The Case of the General's Thumb by Andréi Kurkov Page A

coffee.
    â€œWhere today?” Sakhno asked.
    â€œLunch in a restaurant.”
    â€œThen?”
    â€œBack here. I’ll explain as we go.”
    Monschau was a fairy-tale town of brightly-painted gingerbread houses on a tiny river. Shops, restaurants were all cosily miniature. A sign pointed to the Mustard Museum.
    â€œWe could leave the car here,” Nik suggested, seeing a car park.
    â€œNo, right outside, let’s make the man’s day.”
    The hearse blocked the whole frontage.
    â€œThink it matters, my not wearing a tie?” Sakhno asked, smiling maliciously.
    A bell rang as they opened the door. The restaurant was empty.
    â€œMore like a snack bar,” Sakhno muttered.
    A grey-haired man in dark trousers and white chef’s jacket greeted them in German.
    â€œA Russian restaurant and yet they speak German,” Sakhno grumbled.
    â€œNo problem,” came the ready response in Russian, “I’ve not forgotten it.”
    â€œWhat about the menu?” Sakhno persisted.
    â€œI’ll translate. Do sit down.”
    â€œYou must be Herr Pogodinsky,” said Nik.
    Pogodinsky tensed.
    â€œYou know me?”
    â€œOnly from friends. They spoke well of your restaurant.”
    â€œWe don’t often get Russians here,” he said, adjusting the place settings. “I can do you a good pork chop with onions … Or there’s calves’ liver … Fresh vegetables …”
    â€œFine,” said Nik. “Two chops, two salads, carafe of vodka.”
    â€œPickled cucumber?”
    â€œNeed you ask?” Sakhno snapped.
    Pickled cucumbers and carafe were quickly on the table, and Pogodinsky went to prepare their order.
    â€œAll a bit Soviet periodish,” said Sakhno looking after him. “Though then he’d have had a whole host of cooks and waiters …”
    â€œIt’s not terribly busy.”
    â€œProbably a money laundry.”
    Sakhno filled their glasses.
    â€œLet’s hope we strike it rich!”
    Glass and slice of cucumber halfway to his mouth, he paused for Nik to respond.
    The bell rang, and an agitated German appeared in the doorway and proceeded to harangue them.
    â€œWhat’s he on about?” Sakhno asked.
    â€œCan’t get by the hearse.”
    â€œBloody man!”
    Sakhno got up, brushed past the German, and the hearse moved out of sight. A coach full of old age pensioners glided past the window, and until the hearse returned, there was a pleasant view across the river to little houses hung with ornate name signs.
    â€œWhy make their buses so bloody wide!” demanded Sakhno, returning wrathfully to the table, and downing vodka.
    Nik was beginning to have qualms about having to provoke this inoffensive little old man, proud proprietor, chef, waiter all in one. Only this was not the world he’d known as a soldier, but a more complex one where so much, so many people – this simple, genial, little old man included – were not what they seemed. So why worry? Do as they were told, and all would become clear.
    The chops, which were enormous, were served with mushroom sauce, a mountain of chips, boiled beetroot and a ball of green spiced yellow rice.
    â€œMore vodka?”
    Pogodinsky’s eyes, as Nik met them, were blue, strong, alive, smiling, thirty years younger than their owner.
    â€œA carafe.”
    â€œWe wouldn’t be owing money, would we?” Sakhno asked Pogodinsky as he brought the carafe.
    He looked from one to the other aghast.
    â€œWho to?”
    â€œNiklas Zenn, say,” said Sakhno.
    Pogodinsky nodded, gazed forlornly about him, and retreated to the kitchen.
    â€œKills me, your politeness,” said Sakhno.
    â€œDrink up, don’t worry,” Nik advised soothingly. “We can’t all go chucking our weight about.”
    â€œGood health, then!” said Sakhno, downing his vodka and crunching cucumber.
    The ensuing