In the courtyard, Khmelnitsky reported that he worked at a service garage and made good money. He had just bought a car, he said. A Volvo. A new one. For forty-two thousand dollars. With armored windows. Chukharev kept a respectful silence, looked at the foreign cars sprinkled with melting snow, and contemplated asking for a ride, but Khmelnitsky marched straight out and they walked together to the trolleybus stop. Both rode to the Profsoyuznaya metro station.
Chukharev got off at Kievskaya station, and changed trolleybuses. It was spring now, and he put his head out the window. It was good to ride along the embankment, putting your face to the wind, glancing at the thoughtful, light-haired girl by the window, to breathe in the forgotten smell of river water and see the leaves by the stre
