of his head. “Listen, Val, I’ll call you back later.”
“What’s wrong over there?” Weingarten demanded anxiously.
“Nothing. I’ll tell you later.”
“Is it that broad?”
“No.”
“A man?”
“Uh-hum.”
Weingarten sighed into the phone.
“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “I can come right over. Do you want me to?”
“No! That’s all I need.”
Weingarten sighed heavily.
“Listen, does he have red hair?”
Malianov glanced over involuntarily at Zykov. To his surprise, Zykov wasn’t looking at him at all. He was reading Snegovoi’s book, his lips moving.
“Of course not! What kind of nonsense is that? Look, I’ll call you later.”
“Definitely call!” Val yelled. “As soon as he leaves, call me.”
“All right,” Malianov said and hung up. Then he returned to his chair, mumbling excuses.
“It’s all right,” Zykov said and put down the book. “You have wide-ranging interests, Dmitri.”
“I can’t complain,” Malianov muttered. Damn, I wish I could get at least one look at that book. “Please,” he said placatingly, “let’s finish up, if it’s at all possible. It’s after one already.”
“Naturally!” Zykov proclaimed helpfully. He glanced at his watch anxiously and pulled out a notebook from his folder. “All right, so last night you were at Snegovoi’s, correct?”
“Yes.”
“For this book?”
“Y-yes,” Malianov said, deciding not to clarify anything.
“When was this?”
“Late, around midnight.”
“Did you have the impression that Snegovoi was planning a trip?”
“Yes, I did. I mean it wasn’t an impression. He told me that he was leaving in the morning and would bring me the keys.”
“Did he?”
“No. I mean, he might have rung the bell and I didn’t hear him. I was sleeping.”
Zykov wrote quickly, leaning the pad on the folder that lay on his knee. He did not look at Malianov at all, even when he addressed the questions at him. In a rush, perhaps?