As I've got older, novels and plays have become more important to me for some reason. So, just to remind myself of what I've read, or might want to reread, here is a list, as far as I can recall, of the fiction that I've perused over the past five years or so.
Novels and short stories
The Leopard, Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
The Yacubian Building, Alaa Al-Aswany
A Room with a View, Forster
Barry Lyndon, Thackery
Vanity Fair, Thackery
The Power and the Glory, Greene
Brighton Rock, Graham Greene
The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoyevsky
Candide, Voltaire
Cider with Rosie, Laurie Lee
Don Quixote, Cervantes
Down and Out in Paris and London, Orwell
Homage to Catalonia, Orwell
Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte
Emma, Jane Austen
Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
Mansfield Park, Austen
To The Lighthouse, Wolfe
Mrs Dalloway, Wolfe
Farewell Gulsary, Aitmatov
Jamila, Aitmatov
Fiesta, Hemmingway
The Old Man and the Sea, Hemmingway
Hemmingway’s short stories
If This Is A Man, Primo Levi
Life and Fate, Vassily Grossman
Robinson Cruesoe, Defoe
Swann’s Way, Proust
The 42nd Parallel, Dos Passos
The Hobbit, Tolkien
The Foundation Pit, Platonov
The Inheritors, Golding
The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco
The Return of the Native, Hardy
The Trial, Kafka
The Rainbow, Lawrence
Selected Tales, Lawrence
War and Peace, Tolstoy
Yellow Dog, Amis
Shikasta, Doris Lessing
Blade Runner, Dick
Time Out of Joint, Dick
The Lady with a Dog and other stories, Chekhov
The Steppe, Chekhov
The Dual, Chekhov
The Cherry Orchard, Chekhov
Shakespeare
Anthony and Cleopatra
Richard II
Julius Caesar
Macbeth
The Merchant of Venice
Hamlet
Detective and crime stories
The Woman in White, Collins
The Big Sleep, Raymond Chandler
The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes, Conan Doyle
Wysteria House, Conan Doyle
The red-headed league, Conan Doyle
The Hound of the Baskevilles, Conan Doyle
White Queen, Boris Akunin
Leviathan, Boris Akunin
The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown
Tishomingo Blues, Elmore Loenard
Get Shorty, Elmore Leonard
The Silver Pigs, Lindsey Davis
Three Hands in the Fountain, Lindsey Davis
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Blind justice
Chapter 11
Tram No.40 clattered slowly along Partisan Street. Outside the Palace of Justice, a life-sized cut-out of Femida, dispassionate goddess of law, was propped up against a wall like an advertising board. Heavily made-up, she had brass scales in one hand and a broad sword in the other, her eyes blindfolded.
There'd been news about Vazgen. A contact in records had traced his girlfriend to a block of flats on Karl Liebknecht Street, just over the railway track, so perhaps he was still in town. Osip had asked for a squad car to pick him up in, but Bobrovski had refused. The girlfriend, it turned out, had worked in Mila’s salon, though Osip couldn't remember whether he'd seen her there or not.
Arkady was to meet him at the Italian cemetery, and they'd take his car from there—it was safer to arrive together, in case Vazgen put up a fight. The investigator scanned the courtyard beside the tram stop for his promised back-up team, but there was no one about. He decided to carry on to the terminus anyway.
In the municipal park, the grass was sparse and wizened, the ground baked hard by a brazen sun. Maybe the captain was right: this wasn’t his job. What had got into him? Osip loosened his tie and wiped the sweat from his hairline, and his jaws clamped together involuntarily, pulsing the muscles in his cheek. Winding around the terminus, which was looped like a lasso, the tram came to a stop and its doors squeaked open. In the shadows of a narrow side alley, between a breeze-block shelter and the huge, pale-green cinema, Arkady was puffing a cigarette, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The cinema, themed like a roman temple, now mostly showed soft-porn, shoddy horrors, Bollywood imports. Someone had graffitied glasses and an imperial beard to the face of a girl in a mini-skirt looking saucily back over her shoulder out of a tatty poster on the wall, a few wisps of pubic hair along the knickerline. Emerging into sunlight, Arkasha shielded his eyes. The two men stopped on the patchy tarmac and bear-hugged. Since the incident at his flat three days before, Arkasha’s appearance was transformed, his face re-energised, again uncannily youthful, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"And your people, where are they?" asked Arkady.
