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yes, Arnold was left-handed, I can corroborate that. But as for me! I slept all night! And anyway, why would I kill him? Judge for yourself!”
    “Then who did? Who?” Zykov asked gently.
    “How should I know? You should know who!”
    “You!” Zykov said in an ingratiating tone reminiscent of Porfiry in
Crime and Punishment
, peering with one eye at Malianov over his vodka glass. “
You
killed him, Dmitri!”
    “This is a nightmare,” Malianov muttered helplessly. He wanted to cry.
    A light breeze crossed the room, moving the blind, and the strident midday sun rushed into the room and hit Zykov smack in the face. He squinted, shielded his face with his hand, moved in his chair, and quickly set the glass on the table. Something happened to him. His eyes blinked rapidly, color came to his cheeks, and his chin quivered.
    “Forgive me,” he whispered in a completely human voice. “Forgive me, Dmitri. Perhaps you could … it’s very … in here.”
    He stopped because something fell in Bobchik’s room and shattered with a resounding noise.
    “What was that?” Zykov asked, tensely. There was no more trace of human quality in his voice.
    “There’s someone there,” Malianov said, still not understanding what had happened to Zykov. A new thought came to him. “Listen!” he shouted, jumping up. “Come with me! My wife’s girlfriend is in there! She can vouch that I slept all night and didn’t go anywhere.”
    Shoulders bumping, they jostled their way into the foyer.
    “Interesting, very interesting,” Zykov was saying. “Your wife’s girlfriend. We’ll see.”
    “She’ll vouch for me. You’ll see. She’s a witness.”
    They rushed into Bobchik’s room without knocking and stopped. The room was cleaned up and empty. There was no Lidochka in there, no sheets on the bed, no suitcase. And sitting on the floor next to the pieces of the clay pitcher (Khorezm, eleventh century) sat Kaliam with an unbelievably innocent air.
    “This?” Zykov asked, pointing at Kaliam.
    “No,” Malianov answered stupidly. “This is our cat, we’ve had him a long time. But wait, where’s Lidochka?” He looked in the closet. Her white jacket was gone. “She must have left?”
    Zykov shrugged.
    “Probably. She’s not here now.”
    Stepping heavily, Malianov went over to the broken pitcher.
    “B-bastard!” he said and cuffed Kaliam’s ear.
    Kaliam beat a hasty retreat. Malianov crouched. Shattered. What a beautiful pitcher it had been.
    “Did she sleep here?” Zykov asked.
    “Yes.”
    “When did you see her last? Today?”
    Malianov shook his head.
    “Yesterday. Well, actually today. In the night. I gave her sheets and a blanket.” He looked into Bobchik’s linen trunk. “There. It’s all there.”
    “Has she been living here long?”
    “She arrived yesterday.”
    “Are her things here?”
    “I don’t see any. And her coat is gone.”
    “Strange, isn’t it?” Zykov said.
    Malianov just waved his hand in silence.
    “The hell with her. Women are nothing but trouble. Let’s have another shot.”
    Suddenly the front door swung open, and in walked …
    Excerpt 6.…
elevator door, and the motor hummed. Malianov was alone.
    He stood in the doorway to Bobchik’s room leaning on the frame and thinking about nothing. Kaliam appeared out of nowhere, walking past him, tail twitching, and went out onto the landing, where he set about licking the cement floor.
    “Well, all right,” Malianov said finally, then tore himself away from the door frame and went into his room. It was smoke-filled and three blue glasses stood abandoned on the table—two empty and one half full. The sun was up to the bookshelves.
    “He took the cognac with him! That’s all I need!”
    He sat in the armchair for a while, finished his glass. Noises from the street came in through the window, and the open door let in children’s voices and elevator grumblings from the stairs. He got up, dragged himself through the foyer, bumping