Ilya Simonov looked from the guards to the plainclothes man and back, in
frustration. Finally he spun on his heel again and re-entered the car. He
slapped the elevation lever, twisted the wheel sharply, hit the jets pedal
with his foot and shot into the traffic.
The plainclothes man looked after him and muttered to the guards,
"Blagonravov's hatchetman. He's killed more men than the plague. A bad one
to have down on you."
Simonov bowled down the Kaluga at excessive speed. "Driving like a young
_stilyagi_," he growled in irritation at himself. But, confound it, how
far had things gone when subversive leaflets were placed in cars parked in
front of the ministry devoted to combating counter revolution.
* * * * *
He'd been away from Moscow for over a month and the amenities in the smog,
smoke and coke fumes blanketing industrial complex of Magnitogorsk hadn't
been particularly of the best. Ilya Simonov headed now for Gorki Street
and the Baku Restaurant. He had an idea that it was going to be some time
before the opportunity would be repeated for him to sit down to Zakouski,
the salty, spicy Russian hors d'oeuvres, and to Siberian pilmeny and a
bottle of Tsinandali.
The restaurant, as usual, was packed. In irritation, Ilya Simonov stood
for a while waiting for a table, then, taking the head waiter's advice,
agreed to share one with a stranger.
The stranger, a bearded little man, who was dwaddling over his Gurievskaya
kasha dessert while reading _Izvestia_, glanced up at him, unseemingly,
bobbed his head at Simonov's request to share his table, and returned to
the newspaper.
The harried waiter took his time in turning up with a menu. Ilya Simonov
attempted to relax. He had no particular reason to be upset by the leaflet
found in his car. Obviously, whoever had thrown it there was distributing
haphazardly. The fact that it was mimeographed, rather than printed, was
an indication of lack of resources, an amateur affair. But what in the
world did these people want? What did they want?
The Soviet State was turning out consumer's goods, homes, cars as no
nation in the world. Vacations were lengthy, working hours short. A
four-day week, even! What did they _want_? What motivates a man who is
living on a scale unknown to a Czarist boyar to risk his position, even
his life! in a stupidly impossible revolt against the country's
government?
The man across from him snorted in contempt.
He looked over the top of his paper at Smirnov and said, "The election in
Italy. Ridiculous!"
Ilya Simonov brought his mind back to the present. "How did they turn out?
I understand the depression is terrible there."
"So I understand," the other said. "The vote turned out as was to be
expected."