crows of strasbourg

2.

Anton Sokolov sat on a bench.

This is not Moscow, so Anton is not called Anton, his name in Berlin is Benjamin Richter, a textile salesman who can tell the quality of Turkish tapestries at a glance, plays the piano, claims to like dogs, But never raised it.If his shoulders were wider than the average salesman, more like a football player, that could probably be attributed to his morning jogging habits.Richter has a pair of soldier's hands, the kind that make people think of weapons immediately, full of calluses and tiny scars, if asked, he will definitely say that it was caused by moving cloth, who would have thought of a bundle of fine grids The cotton would be so heavy; if pressed further, he would bring up his non-existent youth in the tape factory.It's hard to tell where Richter is from from the accent, but it can't be further east than Poland anyway, and his light hair and eyes - blue or green, you can't tell - don't offer much more s help.Maybe when he was younger the brushstrokes of Slavic blood would have been more pronounced, but now, with fine lines around his eyes and an acquired aloofness, Richter looks like any tired East Berliner.

It was a fine day for murder, his old friends would say, good for murder but not for flying a kite.The wind stopped completely, as if someone had flipped a switch.After the bullet leaves the gun, it can draw a beautiful arc, crushing flesh and bones two kilometers away.

His old friend has a tendency to be overly dramatic, but this isn't a good time to get caught up in the flashbacks.Richter glanced at his watch. Just after three o'clock, a figure riding a bicycle appeared on the embankment, but it was only a young girl, her cheeks and ears were red from the cold, and she didn't give him a second look.

At ten past three, a man on crutches staggered across the road to the river bank.

Richter watched him approach. The old man on crutches was not in a hurry, stopping from time to time to straighten his dirty gray-blue scarf, or wipe his nose with a handkerchief.The wild ducks in the river aroused his interest. He rummaged through his ankle-length coat for a long time, took out a small piece of moldy hard bread, and threw it to the hopeful waterfowl.Richter looked away until the old man sat down next to him, still looking at the chimneys of the industrial area.

"The charming sunshine is rare in January."

Richter replied that it was.

The old man leaned his crutches on the arm of the bench, "The kids went bird watching on weekends."

"It's a bit too cold, isn't it?"

"The kids can handle it."

"Did you see any rare species?"

"It's still the usual ones. To be honest, the children are a little disappointed. The little sparrows who are not afraid of people, the cuckoos, and the noisy crows."

They were all silent for a while.A cumbersome sand ship struggled upstream, and its whistle sounded.Workers on the docks waved signal flags vigorously.

"In the past, the crows have gone to warmer places to spend the winter in this season."

"There are always exceptions." The old man on crutches stretched his legs and beat his knees lightly. His leather shoes were badly worn and covered with mud spots. Although it hadn't rained in the past few days, Richter looked at the covered shoes. Hands with age spots, wait for the next text, "The children also got wind that four days ago, Strasbourg told Paris that they 'sent their best hands'."

"Scott?"

"No, he stayed in the stable. The children still expect you to solve this puzzle." The old man took out a brown brown paper envelope and put it on the bench.Richter crossed his arms and watched the sand transport ship. It was docking, and a huge horned beetle that did not understand water was thrown to the shore by several cables.

"I'm old, Peter, and I'm no longer fit to go hunting."

Peter stood up and tapped the cracked concrete floor with his cane, "Belgrade, tonight's train."

The old man left, and Richter sat motionless, looking at the river.A skinny pigeon landed at his feet, cooing.In order not to disappoint the bird, Richter searched all his pockets, but only found some powdered shredded tobacco. "Sorry, you've got to try your luck elsewhere."

The pigeon flew away, and Anton Sokolov picked up the brown envelope, left the bench, and bowed his head to escape the biting cold wind blowing from the bridge hole.

-

His hands were shaking, and Leon pulled over to the side of the road and breathed deeply into the windshield and the poorly repaired road.

All is well, he told himself, just drive through the checkpoint like a normal person.But then again, a "normal person" doesn't necessarily need to drive across the border between Italy and Yugoslavia.He thought of Ollie the ram on his farm back in Connecticut, the horned cloven-hoofed animal that cast a long shadow of dread in his seven-year-old mind.His sister Holly demanded that he lead Ollie out to the pasture every day, little lion, she said, with a plaid shirt tied to her waist, shouldn't you be braver than a ram?Although the story ends with Leon being driven up a tree by a ram, it is instructive.