"Just us, I’m afraid," said Osip. “Where’s your car?”
"No car," said Arkady, giggling nervously. From an inside jacket pocket, the sleeves of which he’d rolled up to the elbows because of the heat, Arkasha pulled out a hefty steel spanner and said: “I brought this, though.”
By the time they reached the footbridge over the bunched tangle of railway tracks up to a coking plant, Arkady had again withdrawn into the privacy of a cigarette. In silence they ascended the wooden stairs, and Osip considered briefly what it was like to be Shapiro, forever making unpalatable compromises with men like Kulyeba, whose gift was simply that they lacked the capacity to be ashamed; scurrying this way and that through the cracks in life’s skirting boards, past traps, like a rat. Kulyeba had “eased” Shapiro out of the steel plant after he’d fronted it for him as a favour, and at some personal risk. He’d probably made some money, though, and at least he’d survived. Others hadn’t been so lucky (two metals traders who’d tried to set up on their own had been shot). Yet Arkady retained a likeable lightness, almost an innocence, that was hard to define.
Tram No.40 clattered slowly along Partisan Street. Outside the Palace of Justice, a life-sized cut-out of Femida, dispassionate goddess of law, was propped up against a wall like an advertising board. Heavily made-up, she had brass scales in one hand and a broad sword in the other, her eyes blindfolded.
There'd been news about Vazgen. A contact in records had traced his girlfriend to a block of flats on Karl Liebknecht Street, just over the railway track, so perhaps he was still in town. Osip had asked for a squad car to pick him up in, but Bobrovski had refused. The girlfriend, it turned out, had worked in Mila’s salon, though Osip couldn't remember whether he'd seen her there or not.
Arkady was to meet him at the Italian cemetery, and they'd take his car from there—it was safer to arrive together, in case Vazgen put up a fight. The investigator scanned the courtyard beside the tram stop for his promised back-up team, but there was no one about. He decided to carry on to the terminus anyway.
In the municipal park, the grass was sparse and wizened, the ground baked hard by a brazen sun. Maybe the captain was right: this wasn’t his job. What had got into him? Osip loosened his tie and wiped the sweat from his hairline, and his jaws clamped together involuntarily, pulsing the muscles in his cheek. Winding around the terminus, which was looped like a lasso, the tram came to a stop and its doors squeaked open. In the shadows of a narrow side alley, between a breeze-block shelter and the huge, pale-green cinema, Arkady was puffing a cigarette, shifting his weight from one foot to another. The cinema, themed like a roman temple, now mostly showed soft-porn, shoddy horrors, Bollywood imports. Someone had graffitied glasses and an imperial beard to the face of a girl in a mini-skirt looking saucily back over her shoulder out of a tatty poster on the wall, a few wisps of pubic hair along the knickerline. Emerging into sunlight, Arkasha shielded his eyes. The two men stopped on the patchy tarmac and bear-hugged. Since the incident at his flat three days before, Arkasha’s appearance was transformed, his face re-energised, again uncannily youthful, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
"And your people, where are they?" asked Arkady.
"Just us, I’m afraid," said Osip. “Where’s your car?”
"No car," said Arkady, giggling nervously. From an inside jacket pocket, the sleeves of which he’d rolled up to the elbows because of the heat, Arkasha pulled out a hefty steel spanner and said: “I brought this, though.”
By the time they reached the footbridge over the bunched tangle of railway tracks up to a coking plant, Arkady had again withdrawn into the privacy of a cigarette. In silence they ascended the wooden stairs, and Osip considered briefly what it was like to be Shapiro, forever making unpalatable compromises with men like Kulyeba, whose gift was simply that they lacked the capacity to be ashamed; scurrying this way and that through the cracks in life’s skirting boards, past traps, like a rat. Kulyeba had “eased” Shapiro out of the steel plant after he’d fronted it for him as a favour, and at some personal risk. He’d probably made some money, though, and at least he’d survived. Others hadn’t been so lucky (two metals traders who’d tried to set up on their own had been shot). Yet Arkady retained a likeable lightness, almost an innocence, that was hard to define.
