The Holy Thief

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Korolev woke the next morning at the usual time, refreshed and with much of his old energy restored to him. The sky was still dark outside, but he didn’t immediately turn on the light. Instead he walked to the window-the alley was empty and, with a mixture of regret and relief, he felt the case becoming a memory. Gregorin had called the night before, thanked him for his efforts and wished him well, and that had been that. The colonel hadn’t asked him anything about the previous day’s report, or about Kolya, nor had he commented on Larinin’s mysterious death. It was as though Gregorin had lost all interest in the matter, which was a relief as Korolev was certain that the colonel would have smelled a rat the moment he’d opened his mouth. Now, as long as Gregorin maintained this lack of interest, Korolev could forget the whole thing, and particularly the icon.

It was deflating to walk away from an unsolved case, but, strangely, he found himself humming a tune as he began his morning exercises-perhaps he was not too disappointed after all.

The lane was beginning to see the first traffic of the day by the time he’d finished his final piece of stretching and was tying the laces on his battered but still sturdy summer shoes. He’d get another year out of them, with a bit of luck, and they were fine for wearing around the house-but he’d have to start asking around about a new pair soon enough. He hadn’t seen shoes in the ordinary shops for months, which didn’t mean there weren’t any-it just meant that finding a pair that was available and fitted him would take time and effort. As for leather boots to replace his felt ones? Well, perhaps he would have to ask the other Militiamen how to go about it. There was obviously a way, perhaps not entirely above board, and maybe he’d just have to swallow his pride if he wanted dry feet this winter.

It was a cause of some embarrassment to Korolev, later, that when Babel arrived to collect him, Valentina Nikolaevna should be in the middle of insisting on his wearing a scarf belonging to her dead husband, which Korolev didn’t consider necessary.

“Isaac Emmanuilovich,” she said, with no respect for Korolev’s dented pride, “keep an eye on poor Korolev today. I know what these football matches can be like. He’s to stay out of trouble, no fighting with factory workers. And he’s not to take off this scarf.”

“I can look after myself.” Korolev scowled at Babel, whose face was bright with suppressed mirth.

“Don’t worry yourself, Valentina Nikolaevna, it will be my pleasure to keep Comrade Korolev under the closest of observation.” Babel bowed in Korolev’s direction. “Would you like to take my arm on the way down the stairs, Comrade Korolev?”

“The Devil take you, I can manage myself. And take that damned smirk off your face, you rotten scribbler!”

“See, Valentina Nikolaevna, the injury has made him disgruntled, but I forgive him,” Babel said, the picture of indifferent innocence. “I shall see you downstairs, Alexei Dmitriyevich. Don’t forget the scarf.”

“Rat,” Korolev muttered as the door closed behind the writer. Valentina Nikolaevna raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Valentina Nikolaevna, I was rude. It’s just I think he was making presumptions.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could catch them and push them back in.

“Presumptions, is it?” She produced the word like a rapier from its sheath. Her imperious blue eyes looked at him in artful confusion and he felt the net close around him.

“Ah, to hell with this!” he growled, more to himself than her. “I’m destined to be provoked all day long I can see.”

He clumped to the door, insofar as anyone can clump in felt boots, and tugged the handle toward him, half-disappointed that it offered no resistance.

“Well, goodbye then, Valentina Nikolaevna,” he called behind him and did his best to ignore what sounded very much like laughter from the kitchen, where he’d left her.

Semionov was waiting for them outside and, after a brief discussion, they decided to walk. It was a sunny day with a bite to the air that was pleasant on the skin after the rain and snow of the preceding weeks. They proceeded at Babel ’s pace as he exchanged words with vagrants, kiosk vendors, street sweepers, ticket touts, as well as actresses and Party officials. Korolev took the opportunity offered by the writer’s distraction to ask Semionov about the works meeting.

“It went well. I myself took responsibility for my failure to observe anything untoward about former Party member Mendeleyev’s attitude and it was accepted that the lack of vigilance was a collective error.”

“But you hardly knew Knuckles.”

