He dropped in at a restaurant, sat at a table, lit a cigarette, waiting to see a menu in the hands of an obliging waiter, although he didn’t plan to order anything. Even in Russia he had been to a café two and a half times at the most — he couldn’t afford it.
He decided to visit the judge today, after he’d had some tea.
He’d find the home and workplace of Mr…. Luarkeze? Lukrezee? s**t, he forgot again.
A quiet, unsmiling girl with bulging eyes came and gave him the menu.
“Tea,” Sasha said without opening the thick, dark folder with the list of dishes. She asked him something in Latvian.
Sasha raised his smiling eyes.
“Tea,” he repeated louder, as if talking to someone who couldn’t hear well. “Just tea. With sugar. Sweet tea.”
The girl nodded.
She brought him tea without lemon and t
