These Are the Names Read Free

the toilet was flushed. These were only some of the building’s tidal movements. In early October they had turned the heating on, and the building began to swell; it creaked as hot water sluiced through the pipes with a sigh.
    Tucked away behind a pleat in the shower curtain was the glass containing Zita’s upper dentures. Beg could remember her real teeth. With the passing of time they had become stained an ever-darker brown. When she smiled she would cover her mouth with her hand. She was ashamed of having teeth the colour of tobacco juice, but feared nothing as much as the dentist. Beg had given her money to have her teeth pulled and dentures fitted. She had asked them to put her under for the operation, and lived toothlessly until the new ones were ready.
    The dental technician had done a good job: when she smiled, it was as though she’d opened a jewellery box.
    I can pay for the teeth, Beg thought, but I can’t make the mouth say what I want.
    Zita lived in accordance with the iron regime of women. She worked hard; she stood for no nonsense. The nights with Beg she saw as a continuation of her activities around the house — dusting, sweeping, cooking, washing, ironing, and mending his worn shirts and uniforms. Each of these tasks she fulfilled slowly and attentively; in bed, he sometimes thought he heard her humming.
    They benefited from each other in an easily quantifiable fashion; neither of them felt short-changed in any way. Beg considered the arrangement a perfect marriage; in Zita’s mind it was an excellent position.
    He went into the bedroom, observing the sharp lines around her hollow cheeks. In her sleep she looked disgruntled. That was the attitude her face assumed in repose, but it said nothing about her character.
    He laid a hand on her shoulder and shook her.
    â€˜Yeah, yeah,’ she murmured.
    In the kitchen he ladled soup from the pan and ate it cold. Between spoonfuls he took the occasional bite of dark rye bread.
    â€˜You’re slurping,’ Zita said from the bathroom. ‘You sound like a pig.’
    Beg smiled. Yes, it was a good marriage in every way.
    When Beg entered the waiting room at police headquarters, two men jumped to their feet. They both began talking excitedly. One of them had run over a sheep that belonged to the other. The second man claimed that the whole herd had already crossed the road when the casualty in question suddenly came traipsing along. ‘A ewe, sir,’ the first one said then, ‘such a lovely animal!’
    Running over a sheep, Beg knew, was a complicated business. According to old nomadic custom, you were not only liable for the animal you had killed, but also owed recompense to a number of generations to come — one could say, in other words, that the shepherd had a good day when one of his herd was flattened.
    â€˜You’ve never seen such a lovely little ewe, so broad in the beam,’ the shepherd wailed.
    â€˜That’s enough!’ Beg shouted.
    At the information desk, Oksana was playing solitaire on the computer.
    â€˜Where’s Koller?’ Beg asked.
    Oksana looked up. ‘His wife called — an abscess in his armpit. She said it kept him awake all night. He’s gone to the doctor.’
    â€˜How many abscesses does the guy have?’ Beg asked in annoyance.
    â€˜That was a fistula. On his behind.’
    â€˜So who’s going to going to draw up this report?’
    Oksana looked over her shoulder at the men in the waiting room. ‘Koller’s actually the one on duty,’ she said.
    Beg shook his head. ‘Call Menchov. Get him out of bed.’
    He poured himself a cup of tea, then went into his office. The room was warm, and he could smell himself — his own scent, mingled with cigarette smoke. He turned on the computer. The screen did not light up. He pushed the button again, but the thing was dead. He called Oksana. After a little knock on the door, she came in.