Down on the track, through the bridge’s iron safety grills, Galkin could see a gang of railway workers, berry brown and stripped to the waist, resetting short sections of rail in the blistering heat. Involuntarily, he rubbed the prominent scar on the right side of his forehead where a suspect has once caught him with a broken bottle.
On the opposite platform, the two men trudged towards a gravel path that ran parallel to a pockmarked road, back in the direction they'd come from, their earlier buoyant spirits now seeming to evaporate through the pores of their skin. What were they doing there? And what the hell were they going to do when they arrived at Vazgen’s hotel? He imagined taking Vazgen by surprise in a body tackle, a sharp twinge of anxiety assailed the officer: he'd like to avoid violence, if he could, but perhaps it wasn't possible.
On the opposite platform, the two men trudged towards a gravel path that ran parallel to a pockmarked road, back in the direction they'd come from, their earlier buoyant spirits now seeming to evaporate through the pores of their skin. What were they doing there? And what the hell were they going to do when they arrived at Vazgen’s hotel? He imagined taking Vazgen by surprise in a body tackle, a sharp twinge of anxiety assailed the officer: he'd like to avoid violence, if he could, but perhaps it wasn't possible.
The girlfriend’s apartment block was at the far end of Karl Liebknecht Street. A short distance from the entrance, the two men came to a halt. Osip looked the tall building up and down, as if to assess the size of the task ahead. The building was 12 stories high and ultra-slim, like the component on a circuit-board. On its roof, ringed by a simple balustrade, was what looked like some large-scale communications equipment. By the dusty steps’ entrance, emaciated birch trees stood guard, stooping like so many bony Don Quixotes, lances raised. Osip's consciousness quivered, itching for a smoke, and Arkady shifted from foot to foot. Absorption in the task ahead deadened an awareness of the surrounding urban noise.
“Wait by the double doors,” said the investigator. “If you hear shooting, make yourself scarce. But if he runs out, see if you can’t trip him up.”
“Wait by the double doors,” said the investigator. “If you hear shooting, make yourself scarce. But if he runs out, see if you can’t trip him up.”
He waited in a chilly hallway which had walls the colour of eggshell as the narrow lift descended with the sound of nails scraping down a blackboard; at ground level, its dented metal doors opened stiffly. On the eighth floor, Galkin stepped out into a dim corridor. On the concrete floor ahead of him was a dead rat, lying on its side, peacefully, as if in sleep, two paws tucked up sweetly under its jaws. Shivering in disgust, but stepped over it carefully, as if not wishing to wake it. Osip thought about Femida, with her scales held out before her, boldly—but at least she was armed. When he knocked on a red door, twice, it was open. Down a fusty hallway a stoop-shouldered, stocky young man in his 20s was sitting on the side of a bed, motionless, puffy-eyed. He had jug ears and a skinhead, and his red paisley shirt was unbuttoned, half-tucked into his belted black jeans. A lit cigarette was jutting cockily from the side of his mouth. Behind him on the unmade bed could just be made out the figure of a half-naked girl stretched out, comatose.
“The militia have the place surrounded,” said Galkin theatrically, raising his voice. “You'd better come quietly.”
But the young man didn't stir. Perhaps he was weighing up his options. Perhaps one of the gnarled threads of smoke curling up from his dangling fag had stung him in the eye at the critical moment, inhibiting his ability to respond. Supposing that he was just stoned, however, the officer advanced down the hall, which smelled of tooth-decay or of sweet bad breath, where his attempt to handcuff the suspect met little resistance.
Back out on the towerblock steps, Arkady inserted the spanner back in an inside jacket pocket irritably: having gone to the trouble of psyching himself up, he seemed put out to learn that it was all over without much fuss.
