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came in a navy suit. Tsypin wore a suede jacket and jeans. I’d had no idea he was a dandy. What’s more, both were sober. That changed even the colour of their complexions.

      We went underground. Well-dressed, sober workmen (although many of them had suspicious bulges in their pockets) strolled among the marble columns.

      Four carpenters were quickly finishing off a rostrum. It was being set up under our relief.

      Osip Likhachev lowered his voice and said to me, “There’s a suspicion that the epoxy has not hardened. Tsypin put in too much solvent. Basically, that marble fucker is hanging by a thread. So when the rally starts, stay to the side. And warn your wife.”

      “But the cream of Leningrad will be standing there! What if the thing falls?”

      “Might be for the best,” the foreman replied wanly.

      The celebrated guests were to appear at one o’clock. The city mayor, Comrade Sizov, was expected. He was to be accompanied by representatives of Leningrad society – scholars, generals, athletes, writers.

      The programme for the opening was this: first a small banquet for the select few. Then a brief rally. Handing out of certificates and awards. And then – as the station chief put it, “by preference” – some would go to a restaurant, others to an amateur concert.

      The guests arrived at 1.20. I recognized the composer Andreyev, the weightlifter Dudko and the director Konstantinov. And, of course, the mayor.

      He was a tall, middle-aged man. He looked almost intellectual. He was guarded by two grim, beefy guys, who were distinguished by a light air of melancholy, evidence of their clear readiness to get into a fight.

      The mayor walked around the station and lingered in front of the relief. He asked softly, “Who does he remind me of?”

      “Khrushchev[38],” Tsypin whispered to us with a wink.

      The mayor did not wait for an answer and moved on. The station chief, laughing obsequiously, ran after him.

      By then the rostrum was wrapped in pink sateen. A few minutes later the inspection was over. We were invited to sit down at the table.

      A mysterious side door opened. We saw a spacious room. I hadn’t known it existed. This was probably intended as a bomb shelter for the administration.

      The guests and a few honoured workmen took part in the banquet. All three of us were invited. Apparently, we passed for the local intelligentsia. Especially since the sculptor was not present.

      There were about thirty people at the table: guests on one side, us on the other.

      The first to speak was the station chief. He introduced the mayor, calling him a “firm Leninist”. Everyone applauded for a long time.

      Then the mayor spoke. He read from a piece of paper. Expressed a feeling of profound satisfaction.

      Congratulated everyone who worked on the project on beating the deadline. Stumbled over three or four names. And, finally, proposed a toast to wise Leninist management.

      Everyone raised a cheer and reached for their glasses.

      Then there were a few more toasts. The station chief drank to the mayor. Composer Andreyev to the radiant future. Director Konstantinov to a peaceful coexistence. And the weightlifter Dudko to the fairy tale that turns into reality before our very eyes.

      Tsypin turned pink. He had a tall glass of brandy and reached for the champagne.

      “Don’t mix,” Likhachev suggested, “you’re in fine shape already.”

      “What do you mean, don’t mix?” Tsypin demanded. “Why not? I’m doing it intelligently. Scientifically. Mixing vodka and beer is one thing. Cognac and champagne is another. I’m a specialist in that area.”

      “I can tell,” the foreman said grimly, “judging by the epoxy.”

      A minute later everyone was talking. Tsypin was embracing director Konstantinov. The station chief was courting the mayor. Plasterers and masons, interrupting one another, were complaining about the lowered rates.

      Only Likhachev was silent. He was thinking about something. Suddenly he spoke harshly and unexpectedly, addressing Dudko, the weightlifter. “I knew a Jewish woman. We hooked up. She was a good cook…”

      I was watching the mayor. Something was bothering him. Tormenting him. Making him frown and strain. A suffering grimace played on his lips from time to time.

      Then, suddenly, the mayor moved closer to the table. Without lowering his head, he bent down. His left hand abandoned a sandwich and slipped under the tablecloth.

      For a minute the honoured guest’s face reflected intense concentration. Then, after emitting a barely audible sound, like a tyre deflating, the mayor cheerfully leant against the back of his chair. And picked up his sandwich in relief.

      Then I lifted the tablecloth imperceptibly. Looked under the table and straightened immediately. What I saw astounded me and made me gasp. I quivered with secret knowledge.

      What I saw were the mayor’s large feet in tight-fitting green silk socks. His toes were moving, as if he were improvising on the piano.

      His shoes stood nearby.

      And here, I don’t know what came over me. Either my suppressed dissidence erupted, or my criminal essence came to the fore[39]. Or mysterious destructive forces were at play.

      This happens once in every lifetime.

      I recall subsequent events in a fog. I moved to the edge of my seat. Stretched out my leg. Found the mayor’s shoes and carefully pulled them towards me.

      And only after that froze in fear.

      At that moment the station chief rose and said, “Attention, dear friends! I invite you to a brief ceremony. Honoured guests, please seat yourselves on the rostrum!”

      Everyone stirred. Director Konstantinov adjusted his tie. The weightlifter Dudko hurriedly buttoned the top button of his trousers. Tsypin and Likhachev reluctantly put down their glasses.

      I looked at the mayor. Anxiously, he was feeling around under the table with his foot. I didn’t see it, of course, but I could guess from the expression on his bewildered face. I could tell that the radius of his search was increasing.

      What else could I do?

      Likhachev’s briefcase was next to my chair. The briefcase was always with us. It could hold up to sixteen bottles of Stolichnaya. It became my job to carry it around.

      I dropped my handkerchief. I bent over and stuffed the mayor’s shoes in the briefcase. I felt their noble, heavy solidity. I don’t think anyone noticed.

      I locked the briefcase and stood up. The other guests were standing, too – everyone except Comrade Sizov. The bodyguards were looking in puzzlement at their boss.

      And here the mayor showed how clever and resourceful he was. Holding his hand to his chest, he said softly, “I don’t feel well. I think I’ll lie down for a minute…”

      The mayor quickly removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and lay down on a nearby sofa. His feet in their green socks stretched wearily. His hands were clasped on his stomach. His eyes were shut.

      The bodyguards went into action. One called the doctor. The other gave orders.

      “Clear the room! I said, clear the room! Hurry it up! Start the ceremony!.. I repeat, start the ceremony!”

      “Can I help?” the station chief asked.

      “Get out of here, you old fart!” came the reply.

      The first bodyguard added, “Leave everything on the table! We can’t rule out an assassination attempt! I hope you have the names of all the guests?”

      The station chief nodded obsequiously. “I’ll give you the list.”

      We left the room. I carried the briefcase in trembling hands. Workmen moved amid the

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