“So I ran no great risk,” Semionov acknowledged with a small smile. Korolev found his arm resting on the young man’s shoulder as they walked along, and it seemed quite natural. It occurred to him, however, that the relationship was not quite the paternal one he might have thought a few days before. Semionov was a handy lad; quite how he’d landed himself on the committee after only a few weeks was something of a mystery. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Of course, he looked the part with those clear blue eyes and his golden hair. But it was more than looks alone-the youngster was a solid fellow to have behind you in a scrap, for certain. In fact, it astonished him that Semionov had so little experience-he often carried himself like a man who’d been around the block once or twice at least.

When they finally arrived at the Metropol, Korolev was reassured to discover that it had lost none of its opulence over the previous few days. It occurred to him that foreigners must be equally impressed with this living embodiment of the great socialist dream. And it was open to everyone, unlike in the capitalist countries, where some lackey with a whip would no doubt send an ordinary man like him packing with a bloody stripe across his back for a souvenir. He turned with proprietorial pleasure to observe the reactions of Semionov and Babel, but was disappointed. The writer seemed uninterested in his surroundings, tapping a cigarette against an open enamel case and looking less animated than he had all morning. Semionov at least had the courtesy to look interested in the swimmers in the pool, but Korolev suspected that was for carnal rather than aesthetic reasons. Babel he could understand-the writer visited Paris every other month by the sound if it-but Semionov was yet again a surprise. Perhaps he’d been here before, with his Hercegovina Flor-smoking girlfriend.

Schwartz was sitting in the restaurant, perusing Izvestia with an expression that suggested he was reading it for amusement rather than political education. He rose as Korolev approached, looking slightly guilty and putting the paper behind him.

“Comrade Captain, good to see you. It looks like a great day for a sporting event.” He’d dressed down for the occasion; wearing a black jumper under a short blue overcoat with a turned-up collar, but the gray trousers were so precisely cut they looked as though they belonged in a museum of tailoring. What the Spartak fans would make of a crease like that could only be imagined. Schwartz pointed at a peaked cap on the table.

“I even got myself a hat. Think I’ll fit in?”

Korolev looked at the hat, wondering where he’d managed to buy it. One of the currency stores, no doubt.

“That’s a fine hat. Practical. You’ll need it-it’s brisk enough outside.”

Korolev didn’t feel he should add that he also thought the hat would look very well on his own head. Schwartz smiled in acknowledgment, then lowered his voice and leaned forward, his face serious.

“And the case? Any progress?”

“I’m no longer working on it,” Korolev said, indicating his bandaged forehead. “I had to take a few days off, so they transferred it to someone else. I’ve some good news for you, though. We identified the victim and it wasn’t your friend. Of course, if she contacts you, let me know-she might have some useful information.” But he could hear no conviction in his voice. After all, if the Chekists got their hands on an American nun traipsing round Moscow on a false passport, her original Intourist trip would be extended by a long visit to Siberia. Then something else struck him-Schwartz showed no relief or surprise at the news. He merely nodded in gratitude for the information. Did he not care about his friend from the train any more?

“If she does get in touch I’ll certainly advise her to contact you.” Schwartz said, with the careful intonation of a diplomat. “By the way, our previous conversation?”

“Remains between the two of us, of course,” Korolev answered, surprised how easily the lie slipped off his tongue. A thought occurred to Korolev, and he looked around to see whether Babel and Semionov were within listening distance. “In fact, I would like to extend that conversation if you don’t mind-now that I know which icon we’re dealing with.”

Schwartz seemed to consider how to respond. Again he didn’t look surprised, merely mildly perturbed. “I thought you were off the case?”

“For the moment, yes, but on Monday I will probably return to duty.” Well, who knew what Monday would bring? “A few minutes of your time is all I ask.”

Korolev was sure from Schwartz’s reaction that he’d already known the dead nun wasn’t his friend, Nancy Dolan. Now how could that be? He couldn’t press the matter because of the American’s importance to the State’s finances, but it seemed clear it was his duty to see if the American would tell him anything useful about the icon. He was sure the General would understand-well, almost sure.

“I don’t see why not,” Schwartz said, after he’d considered the proposal for another lengthy moment, “provided we keep to the same terms as before.”

“Agreed.”

They turned to watch Semionov and Babel looking with salacious smiles into the swimming pool, from which sixteen legs, slick with water and with red-painted toenails, pointed up at the huge central chandelier. The mysterious limbs looked, for a moment, as though they should be hanging from hooks in an abattoir.