“Thanks for your help,” said Galkin, "I can take it from here". Then he prodded the suspect back in the direction of the little wooden bridge and the tram.
"Want to meet up later for a drink at the Alligator Club?” said Arkady. Galkin said he'd be there in a couple of hours.
The tram back across town was full of Saturday shoppers heading for the busy central market. The conductress, as he paid their fares, gave Galkin and his charge a look half-suspicious, half-puzzled, but she kept stum. Galkin stared out of the window at the forest of tall chimneys of the steel plant, densely packed, each spouting a wind-sock of black smoke. Vita probably wasn't up yet. On the kitchen table at home, he’d left her a gift-wrapped package of the crimson shoes she'd wanted and a note wishing her all the best on her 35th.
“The militia have the place surrounded,” said Galkin theatrically, raising his voice. “You'd better come quietly.”
But the young man didn't stir. Perhaps he was weighing up his options. Perhaps one of the gnarled threads of smoke curling up from his dangling fag had stung him in the eye at the critical moment, inhibiting his ability to respond. Supposing that he was just stoned, however, the officer advanced down the hall, which smelled of tooth-decay or of sweet bad breath, where his attempt to handcuff the suspect met little resistance.
Back out on the towerblock steps, Arkady inserted the spanner back in an inside jacket pocket irritably: having gone to the trouble of psyching himself up, he seemed put out to learn that it was all over without much fuss.
“Thanks for your help,” said Galkin, "I can take it from here". Then he prodded the suspect back in the direction of the little wooden bridge and the tram.
"Want to meet up later for a drink at the Alligator Club?” said Arkady. Galkin said he'd be there in a couple of hours.
The tram back across town was full of Saturday shoppers heading for the busy central market. The conductress, as he paid their fares, gave Galkin and his charge a look half-suspicious, half-puzzled, but she kept stum. Galkin stared out of the window at the forest of tall chimneys of the steel plant, densely packed, each spouting a wind-sock of black smoke. Vita probably wasn't up yet. On the kitchen table at home, he’d left her a gift-wrapped package of the crimson shoes she'd wanted and a note wishing her all the best on her 35th.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Big Girl’s Blouse
This is my (loose) translation of a poem written by Vladimir Mayakovsky almost 100 years ago. The original is underneath.I’ve decided to sew myself black pantaloons
from the velvet of my voice; a yellow shirt
out of sunset. Like Don Juan, on the world's
main drag I'll strut my stuff and flirt.
And going to pot, let the earth exclaim:
“But you'll ravish the verdant spring!”
I'll fling at the sun: “But it's good to loaf
on the tarmac”—me with an insolent grin.
O, it isn’t because the sky is blue
or the world is my love in this festive clean
that I give you poems as bright as “tra-la-la”,
or like toothpicks, essential and keen.
So, girls who would call me brother
and girls who my flesh would arouse—
drench me, a poet, with smiles and I’ll sew them
with flowers onto my big girl’s blouse!
Кофта фата
Я сошью себе черные штаны
из бархата голоса моего.
Жёлтую кофту из трёх аршин заката.
По Невскому мира, по лощёным полосам его,
профланирую шагом Дон-Жуана и фата.
Пусть земля кричит, в покое обабившись:
"Ты зелёные вёсны идёшь насиловать!"
Я брошу солнцу, нагло осклабившись:
"На глади асфальта мне хорошо грассировать!"
Не потому ли, что небо голубо,
а земля мне любовница в этой праздничной чистке,
я дарю вам стихи, весёлые, как би-ба-бо
и острые и нужные, как зубочистки!
Женщины, любящие моё мясо, и эта
девушка, смотрящая на меня, как на брата,
закидайте улыбками меня, поэта,-
я цветами нашью их мне на кофту фата!
(1914)
Sunday, 21 March 2010
The Alligator Club
Chapter 12
The Alligator Club was tucked away to the side of a double-helix stairway that wound up through the multiple floors of the Palace of Culture. When Galkin arrived at the bar, two little girls in blue leotards and pink leggings were standing on tiptoes ahead of him; bunking off a gymnastics class, they were buying with their attendance money a tasty snack of crisps, coconut sweets, fizzy drinks.
