“You sat around all day like corpses,” he whined. “Your bones aren’t hurting, are they?”
“What do you mean? We had work,” Artiom couldn’t contain himself; some kind of madness grabbed him. “Citizen Eichmanis walked by today and told us to count all the monastery’s gulls.”
Sorokin stopped short for a moment, then realized that he was being mocked.
“You’re still joking? I’m going to remember you now,” he said.
Still, something was preventing him from crushing Artiom immediately.
The work they got wasn’t the most difficult, but it was dirty. They had to clean up the pile of garbage at the infirmary.
The infirmary was a three-story building not far from the gates of the kremlin.
Near the infirmary stood several yellow monastery couches — it seemed that the most infirm, by order of the d