“After the game?” Schwartz asked.

Babel looked toward them, indicating his watch. Korolev nodded to Schwartz.

“After the game will be fine,” he agreed.

“I’ve never traveled on a tram before,” Schwartz said, as they walked out onto Teatralnaya Square. “Not in Moscow, anyway.”

“That may not change today,” Babel said, looking at a passing red and white tram that seemed in danger of exploding outward from the press of people inside. Young men hung from the door handles, their feet wedged onto the running plates and their Spartak scarves mimicking the huge red flags that fluttered from either side as it charged past the crowd waiting at the stop across the street.

“The bandit isn’t even stopping!” Semionov said, echoing the rest of the queue, who were cursing the driver and waving clenched fists at the conductress, who shrugged her shoulders helplessly in response.

“Should we walk?” Schwartz asked, apparently nervous at the idea of risking his life by hanging onto the outside of a hurtling tram. Others had already started to look around for alternative means of transportation, and Korolev was on the point of suggesting they join them when another tram approached. Like the first it was bedecked with banners and slogans celebrating the imminent anniversary of the October Revolution, but it also looked as though it might stop.

“Order, Citizens, order!” shouted the conductor in vain as people surged forward. Korolev decided it was every man for himself and pushed and pulled his way on, conscious that Schwartz was right behind him, and together they managed to squeeze their way into the muggy traveling compartment. Korolev found himself pressed up against a window facing Semionov on the other side of the glass, the youngster’s knuckles white around a chrome handle on the side of the tram.

“It looks like Vanya is taking the scenic route,” Schwartz said. “Not a bad idea,” he added, trying to turn away from the armpit of an inebriated soldier with his hand stretched up to the roof for balance. Babel wormed his way through to join them and then the tram groaned forward, the passengers breaking into good-natured chatter.

They rumbled onward in the direction of the stadium, cheering when the tram driver narrowly missed separating a green bread van from the two tired horses pulling it, singing songs and loudly discussing the merits of the various players. The mood was one of excitement, although Korolev knew things could change quite suddenly, particularly at a game like this, where the newly constituted Union-wide league could be decided in Spartak’s favor. Sure enough, when they arrived at the ground, several scrappy fights were already under way between rival supporters. Chants of “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!” from the Spartak fans, were answered with equally loud shouts of “RED ARMY, RED ARMY, RED ARMY!” Mounted Militiamen patrolled the area in pairs, occasionally inserting themselves between opposing groups. In all the excitement, getting off the tram was nearly as hard as getting on it.

“Why do they chant ‘Meat?’ ” Schwartz asked.

“The Spartak sponsor is Promkooperatsya, the food workers’ union. So the fans chant, ‘Who are we? We are the Meat.’ It’s a good thing.”

“But sometimes the opposing fans call them ‘the Pigs,’ ” Babel added.

“Only if they are uncultured hooligans. And who are you supporting today, Isaac Emmanuilovich?”

“Why Central House of the Red Army, of course. As an ex-Red Cavalryman it’s my duty.”

“I was a soldier too once, but I was from the Presnaya long before that,” Korolev said, feeling slightly offended.

“Even pigs can choose to leave their sty,” Babel replied with an innocent smile.

Korolev was about to respond in kind when he saw a group of determined-looking young men arrange themselves in front of the gates, each holding onto the belt of the man in front with one hand, with the two biggest and hardest-looking in the front.

“Jack, we should wait for a couple of moments now.”

“Yes,” Babel agreed. “The train is about to leave the station.”

Schwartz looked at the crowd and smiled. “They’re going to crash the barriers?”

“Yes, it’s called ‘the steam engine.’ Ah, the ticket collectors have spotted them.”

But the ticket collectors were too late to marshal an effective defense and the snake of men charged forward, kicking and punching, knocking bystanders and defenders out of their path and, in the case of one, trampling him underfoot. The chain remained unbroken until two of the collectors and a Militiaman, furious and blood-smeared, grabbed the last of them by an arm and detached him from his colleagues. Their triumph was short-lived, however, as the captured gate-crasher’s fellows gathered themselves into a tight wedge and returned to the fray, snatching the captive back and leaving one of the ticket collectors sitting on the ground spitting blood into his hand. The crowd waiting outside cheered and the youths raised their arms in triumph before retreating in the face of approaching Militia reinforcements. Then the crowd cheered once again as a darting rabble of wild-haired street children launched themselves at the same place, squirming and diving around the distracted ticket collectors’ legs. A tiny girl was caught by the hair and flung back through the gates, where she landed in a crumpled heap. The crowd growled and stepped forward in unison, eyes fixed on the perpetrator, a Militiaman with the build of a wrestler and a face like a squashed cabbage. Korolev took Schwartz’s arm.

