Chapter 7
I pulled over at the nearest telephone booth and tried to contact Obukh, but he wasn’t in. My message about a robbery taking place on Horodotska Street was received, but from the secretary’s bored voice I figured it would be too late by the time the police set off.
It was getting dark when I arrived at the Academic Gymnasium.1 Hnyp was the nickname we gave to our history teacher – a tall, thin, and incredibly boring man, about whom we composed a song:
“What a squeak, what a creak? Here crawls creepy, creepy Hnyp!” He used to wear eternally squeaky shoes that would squeak even while he sat at the table. I parked and went inside. Classes were over, and the watchman was rattling his keys and locking doors.
“Can I help you?” He looked at me up and down warily.
“Is there still an
