CHAPTER TWENTY
In the centre of a small public garden between the Opera House and the University where Sidelnikov was studying there stood on a pedestal the cast iron Bolshevik Srednov, whose name was patiently borne by the huge city like an undersized second-hand jacket. The rebellious Srednov was cast in the unhinged pose of a street punk, which did not go together with his round spectacles and goatee. On the left, the square was watched over by the clumsy pasty-white muses on the pediment of the Opera House and on the right, by senile portraits of the Politburo members hung on the University façade in honour of public holidays and left there for a long time until the cleanly shaven and well-groomed images turned grim with bad weather. It was clear that they would never die and even if