“Perhaps we’ll try another gate,” he said, as the first brick clanged off the metal fence and, with a roar, the crowd charged. The last thing they saw of the Militiaman was his panicked face just before it disappeared in a tumble of flat caps and flying fists. The other uniforms would have their work cut out to keep the fellow out of the morgue, Korolev thought to himself without much sympathy, as men ran from all directions to join in the mayhem.

“They seem fond of children,” Schwartz said.

“Fonder, I think, of the opportunity to put a Militiaman in hospital,” Babel replied. That was true, Korolev thought. In fact, they’d probably run straight over the girl to get at him. He recalled a splash of red hair in among the scrabbling rush of children and wondered if it had been Kim Goldstein’s gang of ragamuffins charging the gates.

Korolev was relieved when they arrived safely in the relative calm of the south stand. He couldn’t imagine, after all, that the general would forgive him, let alone Gregorin, if he managed to get Schwartz caught up in a football riot. They sat down on the concrete benches and watched players kicking the ball back and forth and occasionally test the goalkeepers. The Spartak players were at one end of the field in red shirts with a thick white hoop around the chest, while at the other were the Army players, wearing blue shirts and red shorts. The Army players looked big.

“They’ll give our lads a good battering, if I’m not much mistaken. I hope Alexei Starostin has put on an extra pair of socks.”

A middle-aged man walking along the bank of seats immediately beneath them looked up and then stood for a long moment with an expression of astonishment. He wore no color to indicate his team preference and Korolev was confused as to how he might have offended him. He pointed at the largest of the Red Army players.

“Come on, brother. You don’t think the horse-washers brought along a lump like him for his footballing skills, do you?”

The man nodded in acknowledgment, but still looked shaken. There wasn’t much to the fellow, Korolev thought, probably a clerk in a factory or a minor bureaucrat, but there was some strength to his face once you looked at it a second time. He sat down in front of them alongside a young boy, about ten years old. The clerk began to point out the players to the lad, reading their names from the program. His voice sounded constricted and the boy looked up at him with a question in his eyes, but the clerk didn’t stop reciting the names. Korolev turned to Babel and shrugged his shoulders. It was an unusual reaction from a stranger, but perhaps the bandage on his head made Korolev look like a hooligan. Babel examined the clerk as though trying to place him, but shook his head after a brief pause. Then, as if to change the subject, the writer produced a silver flask of brandy and they drank to a fair game-Schwartz joining in with enthusiasm.

By now the stands were crammed and, as if on a signal, the crowd rose as one and Korolev said farewell to his seat and joined in the cheer as the whistle blew for the game to start and Spartak passed the ball out wide.

It was a hard-fought first half. As Korolev had predicted, the Army defenders gave no quarter in the tackle, but then nor did Spartak when it was their turn. The game ebbed and flowed with Spartak appearing to dominate, until just before half-time when a well-placed cross allowed a tall Army player to head the ball into the back of the Spartak net. The Spartak supporters roared with anger while the Army fans in the north terraces cheered themselves hoarse. Spartak charged downfield, but they had nothing to show for their efforts by the time the first half finished, and the Spartak supporters muttered darkly about Army transgressions and a weak referee.

Korolev looked at the crowd packed in like logs in a woodpile and volunteered reluctantly to make his way to the buffet for some meat pies. The American should have the real Moscow sporting experience, and in Korolev’s view that meant meat pies-but he regretted his decision as soon as he descended beneath the stands. The room where the buffet was located stank of unwashed bodies, urine and stale papirosa tobacco, and the second half had started by the time he managed to get to the front of the queue. Then on his way back the small red-haired figure he’d seen earlier appeared beside him. Kim Goldstein gestured for Korolev to follow and he did, conscious of other children moving in the same direction through the crowd. Not more than a minute later they stood in a quiet spot behind the stands where the boy held out his hand.

