But I’d seen worse than that.
I gathered the papers up off the floor and stuffed them in my map case. I took my time, did up all the fasteners.
And in farewell I said:
“Thank you, Citizen Shtadler. You’ve told the authorities, as represented by me, what they need to know. And had a jolly good spit too, right from the heart. Enough for a lifetime. But what was it you were spitting? What kind of spit? The saliva you used to soak that squealy little pencil so that I could see more clearly. It turns my stomach just to look at you.”
Shtadler mumbled something in response. It was muffled. I didn’t hear.
Everything I needed from him, I already had.
And what I had was as follows:
One. Shtadler hadn’t been following me when I was dragging the putatively departed Zusel.
Two. Laevskaya was so
