“Renko, you’re wasting your time. First of all, Platonov has your passport, not me. Second, the vice-consul is going to keep it until you get on the plane for Moscow, which will be tomorrow if all goes well.”

“Maybe I could make myself useful. It looks like you have your hands full.” Arkady nodded toward the hall.

“The Minsk Folkloric Chorus? We asked for ten, they sent thirty. They’re going to have to sleep stacked like blini. I’ll try to help them, but if they insist on tripling their visas they’re going to have to suffer.”

“That’s what a consulate is for,” Arkady said. “Maybe I can help.”

Federov took a deep breath. “No. I think you’re about the last person I would choose as my assistant.”

“Maybe we could get together tomorrow, have lunch or tea, even dinner?”

“I’m on the run tomorrow. Delegation of Ukrainian Catholics in the morning, lunch with the folkloric chorus, catch up with the Catholics at the Frauenkirche in the afternoon, and an evening revival of Bertold Brecht. Full up. Anyway, you’ll probably be flying home by then. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m really busy. If you want to do me a favor, don’t come back.”

“Could I at least make a call?”

“No.”

Arkady reached for the phone. “The circuits to Moscow are always busy. Maybe I could get through from here.”

“No.”

Arkady picked up the receiver. “It’ll be quick.”

“No.”

As Federov grabbed the receiver, Arkady let go and the consular attaché stumbled backward, tipping over another pail of water. Arkady tried from the wrong side of the desk to catch him; instead, he swept all the passports from the desktop. Red booklets landed on the carpet, in puddles, in pails.

“You idiot!” Federov said. He scrambled around the pails to pick up passports before they sank. Arkady used handfuls of stationery to soak water from the carpet.

“That’s useless,” Federov said.

“I’m trying to help.”

Federov blotted passports on his shirt. “Don’t help me. Just go.” A thought occurred to him as palpably as the squeal of a brake. “Wait!” Eyes on Arkady, he gathered all the passports onto his desk. Breathing hard, he counted them out carefully not once but twice and checked to be positive that the contents were, even if damp, still intact. “Okay. You can go.”

“I’m very sorry,” Arkady said.

“Just leave.”

“On the way out, should I warn people below about the water?”

“No. Don’t talk to anyone.”

Arkady regarded the overturned pails, the floodplain of the carpet. “It’s a shame, such a new office.”

“Yes. Good-bye, Renko.”

The door opened and a woman crowned by a felt hat draped with pearls peeped in. “Dear Artur Arturovich, what are you doing? When do we eat?”

“In a second,” Federov said.

“We haven’t eaten since Minsk,” she said.