Shapiro was sitting at the other end of the bar, peering out of a large window into Lenin Square. He was nibbling on a few thin shreds of dried calamari laid out on a saucer and was most of the way through a beer.
As the children counted out their precious coins, Osip waited his turn. When the girls left, skipping, pleased with their haul, he ordered a couple of bottles of Obolon Light lager from behind a half-sized, glass-doored fridge.
“Arkasha,” said Osip, approaching his associate along a short central aisle. Placing the cool, perspiring bottles down on the tabletop, he pulled up a chair and sat down. “How’s things?”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” said Shapiro, grinning. “Small victories!" he said, raising his glass half-heartedly.
“Sorry I’m a late,” said Galkin, “there was some paperwork.”
“No problem, no problem,” said Arkady. “To life,” he said, and they clinked together the fresh bottles of beer. Behind them, on a TV mounted against a yellow wall above the stencilled outline of a blue palm tree, a sports broadcaster was reading the football scores. Wild-eyed, Arkady leaned on his elbows over the table, took a few swift sips as he squirmed uneasily in his chair. “Enjoy yourself while you can,” he said, “you can’t take it with you when you go.” Then he offered the investigator a cigarette from a depleted carton.
“Not for me,” said the officer.
“Can't tempt you, then? Good for you. Never look back, that’s my motto. But with me, if you live, you live. O, and, by the way, how’s the wife?”
Shapiro was sitting at the other end of the bar, peering out of a large window into Lenin Square. He was nibbling on a few thin shreds of dried calamari laid out on a saucer and was most of the way through a beer.
As the children counted out their precious coins, Osip waited his turn. When the girls left, skipping, pleased with their haul, he ordered a couple of bottles of Obolon Light lager from behind a half-sized, glass-doored fridge.
“Arkasha,” said Osip, approaching his associate along a short central aisle. Placing the cool, perspiring bottles down on the tabletop, he pulled up a chair and sat down. “How’s things?”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” said Shapiro, grinning. “Small victories!" he said, raising his glass half-heartedly.
“Sorry I’m a late,” said Galkin, “there was some paperwork.”
“No problem, no problem,” said Arkady. “To life,” he said, and they clinked together the fresh bottles of beer. Behind them, on a TV mounted against a yellow wall above the stencilled outline of a blue palm tree, a sports broadcaster was reading the football scores. Wild-eyed, Arkady leaned on his elbows over the table, took a few swift sips as he squirmed uneasily in his chair. “Enjoy yourself while you can,” he said, “you can’t take it with you when you go.” Then he offered the investigator a cigarette from a depleted carton.
“Not for me,” said the officer.
“Can't tempt you, then? Good for you. Never look back, that’s my motto. But with me, if you live, you live. O, and, by the way, how’s the wife?”
Both men’s spouses were fine. Vita Ivanova, Osip’s second wife, was fine—still at the hospital, working long hours. They seemed to cross paths less and less, now that the boys were growing up. And Katya Ramizovna, Arkady’s third wife, was fine—still running the second-hand clothes shop he'd bought her, and which she liked to call a “boutique”. But for some reason the doctor had put her back on tranquilisers.
Osip weighed up his companion for a moment. What age was he? He guessed that he was in his mid-30s. He had on what must once have been a good grey woollen suit, but it was too loose about the shoulders, as if he was wasting away inside it. When he smiled, which was often, faint wrinkles appeared in concentric half-circles on his cheeks, at the corners of his mouth, surrounding everything he said in multiple brackets, asides within asides.
Osip weighed up his companion for a moment. What age was he? He guessed that he was in his mid-30s. He had on what must once have been a good grey woollen suit, but it was too loose about the shoulders, as if he was wasting away inside it. When he smiled, which was often, faint wrinkles appeared in concentric half-circles on his cheeks, at the corners of his mouth, surrounding everything he said in multiple brackets, asides within asides.
