“The mafias used to have real leaders. Antibiotic was a theatrical promoter, and if he liked a show he’d hire the whole hall for himself. He was like family to the Brezhnevs. A character, a racketeer, but his word was good. Remember Otarik?”

“I remember he was a member of the Writer’s Union even though his application had twenty-two grammatical errors,” Arkady said.

“Well, writing was not his main occupation. Anyway, now they’re replaced by these new businessmen like Borya Gubenko. It used to be that a gang war was a gang war. Now I have to watch my back two ways, from hit men and militia.”

“What happened to Rudy? Was he part of a gang war?”

“You mean a war between Moscow businessmen and bloodthirsty Chechens? We’re always the mad dogs; Russians are always the victims. I’m not addressing you personally, but as a nation you see everything backwards. Could I give you a small example from my life?”

“Please.”

“Did you know that there was a Chechen Republic? Our own. If I bore you, stop me. The worst crime of old people is to bore young people.” Even as he said this, Makhmud clutched Arkady’s collar again.

“Go on.”

“Some Chechens had collaborated with the Germans, so in February 1944, mass meetings were called in every village. There were soldiers and brass bands; people thought it was a military celebration and everyone came. You know what those village squares are like—a loudspeaker in each corner playing music and announcements. Well, this announcement was that they had one hour to gather their families and possessions. No reason given. One hour. Imagine the scene. First the pleading, which was useless. The panic of looking for small children, for grandparents, forcing them to dress and dragging them out the door to save their lives. Deciding what you should take, what you can carry. A bed, a bureau, a goat? The soldiers loaded everyone into trucks. Studebakers. People thought the Americans were behind it and Stalin would save them!”