“Mstislav Arkadievich Burtsev,” Gorshkov uttered a short while later, not without pleasure — it seemed that he, as he named each of them, built a wall from building blocks. “Did you know him?”
Artiom coughed, though he didn’t want to cough.
“Burtsev was in our brigade too,” he said. “The same as Vasilii Petrovich.”
“I’m asking if you knew him personally,” repeated Gorshkov, fixing Artiom with his small eyes.
“I knew him personally,” said Artiom, “but we weren’t close.”
“Did you ever meet Burtsev in the cell of Mezernitskii at one of the evening parties that you called…” Gorshkov looked through his papers. “The Athenian nights?”
“Evenings,” Artiom corrected him.
Gorshkov was looking at him with his small eyes, not blinking.
Artiom was quiet, then repeated.
“Athenian evenings. I saw
