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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