The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

this sending of mysterious regards to my matinka (but I’ll make sure to ask Mom what his deal is, if, of course, she remembers him), all this drawn-out hanging on, and five minutes of utter bullshit—all just to get an autograph that’s given to anyone free, just for the asking?
    Either I’m missing something or this customer’s really a little off his rocker. Not an iguana, maybe, but a different form of life for sure—the kind you have to study purposefully or you’ll never figure out what’s going on in its head.
    “Call,” he says, by way of parting, putting his precious notebook back inside the pocket of his frock, “if you need anything.”
    As if it were I who’d been the petitioner, and it is now I who’ll be extended the privilege, as one of “their” people—of the private, backdoor access, far from the hassle of the public entrance, whenever I call, as is only right and proper among “our” people. It’s like he doesn’t even see Aidy anymore, doesn’t look once in his direction—as if Aidy hadn’t been here, and his name’s not on the list, and his relatives don’t merit to be sent any regards (like, for example, Dovgan Olena Ambroziivna, year of birth—1920, year of death—1947, place of death—unknown).
    “Your friend...” (a blitz pause, a double take, a quick stab of eyes: How much of a “friend” is Aidy to me really?) “has my office number. Call anytime.”
    I just didn’t know any better and like an idiot sent Aidy down the straight and narrow honest path, through the turnstiles and security checks up front—could’ve saved us all a world of trouble just by using my national name, and not for official business at all, imagine that! Who’d have thought that
Diogenes’ Lantern
would turn out to be Security Bureau employees’ favorite show? Or, rather, the favorite show of Veronika Boozerova (poor kid, she must’ve gone through hell in school with a name like that!)—a Conservatory student and a future musicologist. Wow. I gotta admit sometimes it is useful to work in television; it has its perks, not just irks.
    Nonetheless, we shall do just fine without any handshaking (judging by his momentary hesitation, the idea did occur to Pavlo Ivanovych). His hands, surprisingly, are not plump and stubby-fingered, but quite cultured, intelligentsia hands, but still—they must sweat. And no matter how stiff and upright he stands, his body is plain unmanly—everything sort of slipping down into the hips, pear-like. Can’t find a suit coat that could hide his butt—it is too well padded, and sticks out. A woman’s butt. I must be having an expressive-butt day.
    Finally, we’re alone. A few more steps toward the Golden Gates (without speaking, we both head for the café next to the fountain)—and Aidy hooks his arm around my neck and lets it ride there, heavy like a small hungry animal with a mind to dart, nip below, and just as instinctively, I hug his torso, fall into step with him, let my side gnaw into his, and feel his warmth: the law of communicating vessels, as he says. And if Pavlo Ivanovych Boozerov is compelled by the incorrigible habits of his trade to watch us from around the corner (or whatever it was Shtirlitz always did), that’s his own problem. Let him go choke on his chops.
    “He, when he saw you, couldn’t get his pants down fast enough!” Aidy laughs. “You should’ve heard him in his office, before he signed my request: Who are you, and where from, and what for, and who’s she to you, and where did you get this information—a proper interrogation. By the end of it I began to seem suspicious to myself...and then—what a change!”
    “Behold the power of a father’s love.”
    “And Lolly’s popularity, let’s not forget that!”
    “Yeah, especially among the SB types. By the time I go on air, he’s out like a log, I promise you—I’ve no doubt he goes to bed right after the news. A fan—please!”
    “All the same, Lolly...you’re a TV star, a celebrity, and that pulls some weight—you can’t deny it. He must’ve had to make up that whole send regards to Olga Fedorivna thing right on the fly, just to rub elbows with you.”
    “You think?”
    “Bet my life on it. Anything to show that he’s not some pencil pusher, a no-name mutt. You’ll see; call your mom—I bet Olga Fedorivna will be very surprised.”
    “Boozerov—how would you like that for a last name?”
    “I almost lost it when he introduced himself. Took all