Clutching their beers the two men peered out into the square, which was bright as a desert, each finding one of those rare, separate moments of serenity, or perhaps its was just easeful oblivion, non-consciousness. At the other end of the room the stocky barman, slouched on a stool, was flipping a matchbox over and over on the wooden bar top. “I wish he’d stop that,” said Shapiro, “it’s getting tiresome.” Along Heroes’ Alley, the outlines of youthful soldiers’ faces lined the path on a series of small terracotta tablets, above their dates, and there were intermittent sprigs of wilting daffodils dug into the flowerbeds. In the metallic basin of the desiccated fountain, a pigeon hopped, hot-toed, over the scorching tin.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
AD-AS & IS-LM-BoP 2
The money market
As with the analysis of any other kind of market, that of the money market focuses on theories of the main factors affecting (money) demand and (money) supply, and on the self-correcting chain of economic adjustments that could be set off when these are out of balance. As the supply of money is often taken to be more of a practical, institutional policy question of monetary control, bound up with the money-creating function of modern banking systems, the theory of money markets tends to focus more on the issue of money demand.
Why have money? To buy things or "just in case"
The theory of money demand comes down to this: since one of the main reasons for having money is to carry out transactions (ie to pay for things), when the volume of activity in the economy rises, and/or the prices of goods and services rise, a larger sum of money will be needed to accommodate this. That is, the transactions demand for money is a positive function of changes in economic income (like consumption in the goods market) and of the price level. This is only one source of monetary demand, however—money conceived as the oil that keeps running smoothly the process of purchasing production so that production itself can continue.
Why have money? For safety
A second source, which is a bit more complex to grasp, sees money as the asset that wealth-holders will favour to avoid capital losses when they anticipate changes in interest rates. Bonds—which promise to pay a specified sum of money at regular intervals—stand in for "all other kinds of assets except money", such as the ownership of property, or of shares in firms. Thus, money is conceived one of the two possible assets in which wealth can be held. This ingenious step greatly simplifies the analysis of the financial sector for the purposes of assessing the likely outcomes of real-world economic policies.
Bonds are sold by companies and governments to raise finance for investment projects. They come with a "face value" (the capital value) and a coupon (the interest rate, or return on the capital value), and can be sold on by the original purchaser to raise cash. For example, a bond with a face value of $100 and an annual coupon of 10% would bring to its owner an income of $10 per year. But if the market interest rises above 10%, a bond with a coupon of 10% will be worth less than its face value of $100. On the other hand, if the market interest rate falls below 10%, a bond with a coupon of 10% will be worth more than its face value of $100. Thus, bond prices move in the opposite direction to interest rates. From this point of view, the advantage of keeping your wealth in money is that its value is certain, uninfluenced by changes in interest rates, even if it is not earning its holder any additional income. In contrast, bonds come with a definite income stream attached—as indicated by the face value and coupon—but are more risky, since the market interest rate could change unfavourably, inflicting a capital loss.
To understand what's supposed to be going on, a very important distinction must be made between what happens on average in the money market when interest rates are expected to change and when they actually change. As more wealth-holders expect interest rates to rise (perhaps because inflation is starting to rise too rapidly and the government is signaling its intention to take remedial measures), more of them will begin to sell their bonds, forgoing the return in order to avoid a capital loss implied by a fall in bond prices. The selling of bonds implies an increasing the demand for money. However, as the market interest rate actually rises, creeping further above the norm for more people, larger numbers of wealth-holders will be tempted to switch back to bonds by the prospect of holding an interest-bearing asset and of making a capital gain. The movement back into bonds implies a corresponding reduction in the demand for money. This is the same as saying that speculative demand for money is a negative function of interest rate changes (like investment in the goods market).
Because people are thought to be concerned about the quantity of goods and services they can obtain for their money, rather than merely the volume of cash they hold, money demand is always conceived of as a wish for real money balances. In contrast, money supply is assumed initially to be a nominal variable, and hence is affected by changes in the prices level: if average prices rise and the nominal money supply stays fixed, its real value—the quantity of goods and services that it can command—falls. Additionally, the money supply is one of the policy variables that governments and central banks use to influence interest rates, and hence other key macroeconomic indicators, such as output, employment and inflation.
