Definitely Maybe Read Online Free PDF Page A

then he noticed something that made him bite his tongue. There was a bulge in the left pocket of Snegovoi’s pants and there was a very definite gun handle peering out of the pocket. A big gun. Like a gigantic Colt .45 from the movies. And that gun killed Malianov’s desire to ask any more questions. Somehow it was very clear that something was fishy and he was not the one to ask questions. And Snegovoi got up and said:
    “And now, Dmitri, I’ll be leaving again tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 3
    Excerpt 5.…
lay on his back, waking up slowly. Trucks were rolling noisily outside the window, but it was quiet in the partment. The remnants of yesterday’s senseless evening were a slight buzz in his head, a metallic aftertaste in his mouth, and an unpleasant splinter in his heart or soul or wherever the hell it hurt. He had just begun to explore what the splinter was when there was a careful knock at the door. That must be Arnold with his keys, he guessed, and hurried to answer.
    On the way to the door he noted that the kitchen was cleaned up and that the door to Bobchik’s room was shut tight. She must have gotten up, done the dishes, and gone back to bed, he thought.
    While he struggled with the lock there was another delicate ring of the doorbell.
    “Coming, coming,” he said in his sleep-hoarsened voice. “Just a minute, Arnold.”
    But it turned out to be someone else. A complete stranger was wiping his feet on the rubber mat. The young man was wearing jeans, a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and large sunglasses. Just like a Tonton Macoute. Malianov noticed that on the landing, by the elevator, there were two other Tonton Macoutes in dark glasses, but before he had time to worry about them, the first Tonton Macoute said: “From the Criminal Investigation Department,” and handed Malianov a little book. Opened.
    “Terrific!” thought Malianov. Everything was clear. He should have expected it. He was hurt. In his shorts he stood before the Tonton Macoute from the Criminal Investigation Department and stared dully into the book. There was a photograph, some seals and signatures, but his dazed sensations let only one pertinent fact through: “Office of the Ministry of Internal Affairs.” In big letters.
    “Yes, of course, come in,” he mumbled. “Come in.”
    “Thank you,” said the Tonton Macoute with extreme politeness. “Are you Dmitri Alekseevich Malianov?”
    “I am.”
    “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
    “Please do. Wait, my room’s not made up. I just got up. Would you mind going into the kitchen? No, the sun’s in there now. All right, come in here, I’ll clean it up.”
    The Tonton Macoute went into the main room and stopped in the middle modestly, openly looking around, while Malianov straightened the bed, threw on a shirt and a pair of jeans, and opened the blinds and the window.
    “Sit here, in the armchair. Or would you be more comfortable at the desk? What’s the problem?”
    Carefully stepping over the papers strewn on the floor, the Tonton Macoute sat in the armchair and placed his folder on his lap.
    “Your passport, please.”
    Malianov went through the desk drawer and dug out his passport.
    “Who else lives here?” the Tonton Macoute asked as he examined the passport.
    “My wife, my son—but they’re away now. They’re in Odessa, on vacation, at her parents’.”
    The Tonton Macoute placed the passport on top of his folder and took off his sunglasses. A fellow with a perfectlyordinary exterior. And no Tonton Macoute. A salesman, maybe. Or a television repairman.
    “Let’s get acquainted,” he said. “I’m a senior investigator of the CID. My name is Igor Petrovich Zykov.”
    “My pleasure.”
    Then he remembered that he, damn it all, was no criminal, and that he, damn it all, was a senior scientific colleague and a Ph.D. And no boy, either, for that matter. He crossed his legs, got comfortable, and said coolly:
    “I’m