unwinding like a clock spring. The second kind does mean something. Your unconscious mind is trying to tell you something, but you have to interpret what it means.”
“And the third?” asked Pekkala, his mouth full of stew.
“The third,” said Kirov, “is what the mystics call
“Like Saint Paul,” said Pekkala, “on the road to Damascus.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Pekkala waved his spoon. “Keep going. What does this have to do with food?”
“There is the meal you eat simply to fill your stomach.”
“Like a can of meat,” suggested Pekkala.
Kirov shuddered. “Yes, like those cans of meat you put away. And then there are the meals you buy at the cafe where you eat your lunch, which are not much better except that you don’t have to clean up after yourself.”
“And then?”
“And then there are meals which elevate food to an art.”
Pekkala, who had been eating all this time, dropped his spoon into the empty bowl.
Hearing this, Kirov shook his head in amazement. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you, Inspector?”
“No,” agreed Pekkala, “but I’ve had some excellent dreams. I don’t know why you didn’t become a professional chef.”
“I cook because I want to,” replied Kirov, “not because I have to.”
“Is there a difference?” asked Pekkala.
“All the difference in the world,” said Kirov. “If I had to cook all day for men like Nagorski, it would take all the pleasure out of cooking. Do you know what he was eating when I went into that restaurant? Blinis. With Caspian sevruga, each morsel like a perfect black pearl. He was just stuffing it into his face. The art of food was lost on him completely.”
Self-consciously, Pekkala glanced into his already empty bowl. He had done his best to eat at a dignified pace, but the truth was that if Kirov hadn’t been there, he would have set aside the bowl and would be eating right out of the pot by now.
“Any luck with Nagorski?” asked Kirov.
“Depends,” sighed Pekkala, “on what you call luck.”
“That machine he built,” said Kirov. “I hear it weighs more than ten tons.”
“Thirty, to be precise,” replied Pekkala. “To hear him speak of it, you’d think that tank was a member of his family.”
“You think he’s guilty?”
Pekkala shook his head. “Unpleasant, maybe, but not guilty, as far as I can tell. I released him. He is now back at the facility where his tank is being designed.” It was then he noticed a large box placed just inside the door. “What is that?”
“Ah,” Kirov began.
“Whenever you say ‘ah,’ I know it’s something I’m not going to like.”
“Not at all!” Kirov laughed nervously. “It’s a present for you.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“Well, it’s sort of a present. Actually it’s more of a …”
“So it’s not really a present.”
“No,” admitted Kirov. “It’s really more of a suggestion.”
“A suggestion,” repeated Pekkala.
“Open it!” said Kirov, brandishing his spoon.
Pekkala got out of his chair. He placed the box on his desk and lifted the lid. Inside was a neatly folded coat. Several other garments lay underneath.
“I thought it was time you had a new outfit,” said Kirov.
“New?” Pekkala looked down at the clothes he was wearing. “But these are new. Almost, anyway. I bought them just last year.”
Kirov made a sound in his throat. “Well, when I say new, what I mean is ‘up to date.’ ”
“I am up to date!” Pekkala protested. “I bought these clothes right here in Moscow. They were very expensive.” And he was just about to go on about the prices he’d been forced to pay when Kirov cut him off.
“All right,” the major said patiently, trying another angle. “Where did you buy your clothes?”
“Linsky’s, over by the Bolshoi Theatre. Linsky makes durable stuff!” said Pekkala, patting the chest of his coat. “He told me himself that when you buy a coat from him, it’s the last one you will ever need to wear. That’s his personal motto, you know.”
“Yes”—Kirov brought his hands together in a silent clap—“but do you know what people call his shop? Clothes for Dead Men.”
“Well, that seems a little dramatic.”
“For goodness’ sake, Inspector, Linsky sells clothes to funeral homes!”
“So what if he does?” Pekkala protested. “Funeral directors need something to wear, you know. They can’t all walk around naked. My father was a funeral director—”
Kirov was finally losing his patience. “Linsky doesn’t sell clothes to the directors! Linsky makes the clothes that go on bodies when they are laid out for a viewing. That’s why his clothes are the last ones you’ll ever wear. Because you’ll be buried in them!”
Pekkala frowned. He inspected his lapels. “But I’ve always worn this style of coat.”
“That’s the problem, Inspector,” said Kirov. “There is such a thing as fashion, even for people like you. Now, look.” Kirov walked across the room and removed the coat from the box. Carefully, he unfolded it. Then, holding it by the shoulders, he lifted it up for Pekkala to see. “Look at this. This is the latest style. Try it on. That’s all I’m asking.”
Reluctantly, Pekkala put on the jacket.
Kirov helped him into it. “There!” he announced. “How does it feel?”
Pekkala raised his arms and lowered them again. “All right, I suppose.”
“You see! I told you! And there’s a shirt there and a new pair of trousers too. Now no one will be able to call you a fossil.”
Pekkala frowned. “I didn’t realize anyone called me a fossil.”
Kirov patted him on the shoulder. “It’s just an expression. And now I have something else for you. A real present this time.” He held his arm out towards the windowsill, where a small plant sagged under the weight of bright orange fruits.
“Tangerines?” asked Pekkala.
“Kumquats,” corrected Kirov proudly. “It took me months to find one of these plants and more than a year to get it to bear fruit. Are you ready?”
“Kumquats,” said Pekkala, still trying out the word.
Kirov reached out and took hold of a fruit between his thumb and first two fingers. Gently he twisted until the ball came away from its stem, then held it out to Pekkala.
Pekkala plucked the kumquat from Kirov’s fingers and sniffed at it.
“Eat!” said Kirov, his cheeks flushing red. “That’s an order!”
Pekkala raised his eyebrows. “An order, Kirov?”
“I do outrank you.”
“But I don’t have a rank!”
“Exactly.” Kirov flapped his hand at Pekkala as if he were shooing a fly. “Don’t make me ask you again!”
Pekkala took a small bite, tearing through the thin, glowing skin of the kumquat and into the yellowy segments beneath. His eyes closed tightly as the sour taste flooded his mouth. “It’s inedible!”
“It’s perfect,” said Kirov. Then he went back to the windowsill and traced one finger lovingly over the deep green, shiny leaves.
“You need a girlfriend, Kirov. Or a wife. You’re spending too much time with these kumquats. Now please go