Balance and imbalance
In a money market in which the price level and income are fixed—two assumptions that can hold only for a short time—any adjustment because of a mismatch in money supply and money demand takes place by means of changes in the composition of speculative money holdings in response to changes in interest rates. If the interest rate is too low to equate the two, there is an excess demand for money and an excess supply of bonds, meaning that some wealth-holders want to convert bonds into money and some hold back from buying bonds. The glut of bonds pushes their price down and interest rates go up.
Loosening the two assumptions on prices and income—as we move the frame of reference to a slightly longer time period—a rise in prices, taken on its own, will reduce the real money supply, pushing up the interest rate, whereas a fall in prices will increases the real money supply, bringing interest rates down.
A factor that could shift the demand for money is a change in economic income, implying that there are different possible combinations of national income and interest rates in which the money market is in equilibrium. And in fact, this how, on the basis of this outline of the workings of the money market, we construct of the LM curve.
As with the analysis of any other kind of market, that of the money market focuses on theories of the main factors affecting (money) demand and (money) supply, and on the self-correcting chain of economic adjustments that could be set off when these are out of balance. As the supply of money is often taken to be more of a practical, institutional policy question of monetary control, bound up with the money-creating function of modern banking systems, the theory of money markets tends to focus more on the issue of money demand.
Why have money? To buy things or "just in case"
The theory of money demand comes down to this: since one of the main reasons for having money is to carry out transactions (ie to pay for things), when the volume of activity in the economy rises, and/or the prices of goods and services rise, a larger sum of money will be needed to accommodate this. That is, the transactions demand for money is a positive function of changes in economic income (like consumption in the goods market) and of the price level. This is only one source of monetary demand, however—money conceived as the oil that keeps running smoothly the process of purchasing production so that production itself can continue.
Why have money? For safety
A second source, which is a bit more complex to grasp, sees money as the asset that wealth-holders will favour to avoid capital losses when they anticipate changes in interest rates. Bonds—which promise to pay a specified sum of money at regular intervals—stand in for "all other kinds of assets except money", such as the ownership of property, or of shares in firms. Thus, money is conceived one of the two possible assets in which wealth can be held. This ingenious step greatly simplifies the analysis of the financial sector for the purposes of assessing the likely outcomes of real-world economic policies.
Bonds are sold by companies and governments to raise finance for investment projects. They come with a "face value" (the capital value) and a coupon (the interest rate, or return on the capital value), and can be sold on by the original purchaser to raise cash. For example, a bond with a face value of $100 and an annual coupon of 10% would bring to its owner an income of $10 per year. But if the market interest rises above 10%, a bond with a coupon of 10% will be worth less than its face value of $100. On the other hand, if the market interest rate falls below 10%, a bond with a coupon of 10% will be worth more than its face value of $100. Thus, bond prices move in the opposite direction to interest rates. From this point of view, the advantage of keeping your wealth in money is that its value is certain, uninfluenced by changes in interest rates, even if it is not earning its holder any additional income. In contrast, bonds come with a definite income stream attached—as indicated by the face value and coupon—but are more risky, since the market interest rate could change unfavourably, inflicting a capital loss.
To understand what's supposed to be going on, a very important distinction must be made between what happens on average in the money market when interest rates are expected to change and when they actually change. As more wealth-holders expect interest rates to rise (perhaps because inflation is starting to rise too rapidly and the government is signaling its intention to take remedial measures), more of them will begin to sell their bonds, forgoing the return in order to avoid a capital loss implied by a fall in bond prices. The selling of bonds implies an increasing the demand for money. However, as the market interest rate actually rises, creeping further above the norm for more people, larger numbers of wealth-holders will be tempted to switch back to bonds by the prospect of holding an interest-bearing asset and of making a capital gain. The movement back into bonds implies a corresponding reduction in the demand for money. This is the same as saying that speculative demand for money is a negative function of interest rate changes (like investment in the goods market).
