The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
I suppose it could be Turkish. Next time I could add a bit of sumac, and
perhaps—”
“Abe, sorry, but Priyenko’s got to walk soon. Can we trade recipes next
visit?”
Professor Jadid looked first upset, then shrugged affably. “I am sorry.
Most old men potter in a garden or on a golf course; I potter in the kitchen.
Please continue, Lyosha.”
“Yes, okay, so anyway, according to my brother, these prints of Ivanov’s
belong in Russia to a man named Ibragim Ikhmayev, an Ingushetian sentenced
to forty years’ hard labor for running a contraband-goods ring in
1985.”
“How curious,” said the professor. “In 1985? There was no process of
criminal review when the Soviet Union fell?”
Priyenko twisted his mouth, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged. “Criminals
were not the highest priority at that time. In a situation like this, I
suppose authorities would have said that stealing is stealing; there’s no
Communist stealing or free-market stealing. But I don’t know....”
“Don’t know about what?” I asked.
“Wait, and I will finish.” He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket.
“Ikhmayev ran an elaborate theft and resale ring. To visiting Western tourists,
he sold icons and Russian religious and historical artifacts. Most of them
probably false, of course—Westerners can never tell,” he said with a rueful
smile, looking down. “No offense intended, by the way. For Russians he
smuggled cars, Western clothes, pop music, and name-brand cigarettes in
from Scandinavia and West Germany.”
“That seems pretty small-time,” said Joe, leaning back from the table
and emitting a sustained and satisfied tubalike belch while opening his
second beer.
“Yes, I haven’t finished yet, though.” Priyenko paused to see that he was
holding everyone’s attention. He acknowledged that he was with an almost
imperceptible nod of satisfaction. “He also smuggled precious metals and
jewels from Central Asia into Russia.”
“Always jewels with these guys,” I said.
“Indeed,” agreed the professor, smiling enigmatically.
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