The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
nothing illegal, do you hear me?” He jabbed a finger into the young man’s
side: his petty official’s bullying manner returned when he spoke his own
language. “If you embarrass me in any way, I promise that your stay in the
workers’ paradise will be more work and less paradise than you can imagine.
I will visit your room tonight at ten-thirty, where I’ll expect to find you waiting
for me with another little gift.” The two men shook hands again. The
Englishman fell back in line and started chatting with a retired schoolteacher
from St. John’s Wood.
As the group turned the corner, they saw five silver airplane hangars in
front of them, from which spilled a busy and uncountable mass of people,
goods, colors, and smells. “Esteemed visitors, welcome please to Central
Market of Riga,” said the guide, accenting his words with little punches of
his red umbrella. “Here to find what souvenirs and gifts you need from Soviet
Union, remembering to give gifts to inspector of customs at the hotel for
checking. Meeting back here please at one-thirty for driving to hotel and
lunch.”
The Englishman waited for the retired schoolteacher to toddle off in the
direction of some carved Georgian wine horns, shook off the Tatar with a
well-placed elbow, and pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. Following the
paper’s directions, he walked past a knot of suspicious-looking Uzbek
pumpkin sellers, nearly ran into a clutch of Kyrgyz men in tall black-andwhite
telpeks chattering and sipping from bowls of tea, briefly paused before
an array of Dagestani daggers (all fake, all dull), and noticed a small wooden
door wedged between two stalls on the back wall. He paused to taste some
acacia honey—not only did the old seller’s eyes light up, but his beard seemed
to rise from his chest when the Englishman smiled—walked a short ways past
the honey stall, doubled back behind it, and slipped through the door.
in near darkness, around a round wooden table, sat two men. One was
dark-skinned and rough-looking, with vaguely Asiatic features, a menacing
expression, and a broad mustache that drooped downward at the corners of
his mouth. He glowered as the door opened, and he reached his right hand
under the table, never taking his eyes from the Englishman. Next to him sat a
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