Stop, stop! Katzman had repeatedly let slip… well, not let slip, of course, but simply told them about his journeys to the north. What was he doing there? The Anticity lay somewhere to the north too.
Yes, I was right to detain Katzman, even if it was done in haste. That’s the way it always goes. It all starts with simple curiosity—someone sticks his curious nose in where it doesn’t belong, and before he can say boo, he’s been recruited… Why did he refuse point-blank to give me that document file? The file is obviously from there. And the Red Building is from there! The boss obviously failed to put two and two together somewhere. No, it’s understandable—he didn’t have the facts. And he hasn’t been in there. Yes, spreading rumors is a terrible thing, but the Red Building is more terrible than any rumor. And the really terrible thing is not even that people disappear inside it forever; the terrible thing is that sometimes they come back out! They come back out, they return to live among us, like Katzman…
Andrei felt that now he had a tight grasp of the most important thread, but he didn’t have the courage to follow the analysis all the way through to the end. He knew only that the Andrei Voronin who went in through that door with the brass handle was not entirely the same Andrei Voronin who came out of that door. Something had snapped inside him in there, something had been irretrievably lost… He gritted his teeth. Oh no, you’ve miscalculated this time, my fine gentlemen. You shouldn’t have let me out. We’re not so easily broken… or bought… or moved to pity.
Grinning crookedly, he took a clean sheet of paper and wrote on it in large letters, “RED BUILDING—KATZMAN. RED BUILDING—ANTICITY. ANTICITY—KATZMAN.” That was the way it all panned out. No, boss, he thought, it’s not the rumor-spreaders we have to search for. We need to search for the people who have emerged from the Red Building alive and well—search for them, catch them, isolate them… or place them under rigorous observation… He wrote down, “People who have been in the Building—the Anticity.” So Pani Husáková would have to tell them all she knew about her František after all. The flute player could probably be released, though. But then, it wasn’t really about them… Maybe I should call the boss? Ask his blessing for the change of direction? No, it’s probably a bit too soon for that. No, if I can get Katzman to talk… He picked up the phone.
“Duty guard? Bring detainee Katzman to me in 36.”
And not only did he need to get Katzman to talk, he could. The file. There was no way Katzman could worm his way out of that… It flashed through Andrei’s mind that it wasn’t entirely ethical for him to handle Katzman’s case; he had drunk with the man on numerous occasion, and in general… But he pulled himself up short there.
The door opened and detainee Katzman, with a huge grin on his face and his hands stuck in his greasy pockets, entered the room with a slack, jaunty stride.
“Sit down,” Andrei said coolly, jerking his chin in the direction of the stool.
“Thank you,” said the detainee, grinning even more widely. “I see you haven’t snapped out of it yet.”
It was all water off a duck’s back to him, the creep. Katzman sat down, tugged at the wart on his neck, and glanced curiously around the office.
And then a cold shiver ran down Andrei’s spine. The detainee didn’t have the file with him.
“Where’s the file?” Andrei asked, trying to speak calmly.
“What file?” Katzman inquired brazenly.
Andrei grabbed up the phone. “Duty guard! Where is detainee Katzman’s document file?”
“What file?” the duty guard asked obtusely. “I’ll just take a look… Katzman… Aha… The following items were confiscated from detainee Katzman: handkerchiefs, 2; wallet, 1, empty, worn…”
“Is there a document file in the inventory?” Andrei barked.
“There isn’t any file,” the duty guard answered in a sinking voice.
“Bring me the inventory,” Andrei said hoarsely, and hung up. Then he glowered briefly at Katzman. His hatred for the man was buzzing in his ears. “Jewish pranks…” he said, restraining himself. “Where did you put the file, you bastard?”
Katzman responded immediately, in melodramatic literary style: “She grabbed hold of his hand and asked him over and over again: ‘Where did you put the file?’”
“All right,” said Andrei, breathing heavily through his nose. “It won’t do you any good, you lousy, spying scum.”
A look of astonishment flashed across Izya’s face. But a second later he already had that repulsive, taunting grin stuck on it again. “Why, of course, of course!” he said. “Iosif Katzman, chairman of the ‘Joint’ organization, at your service. Don’t beat me, I’ll tell you everything anyway. The machine guns are hidden in Berdichev, the landing site is marked by campfires…”
The frightened duty guard walked in, holding the sheet of paper with the inventory on it out in front of him. “There isn’t any file here,” he muttered, putting the inventory down on the edge of the desk in front of Andrei and retreating. “I rang the front desk, and they don’t—”
“All right, go,” Andrei said through his teeth. He took a blank interrogation form and asked, without looking up: “Full name with patronymic?”
“Iosif Mikhailovich Katzman.”
“Year of birth?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Nationality?”
“Yes,” Katzman said, and giggled.
Andrei raised his head. “Yes what?”
“Listen, Andrei,” said Izya. “I don’t understand what’s going on with you today, but bear in mind that you’ll destroy your entire career with me like this. I’m warning you as an old friend—”
“Answer the questions!” Andrei said in a strangled voice. “Nationality?”
“Just don’t you forget how they took Dr. Timashuk’s medal away from her,” said Izya.
But Andrei didn’t know who Dr. Timashuk was. “Nationality!”
“Jewish,” Izya said with loathing.
“Citizenship?”
“U! S! S! R!”
“Religious affiliation?”
“None.”
“Political affiliation?”
“None.”
“Education?”
“Higher. Herzen Pedagogical Institute, Leningrad.”
“Criminal record?”
“None.”
“Earthly year of departure?”
“Nineteen sixty-eight.”
“Point of departure?
“Leningrad.”
“Reason for departure?”
“Curiosity.”
“Period of residence in the City?”
“Four years.”
“Present profession?”
“Statistician at the Department of Municipal Services.”
“List previous professions.”
“General laborer, senior municipal archivist, office clerk at the municipal slaughterhouse, garbage collector, blacksmith. I think that’s all.”
“Family status.”
“Adulterer,” Izya replied, smirking.
Andrei put down the pen, lit up, and studied the detainee through the blue smoke for a while. Izya was grinning, Izya was unkempt and shock-headed, Izya was sardonic, but Andrei knew this man well, and he could see that Izya was nervous. He obviously had something to be nervous about, even though he had managed to ditch the file—and very deftly, it must be said. He obviously realized now that he was being dealt with in earnest; that was why his eyes were narrowed nervously and the corners of his grinning mouth were trembling.