Saltykov turned to look at me. ‘But wait for a moment,’ he said. ‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Trust me?’ I repeated. ‘But what do you mean?’
‘You might be a plant. The authorities sometimes work that way. They put one of their own, in disguise, in the cell with the accused, and hope thereby to continue the interrogation by surreptitious means.’
‘I am no plant!’
‘But can you prove it?’
‘For all I know,’ I countered, ‘you might be the police agent working in disguise.’
He opened his eyes wide at this, as if the notion had not only never occurred to him but could not occur to any sane man. ‘Do not be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘That is ridiculous. How ridiculous a notion!’
‘No more ridiculous than accusing me.’
‘On the contrary! I am a trained nuclear physicist!’
‘You are a taxi driver,’ I retorted. I confess I was growing angry.
‘It is respectable work,’ he countered.
‘For most men, yes. But you are the taxi driver of doom.’
‘Such abuse is merely unbecoming.’
‘I boarded your taxi-car in the understanding you would take me home. Had you taken me home, I would presently be asleep in my own bed, with no other worries in the world. Instead you took me, against my will, to the Pushkin Chess Club, where I became entangled in the death of this American. I hold you responsible for the fact that my life has taken this dire turn!’
‘Pff!’ he said. He turned his face away.
‘I shall probably go to prison for the rest of my life,’ I said. ‘And it will be your fault.’
After this little outburst we sat in silence for a long time. We were brought breakfast on a tray (black bread, thin-sliced cheese, milk in enamel mugs) by a young Militia officer, with little plugs of shaving cream tucked into his ears like hearing-aids and nicks on his red-raw chin and cheeks. He blinked at us, yawned oxishly, and went out again.
Saltykov began eating at once. The food seemed to thaw his ill-humour. ‘Eat, comrade,’ he said.
‘I’m not very hungry,’ I said, truthfully; for lack of sleep leaves me feeling rather nauseous. ‘I believe I shall skip breakfast.’
‘Ah,’ said Saltykov, ‘that is one thing you cannot do!’
‘Can I not?’
‘By definition, whichever meal you next eat will break your fast. Do you see? It is in the nature of the word.’
This did not dispose me to conversation with the fellow. I folded my arms and put my chin on my chest. For a while there was only the sound of Saltykov’s munching and chewing.
‘So,’ he said, eventually. A full belly had put him in a much better humour. He tried for a smile, but managed only a sort of crookedness of the lower face. Then he winked. I was surprised at this. He was acting, indeed, for all the world like a child attempting to insinuate himself into the confidence of an adult. ‘So. You were the last person to see the American alive?’
‘A dispiriting thought.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Say?’
‘Come come, don’t be coy. You can tell me.’
‘I am not usually remarked upon for my coyness.’
‘Then out with it!’ He tried the weird face-stretching exercise once again, and once again failed to manage a smile.
‘What did he tell you? He was very interested in,’ and Saltykov, I am certain with perfect genuineness, glanced back over his shoulder, as if to check that there were any eavesdroppers nearby, ‘a certain project, initiated by a certain dictator. A certain, now deceased, ruler of all the Russias. You know that of which I am talking.’
‘I would answer your question if I understood it.’
‘Walls have ears,’ Saltykov said brightly. ‘Or is it: walls are ears? I forget. The latter would imply that we are inside a gigantic ear. Either way it would be foolish of me to blurt out a name like Project Stalin, or to mention the impending alien attack upon Chernobyl.’ He stopped. A troubled look passed over his face. ‘I have,’ he said, ‘said more than I meant.’
‘Remembering that you are a member of the Pushkin Chess Club, your credulity ought not to surprise me.’
‘Credulity?’
‘Concerning UFOs.’
‘Psshh! Not so loud. Not out loud.’
‘I shall be more circumspect, and adopt your cunningly impenetrable code.’
‘But what did Coyne say?’ he asked. ‘Had he found out whether it is truly to be Ukraine? We only suspected. But is it? And which of the reactors?’
At this, belatedly, and with a piercing sense of my foolishness for not comprehending earlier, I finally understood what Coyne had been saying as he died. I opened my mouth, and then shut it for mere foolishness.
At that exact moment we were interrupted. Singsong, the door turned on its musical hinges.
‘Comrade,’ declared a voice, forcefully. It was Officer Liski. ‘You are free to go. The people of the Soviet Union thank you for your assistance with the investigation of this crime.’
‘Me?’ I said.
‘No, comrade. The other one.’
Saltykov bobbed to his feet, like an amateur debater. ‘I object. I wish to make official complaint. I have been brutally handled by your men, despite suffering from a syndrome that makes such contact odious to me. I deeply resent such treatment.’
‘Resent it all you like,’ Liski said. ‘But resent it outside.’
‘Do-on’t!’ said Saltykov, his tone changing from brittle annoyance to wailing apprehension, as Liski advanced upon him, as if with the intention of grasping him by the arm and hauling him through the door. ‘Do-o-on’t to-o-ouch me! No touching! No hands touching!’ He had backed his small body so hard against the cell wall it was as if he hoped to topographically transform himself from a three- to a two-dimensional being.
‘Comrade,’ I said to Liski, from my seated position. ‘He dislikes being touched. He will go, with no need for coercion, if you simply tell him to.’
Liski stopped. ‘Prove what this prisoner says,’ he told Saltykov. ‘Go.’
‘Reactor Four, Saltykov,’ I said, as clearly and distinctly as I could. ‘That’s the answer to your question.’ But the look on the man’s face made my spirit sink; for it seemed inconceivable that he would comprehend my words. Terror was seated in that face, and his mouth was as round as a drainpipe’s end. ‘No!’ he said, flapping his hands in the air in the direction of the uniformed man.
‘Reactor Four,’ I said again. ‘Saltykov!’
‘Get him out,’ said Liski to one of his officers.
‘O-o-o-o-o,’ replied Saltykov, cringing, and dancing round the uniformed man like a crab. ‘O-o-o,’ he added, as he darted through the open door. Doppler shift nudged the tone of his wail downwards a notch as he ran up the stairs outside.
Liski sighed, and returned to the door.
‘And what of me, comrade?’ I asked. ‘When can I look forward to my release?’
‘You?’ he said. ‘If we constellate the severity of the crime, the length of sentence likely to be passed upon you, and your advanced age, then the likelihood is — never.’
‘With respect,’ I put in. ‘You must include my innocence of the crime in your constellation.’
‘You are our prime suspect,’ Liski said in a flat voice. ‘To be honest, you are our only suspect. You have a criminal record. You were, we discover, in the camps for many years.’