“Ten roubles,” he said, determination hardening his jaw.

“Ten roubles. What have you got for me that’s worth ten roubles?”

“We found the woman you’re looking for, Comrade Investigator.”

Korolev looked around at the other children. The young girl he’d seen thrown through the air was with them, a streak of blood running down her neck and her eyes red-rimmed. He nodded to her as he tried to digest what Goldstein had told him. Again, surely it was his duty to establish where this Nancy Dolan was? Case or no case.

“Where is she?”

“Arbat. Ten roubles you said. We’ll take you there after the game.”

“All right.” Korolev nodded. “Here’s five on account. I need to take a foreigner back to his hotel, but I’ll meet you there with the rest of the money. Do you know Prague cinema?”

“Of course. We know it well.” The children shared a smile and Korolev guessed they’d found a way to slip in the back.

“Six o’clock then,” Korolev said, Counting out five notes. “Will you be there?”

“At your command, Comrade Investigator,” Goldstein said, giving him an ironic salute.

Korolev was wondering how he would ever make it back to his seat when the press of people in front of him reduced so suddenly he almost fell over. The explanation was out on the pitch, where hundreds of spectators had broken through the cordon of stewards and were spreading across the green of the grass like a muddy tide. The players moved to the central circle, where they stood around the referee as if to protect him. The crowd, however, was not hostile and it seemed the stands had simply reached capacity and were overflowing onto the pitch.

When Korolev reached the others he found Babel standing on his seat to get a better view as a line of mounted Militia began to push the crowds back to the touchlines. One of the Militia horses was completely white and Korolev found himself following its slow and patient progress along the length of the football field, as the dark-clothed crowd gradually retreated to mark out its edges.

“Will they be able to finish the game?” Schwartz asked, squinting into the afternoon sun that now cast long shadows across the pitch.

“I think so. It just needs a little patience from the Ments-sorry, Alexei Dmitriyevich, I meant the Militia. At least they’re being comradely about it. See-they have most of them on the sidelines now.”

The crowd began to clap for the Militia, which was so unusual that Korolev and Semionov exchanged a glance.

“Nicely done,” Schwartz said, joining in the applause. As if on cue, the announcer began requesting the crowd’s cooperation in a friendly voice and a wave of good humor spread around the stands, extending even to the players, who began to shake hands with each other. Korolev handed round the pies and pretended he didn’t see Schwartz’s expression of surprise.

“See, Jack, it’s the Soviet way. Play hard, but always in the proper spirit.” Korolev said, wondering if perhaps the man had never seen a meat pie before. Then there was more applause as the spectators on the touchline linked arms to provide an unbroken human barrier around the playing area. Korolev felt his chest fill with pride and he turned to beam at his friends.

Play began again with a sustained Spartak attack that yielded a goal to Alexei Starostin. The crowd surged again and the Army goal collapsed sideways, leading to another delay as ground staff pushed the upright back into place. Korolev could see the referee discussing the situation with the captains and the coaching staff in the center of the pitch and he could imagine what was going through their minds. The crowd was well behaved enough for the moment, but if the game was canceled the mood would more than likely turn ugly. Even he could feel anger welling up inside at the thought that Spartak might have to wait until a rematch to win the league. But after another flurry of handshakes the game was on once again with the Spartak players returning to the attack. The volume of cheering rose higher and higher as the crowd willed them on and, when the goal came, it was as if the crowd, rather than any one player, propelled the ball into the corner of the net. The Spartak fans embraced each other, stamping their feet and chanting, “MEAT, MEAT, MEAT.” The clerk’s son threw his cap in the air and his father searched desperately for it on the ground. Korolev retrieved it from the row behind him, but when he touched the clerk’s shoulder the man whipped round as if he’d been hit, before blushing bright red when he saw the cap in Korolev’s hands.

“Thank you, brother,” the man said, his eyes sliding away. Korolev, delighted with the goal, ruffled the boy’s hair.

“My pleasure. One more to be sure, eh? Best keep this in your pocket in the meantime, youngster. It’ll be a long winter with no hat.”

“Yes,” the man replied with a half-hearted smile. “One more for safety.”

