Chapter 10 Chapter 6 Maximov (1)

"Good morning. I'm here to collect my son's belongings." (His voice is so calm that he wonders even to himself.) "My son was in an accident last month and the police have some of his belongings in custody. " He opened a receipt and pushed it across the counter.The receipt was dated the day of Pavel's death or the next day, depending on whether the exact time of death was before or after midnight; the receipt simply read "Letters and other documents." The duty officer looked at the receipt suspiciously. "October 12. Not a month. There's no way the case will be closed."

"How long will it take to finish?" "Maybe two months, maybe three months, maybe a year. It depends." "No circumstances. No criminal involvement." The officer held the receipt at arm's length and walked out of the room.When he came back, his expression was even more gloomy. "Sir, your last name——" "Isayev. The father of the deceased." "Oh, Mr. Isaev. Please take a seat. You will be greeted in a moment." His heart sank.All he wanted was to give him an inventory of Pavel's stuff and get him out of the place.What he can't bear most is the police's attention being drawn to him.

"I can only wait a little while," he said succinctly. "Understood, sir. I am sure the agent who has dealt with this matter will be able to see you shortly. You are welcome to sit where you want." He checked his watch, sat down on the bench, and looked around pretending to be impatient.It was early; there was only one other person in the reception room: a young house painter, whose overalls were stained with paint stains.The young man sat upright and seemed to be asleep.Eyes closed, jaw drooping, and a slight grunt coming from his throat. Isayev.His inner turmoil did not subside.Shouldn't he be quick to clear up the falsehood about Isayev before he gets into trouble?But how does he explain it? "There's a slight misunderstanding here, Officer. It's not quite what it seems. In a way, I'm not Isayev. The Isayev I use as his last name has been dead for years, and I use this I have a reason for my surname, and I don’t want to go into details here and there, but the reasons are perfectly valid. I don’t have the surname Isaev, but I brought up Pavel Isaev like a son, Love him as a child. In that sense, we have the same last name, or should have the same last name. His legacy of papers is small, but very precious to me. I'm here For this reason." What if he had confessed spontaneously and they hadn't suspected it at all?What if they were about to return the papers to him, and now they suddenly withdrew them? "Aha, what's going on here? Is there something hidden?"

He sat there hesitating, not knowing whether he should tell the truth, or pretend to be fake to the end, he took out his watch, and looked angrily, there was a stove burning in the corner of the reception room, and the room was suffocatingly hot Furious, he tried to look like an impatient businessman, he had a premonition of an old illness, and at the same time the thought of actually having an illness would be a way out of the predicament, and of course the most childish way, and with the premonition came a lingering Shades of unremembered memories: he must have been here before, in this anteroom or a similar one, and had fallen ill or fainted too!But why is his memory so fuzzy?What is the relationship between memory and the smell of fresh paint?

"unacceptable!" His cries resounded through the anteroom.The dozing house painter jumped up; the duty officer raised his eyes in surprise.He tried to hide his panic. "I mean," he said under his breath, "I can't wait any longer. I said I had a date." He stood up and put on his overcoat when the officer on duty stopped him. "Supervisor Maximov can see you now, sir." The office he was taken into had no high benches.Except for a huge leatherette-covered sofa, the rest is government-issued, nondescript furniture.Superintendent Maximov, who was in charge of the judicial investigation of the Pavel case, was a bald head with a short, fat figure like a peasant woman. She took a long time to sit down, then opened a thick file, read it carefully in front of her, and shook her head from time to time. , thinking to himself: "It's too bad... so bad..."

He finally looked up. "My sincere condolences, Mr. Isayev." Isayev.Time to make up your mind! "Thank you. I'm here to request the return of my son's papers. I know the case is open, but I don't think private papers are of any use to your agency or have anything to do with your operations." "Of course, of course! Private papers, as you say. But tell me: when you say papers, what do you mean? What do those papers contain?" The man's eyes were watery; the lashes were gray and catlike. "How can I tell? The papers were taken from my son's room, and I haven't seen them myself. It's always letters, papers, and so on."

"You haven't seen it, but you think we can't be interested in it. I can understand. I can understand that a father always thinks his son's papers are a private matter, or at least a family matter. Yeah, it is. .But the investigation is still ongoing—perhaps just a matter of routine, but the law requires it, so it can't be dismissed with a slap or a wave of the hand, and besides, those documents are also under the scope of the investigation. So..." With his fingertips facing each other, he lowered his head, seemingly lost in thought.When he looked up again, the smile on his face had disappeared, leaving only a very determined expression. "I think," he said, "yes, I believe I have a solution that satisfies both parties. Since the case is not closed--indeed, it can only be said to have just begun--I cannot put those Return the document to you. But I intend to let you see it. Because I also feel that it is unfair, very unfair, to not allow the family members to take a closer look at this tragic moment, just to make a face-to-face meeting."

Like a card player playing a card, he suddenly drew a single page from the file and placed it in front of him. It was a list of Russian names written in regular script, all beginning with the letter A. "I'm afraid I've made a mistake. It's not my son's handwriting." "Not your son's handwriting? Hmm." Maximov took back the page and examined it carefully. "And whose handwriting do you think it might be, Mr. Isaev?" "I don't know it, it's not my son's handwriting anyway." Maximov picked another page from the back of the file and pushed it across the table. "What about this page?"

He doesn't even need to look.It's inexplicable!he thought.He felt dizzy.The voice of speaking seemed to come from far away. "It was my own letter. I don't have the name Isaev. I just borrowed it—" Maximov waved his hand, as if to chase away a fly, to scatter his words and silence him; but he overcame his dizziness and went on with what he had to say.