He restarted the car and drove to the border checkpoint.

By border checkpoint standards, this one was unremarkable, just a sentry post on a dirt road.Ahead of him was a farm truck carrying beef cattle, the huge herbivores staring at Leon, quietly chewing their cud.The convoy moved slowly, the trucks passed, the barricade moved and fell again.Leon wiped his hands on his trousers and took out his passport.The man who made these gadgets for them was a taciturn Texan. No one remembered his name and what his exact position was, but everyone called him "Coppersmith."The passport in Leon's hand was neither new nor old, and was well worn. A few customs stamps showed that the passport holder had visited the Czech Republic and Cuba.The soldier with the gun knocked on the car window, and Leon handed over the passport and the permit.

"Taylor Hope?"

"Yes."

"destination?"

"Belgrade."

"why?"

It's a philosophical question, Leon thought. "I'm a reporter and I'm going to report on a British children's choir visiting Yugoslavia."

"Come down," ordered the soldier, "and open the trunk."

He did so, walked around behind the dark green Citroen, and opened the trunk lid, which contained a spare tire and tools for changing the tire.The soldier handed his pass to an officer-looking man, who glanced at him and waved impatiently for him to pass.

After driving almost two kilometers, Leon felt his heartbeat returned to normal.

It was the last five hours of the drive to Belgrade, and if he didn't stop to rest, he'd be there before dark.The carpentry shop, he recalled over and over what the vice-consul had told him in the lead-paneled soundproof room, asking them for a box of screws, sixteen-inch boards, a wrench, in that order.The crow is there, give him the car, give him the second passport, do what he tells you to do, don't ask questions.

It's not hard at all, little lion, said the voice in his head that sounded a lot like Holly cheerfully, nothing to worry about.

-

The carpentry shop at Brigada Street 23 has been here for more than a decade, a gray cavern full of dust and sawdust, presumably because of rental pressure, and selling cigarettes and sweets.The overly brightly colored lemon drops in dirty wide-mouthed glass jars looked more like funeral objects.If one pushes open the low wooden door behind the counter and descends the long, throat-like stairs, a brick wall blocked by a stack of wooden boxes in the basement looks like any other, perhaps more worn-out.On the other side of the wall is a small room with a transmitter and other stuff that is enough to spend the rest of your life in Siberia, that is, if you haven't been secretly executed.

The proprietor, Mrs. Marquez, is a tough character: ask any punk on the street and every stray cat trying to steal it, and they'll testify to it.The widow is familiar with every carpentry tool and architectural drafting technique, and is more than happy to offer advice on modifying someone's life.

Mrs. Márquez didn't particularly like Sunday evenings. The weekend was over and no one wanted to go out, and if they did, they were half asleep and never came in to buy a good screwdriver.Normally, Mrs. Marquez would like to close on Sundays, but she can't because of her other customers.

Like this one who came in at a quarter past six.

"Good afternoon," she said.It was completely dark, and the street lights hadn't been turned on yet. I'm afraid it will snow in a few hours.

"Good afternoon." The young man replied in Russian, his accent was funny, like a wooden fence leaning neatly to one side, "I need a box of screws, a sixteen-inch board and a wrench."

"The boards are hard to find," said Mrs. Marquez. "Wait a minute."

She walked around the counter, put up a closed sign, and locked the door.The shopkeeper and the customer came down the stairs leading to the basement in tandem.Under the command of Mrs. Marquez, the young man moved away the musty wooden box, opened another lower door, and entered the small room illuminated by a lamp.

The Raven of Strasbourg stood up and surveyed the intruder, his beret half a knuckle missing the ceiling.For a few minutes the young man seemed speechless, and finally he put down his suitcase and cleared his throat.

"My name is Leon Christen, sir, and I'm from the consulate."

-

Anton wakes up when the train pulls into the station.

The snow had been falling for some time, and the platform was covered with a thin layer, which looked gray-blue in the light of the gas lamps.The whistle blew, and the train gave a final twitch and came to a complete stop.Anton moved his shoulders and put on his hat.

This was the last train of the day. After the passengers left one after another, the lights in the station hall were also turned off one by one.Late at night, Belgrade was as quiet as a grave. Anton Sokolov stopped at an empty street corner, lit a cigarette, and patted the snow that fell from his cuff.

In front of him to his right, the Sava River murmured in the darkness.