Yellow Blue Tibia by Adam Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

solider than I. He certainly possessed more pugnacity. ‘What do they want? Let me tell you something, you scorch-face bastard. Don’t you worry what they want. Worry what I want. I’m the one you should worry about. And one of the things I want is for you not to jab me in the arse with a dagger. All right? It may be that you have friends who enjoy being jabbed in the arse, but I am not your friend, and that is not how I choose to spend my time. Yes?’
    I looked at my immaculately cleaned and clipped fingertips. ‘Not the arse, comrade. I understand.’
    He glowered at me; and then, abruptly, beamed. ‘This must be why I continue to call on your services. Skvorecky,’ he said. ‘You are at least droll . You know how many people in this building are droll?’
    ‘Is there a sub-department in charge of the production of drollery?’
    ‘Droll isn’t really our governmental style,’ he said. ‘Is my point.’
    ‘Dictatorship of the drolletariat,’ I said.
    His scowl was back. ‘See, sometimes you’re amusing,’ he said, ‘and sometimes you go out of your way to jab me in the arse with a dagger. Come on.’
    He took me through to a small windowless room, the walls of which were painted an unpleasant algae-green. Inside was a table, and four chairs, and two of the chairs were occupied with - exotic! - American bodies. I was introduced to Dr James Tilly Coyne, US citizen, and also to Ms Dora Norman, US citizen. Had this latter individual been cut into two portions with a horizontal slice at her waist, hollowed out and laminated it would have been possible very comfortably to fit the former individual inside her, afterwards replacing the upper element. ‘[I am pleased to meet you both,]’ I said, in English. ‘[My name is Konstantin Skvorecky.]’
    ‘[It’s indeed a pleasure to meet you, sir,]’ said Coyne, shaking my hand. I met his eye. Within twenty-four hours I would be staring at his corpse, lying on the ground wry-necked and with blood coming out of its nose. Poor James Tilly Coyne!
    His frame was both short and slight, and his houndlike face was woodgrained with vertical age-lines down his brow and both cheeks. These wrinkles looked, rather mournfully, like the erosion lines of decades of tears. Yet his eyes were lively, and he smiled often. Had I been asked to guess I would have put his age in the sixties; old enough, easily, to be Dora Norman’s father. Despite his age his hair was very dark, though visibly thinning. It lay across the pronounced knobbles of his skull like the lines illustrators carve into metal plates to indicate shading in their engraved pictures.
    ‘[I am afraid I have exhausted my guidebook Russian on your colleague,]’ said Coyne, with a smile.
    The four of us sat down around the table. ‘[He’s no colleague of mine,]’ I said, in English. [I am not a member of this ministry.]’
    ‘[A civilian?]’
    ‘[A translator, only. I have no official standing.]’
    At this point, Dora Norman intervened. ‘[Mr - Koreshy?]’ Her prodigious jowls quivered as she spoke. ‘[Excuse me, but . . .?]’
    ‘[Skvorecky, madam.]’
    ‘[Excuse me,]’ she said again. ‘[But - you have something stuck on the end of your nose. I think it is a piece of paper tissue.]’ She reached out, her hand remarkably small and dainty on its ponderously conic forearm, and brushed the end of my nose with forefinger and thumb. ‘[If you’ll permit me,]’ she said, and had another go at brushing the end of my nose. Her voice was high pitched, but melodious and indeed rather attractive. The bulk of her frame gave her soprano tone the merest hint of a sensual underthrum.
    I took hold of her wrist and guided her hand away with as much gentleness as I could. ‘[Madam,]’ I said. ‘[You are kind, but mistaken. It is not paper. It is a small tab of scar tissue. The mark of an old wound. An unfortunate place to have such a thing, I know.]’
    ‘[Oh my word, I’m sorry,]’ she said, in an alarmed voice. A