“A Lexus—that’s a big car, almost like a bus . . .” Apparently that was an attempt at a joke. “But even if there are no buses, that’s no excuse for infringing the rules!”

“Agreed, that’s no excuse,” I said, nodding. “But, just the same, why didn’t you stop the Lexus?”

The sergeant looked at me as if I was an idiot.

“You mean you didn’t see his number plates?”

“I didn’t,” I said. “But then, there weren’t any to see! By the way, that’s another infringement . . . and the windows were tinted darker than the standards allow. A whole bunch of infringements.”

“A whole bunch . . .” said the sergeant, wincing as if he had a toothache. “The lads stopped one of those ‘bunches’ once—and they got thrown out on their ear, lucky not to get taken to court! And do you know how I got this job?”

“How?” I asked, beginning to feel rather surprised.

The policeman’s face assumed the expression of mixed caution and squeamishness with which normal people regard someone who’s got a few screws loose.

“Driving onto the lane for public transport traffic,” he said drily. “Fine: three thousand roubles.”

“I accept that,” I agreed again. “Write out a receipt.”

This time he looked at me really warily.

“I think you were in a hurry, driver Gorodetsky . . .”

“I was.”

“And your car . . . isn’t a Lexus,” he remarked in a flash of brilliant insight.

“A correct observation!” I exclaimed. “It’s a Ford!”

“We could try to resolve the situation—for half,” the policeman said in a very low voice. “And writing out a receipt takes so long . . .”

I could feel the laugher welling up inside me. He was so very hungry. Of course, for the last seventeen years I hadn’t lived the way other people did. But, even so, I did remember a thing or two.

They hadn’t changed at all since my first meeting with Pastukhov at the Exhibition of Economic Achievements metro station. “I tell you what, Roman, write me out the fine,” I said. “I’d really like to save a bit of money and not waste time. Only it makes me feel sick. Do you understand?”

His face seemed to shudder.

“Do you think it doesn’t make me feel sick?” Roman asked in a quiet voice. “Don’t dare stop some of them . . . And then there’s others that wave their fancy IDs at you . . . and they’ve closed down all the factories in my parents’ town, and you can’t buy anything on a pension . . . and I . . .” He faltered, waved his hand through the air and looked at me. He held out my documents. “Drive on.”

“What about the fine?” I asked.

“Forget it!” He swung round and walked back to his partner.