Just before full-time, the wished-for third goal came and, to the absolute delight of the Spartak supporters and the rueful acknowledgment of the Army fans, the game was won. The referee allowed another minute of play but with red and white waving all along the touchline, and the thinly stretched Militiamen looking more and more nervous, he blew the whistle and the second pitch invasion of the day took place, far rowdier and more joyful than the first, with the white hoops of the Spartak players visible above the crowd as they were borne around the field.

As they walked away from the stadium, Korolev considered how best to approach the new information Goldstein had given him. The logical thing to do, of course, would be to get hold of Paunichev and let him deal with it, but that would mean disobeying the general’s orders, as he would have to explain to Paunichev who Nancy Dolan was, and how she was relevant to the case. He could haul Semionov along with him, but it was too dangerous to involve the youngster. Or Babel for that matter. And he didn’t even consider calling Gregorin. There, Korolev thought to himself, Kolya had his answer. His loyalty to the State was not, it seemed, absolute. He could always go to Arbat on his own. Hopefully, a quick look at the situation would tell him whether it was worth involving anyone else and, with luck, who that person might be. After all, Arbat was a safe area; he couldn’t imagine anything happening there that he couldn’t handle. Then he thought over the last few days and reconsidered. Maybe he would call Yasimov. He lived nearby.

“So,” Schwartz said, interrupting Korolev’s deliberations, “would you men like to come back to the Metropol for a celebratory drink? So I can say a comradely thank you for an authentic Soviet experience in such excellent company?”

“If you put it like that, it’s impossible to say no,” Babel said cheerfully.

“I agree, Comrade Babel. We are honor bound to accept.” Semionov’s open smile was contagious and so, at Schwartz’s insistence, they hailed a taxi and headed back to the center of town. It wasn’t long before they took their seats at the Metropol bar and watched a white-jacketed barman pour beer from a silver tap into improbably tall glasses. Behind them a jazz band was tuning up for the evening’s performance. Semionov nodded over to them.

“They’re not bad these guys, they’re Utyosov’s players, although the man himself refuses to perform in hotels. A real artist, you see-theaters only for him.”

Semionov caught the eye of one of the band and raised a hand in greeting. The musician gave him a quick grin in response and Semionov excused himself to go and talk to his acquaintance.

Korolev looked around the bar. Babel had wandered off to find a toilet and they were alone.

“So Jack, is it true? About the icon? That it’s the original Kazanskaya?” He spoke in a low voice, too low for any microphone to pick up with the band playing in the background.

“Possibly,” Schwartz said, after a moment’s consideration. “I won’t know anything until I see it, and even then I’ll probably only be able to date it, more or less. And, hopefully, say where it might have been painted. The quality will be the crucial thing. You’ve got to understand it’s been copied since the very beginning, millions of times. But if the quality is there, and I can date it back far enough-then I’ll know there’s a good chance it’s what they say it is.”

“So you still haven’t seen it,” Korolev said, and Schwartz gave him an inquiring look, as if guessing why Korolev had asked the question. Korolev tried to keep his face blank.

“Come on Alexei Dmitriyevich, fair’s fair. What’s going on?”

Korolev shrugged; he was in enough trouble that a little indiscretion like this wouldn’t make any difference. And he would be interested to see Schwartz’s reaction.

“I understand the icon has gone missing again.”

Schwartz looked puzzled and then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket.

“Well, I have a viewing tomorrow. Their representative called while we were out.” There was something in the way that Schwartz used the word “representative” and his puzzlement that caught Korolev’s interest.

“Isn’t he one of your usual contacts?”

Schwartz opened his mouth to respond and then stopped, considering the question.

“No,” he said, after a brief pause. “Not one of my usual contacts, but he’s a full staff colonel in the NKVD. I normally deal with more junior ranks. But this is beyond the limits of their authorization, which is understandable.”

“A staff colonel?” Korolev repeated, a thought occurring to him. He tried to stop himself saying the name, but it seemed to come out of his mouth of its own volition. “Gregorin? Staff Colonel Gregorin?”

“You know him?”

“I’ve come across him. A very capable fellow,” Korolev managed to say.

“He seems that,” Schwartz went on. “He drives a hard bargain, that’s for sure.”

“What kind of hard bargain?”

“One million dollars, cash.”

“What’s that in roubles?” Korolev asked and Schwartz laughed.

“A lot. An awful, awful lot.”