The Case of the General's Thumb by Andréi Kurkov Read Free Book Online Page B

and waiters at the Moskva were more welcoming. No one recognized Bronitsky, but that, as someone said, meant nothing, given that there had been a banquet for forty that evening, and people at other tables. Caviar pancakes had indeed been ordered by the banquet party, but in celebration of a wedding anniversary, and that ruled out Bronitsky.
    Viktor went early to the funeral, intending to present the widow with white arum lilies, observe the mourners, meet the son, and Ivin, from whom to learn something of Bronitsky, the Defence Consultant – a dismissive “Bronitsky’s death has got damn all to do with his place of work!” from Georgiy notwithstanding.
    â€œMeaning what?” he’d demanded, but Georgiy had rung off.
    Stuck in a tailback at the turn off for Pechersk, he wondered what the hell was he really supposed to be doing.
    Who was he, this Georgiy? Security? That would be logical, but then why all this communication by phone? And why with him, a mere lieutenant concerned with petty street crime? Security had its own special agents. The militia didn’t. Too easily bribed. As he might have been, if given special status!
    At the next set of lights, he gave up pondering the imponderable, turned his thoughts to the day ahead, and visualizing a fine bronze-handledcoffin, switched to the solemn mood appropriate to joining the mourners of one who had departed, or more accurately, flown, this life.
    Parking well away from the entrance of the Bronitsky residence, he took from the back seat his tribute of arum lilies.
    The door was opened by Widow Bronitsky, all in black, wearing a brooch of black malachite, and weeping as if only just apprised of her husband’s demise. The flat was a hive of female activity. An electric mixer could be heard grinding away. Mince was being wrapped in cabbage leaves for the indispensable funeral rissoles.
    Exchanging bows with an elderly man – introductions not being the custom at funerals – Viktor settled himself in a corner of the sitting room.
    The elderly man, whose shoes bore muddy signs of a journey, sidled over to the armchair next to his.
    â€œWould you be a colleague of Vadim’s, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    â€œI’ve had more to do with his widow,” Viktor said, conscious of the ambiguity.
    â€œColleague of Yelena’s, then,” he said. “I’m his Dad. Ex-miner. Donyetsk region. His Mum couldn’t come. She’s paralysed. Looks like they’re late with the body.”
    He directed his gaze to the large wall clock framed in polished wood.
    â€œBetter see what’s happening in the kitchen,” he said, getting to his feet.
    â€œHas the son flown back?” Viktor asked.
    â€œSon?” His face took on a haggard look. “It costs a bit to fly from England. No, he hasn’t.”
    The bus with the body arrived at the entrance half an hour late. A splendid coffin of what looked like mahogany was carried from it and placed on two stools.
    Viktor stood slightly apart, observing. There were not all that many mourners – perhaps fifty in all – and the cortège wassurprisingly modest: two spick-and-span coaches, a black Volga, and a few Zhigulis.
    The coffin was returned to its bus, the cortège moved off, and Viktor made for his Mazda, surprised at there being no religious ceremony.
    A half-hour crawl brought them to the Baykov Cemetery, where they were joined by a few other mourners bearing flowers and wreaths.
    With the grave filled, the mound formed, and the labourers off the scene, there was a passing round of plastic mugs of vodka and meat pirozhki. Viktor accepted a glass, which he surreptitiously poured away. As well as Bronitsky senior, two earnest-looking men in expensive suits and several women were in attendance on the widow, who, a little later, made her way from mourner to mourner inviting them to the wake.
    Again Viktor followed behind, but now at a faster