Because people are thought to be concerned about the quantity of goods and services they can obtain for their money, rather than merely the volume of cash they hold, money demand is always conceived of as a wish for real money balances. In contrast, money supply is assumed initially to be a nominal variable, and hence is affected by changes in the prices level: if average prices rise and the nominal money supply stays fixed, its real value—the quantity of goods and services that it can command—falls. Additionally, the money supply is one of the policy variables that governments and central banks use to influence interest rates, and hence other key macroeconomic indicators, such as output, employment and inflation.
Balance and imbalance
In a money market in which the price level and income are fixed—two assumptions that can hold only for a short time—any adjustment because of a mismatch in money supply and money demand takes place by means of changes in the composition of speculative money holdings in response to changes in interest rates. If the interest rate is too low to equate the two, there is an excess demand for money and an excess supply of bonds, meaning that some wealth-holders want to convert bonds into money and some hold back from buying bonds. The glut of bonds pushes their price down and interest rates go up.
Loosening the two assumptions on prices and income—as we move the frame of reference to a slightly longer time period—a rise in prices, taken on its own, will reduce the real money supply, pushing up the interest rate, whereas a fall in prices will increases the real money supply, bringing interest rates down.
A factor that could shift the demand for money is a change in economic income, implying that there are different possible combinations of national income and interest rates in which the money market is in equilibrium. And in fact, this how, on the basis of this outline of the workings of the money market, we construct of the LM curve.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
Pulling the rug
More notes from May 2009
The possible impact of the global economic crisis on political instability in Central Asia and the Transaucasus
The level of trust in a range of political institutions across the counties of eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union was low even before the onset of the ongoing global financial and economic crisis, but it will make the situation worse.
In broad terms, the consequences of the crisis have been transmitted to the countries of Central Asia and the Transcaucasus through the impact of the financial meltdown and fall in hydrocarbon prices on the region's leading economies. For many former Soviet countries, the consequent fall in trade, remittances and investment inflows has already started to be felt, although not evenly, in terms of declining incomes and rising unemployment—two factors that tend to presage outbreaks of social and political unrest. However, economic stress on its own would not usually be enough to cause an outbreak of unrest. Rather, it is the interaction of economic stress with specific political and social factors already in place that is crucial.
Much in common
The states of Central Asia, the Transcaucasus and Russia share a number of these underlying factors associated with political upheaval. For instance, all of them, except Russia, have had a limited existence as independent states, all emerging as national entities only with the demise of the Soviet Union in 1991. In many, low levels of public trust hinder the effectiveness of political and governance systems, all of which are also mired by high levels of corruption. Finally, all of them, except Russia and Kazakhstan, are surrounded by countries that are also prone to the structural causes of unrest. This is the so called bad neighbourhood effect, which is one of the main causative factors behind political stability, according to the political science literature.
Most exposed
Those states most at risk because of pre-existing structural weaknesses—the Kyrgyz Republic, Tajikistan and Georgia—share a number of relevant traits in common. The Kyrgyz Republic and Tajikistan exhibit a high degree of ethic fragmentation; for example, conflicts between the ethnic Kyrgyz majority and the Uzbek minority, which is concentrated in the south of the country, have been a persistent source of political tension in the Kyrgyz Republic since independence. Tajikistan and Georgia have both experiences of at least two major episodes of political instability in the recent historical past. Tajikistan, for instance, suffered two bouts of all-out fighting in its five-year civil war of the 1990s, in which at least 50,000 people were killed (fuelled, among other things, by ethnic rivalries). For its part, not only has Georgia seen the outbreak of armed conflict as a part of it effort to bring its breakaway regions of South Ossetia and Abkhazia under control—most recently and disastrously in August 2008—but the existing political order has been overturned by force more than once. The first time was in the early 1990s, when the nationalist president, Zviad Gamsakurdia, was ousted in a coup. His successor, Eduard Shevardnadze, was kicked out in turn in a peaceful, large-scale social protest following a falsified election in the so-called Rose Revolution of November 2003. (Demonstrations in the Georgian capital, Tbilisi, ongoing since April 2009 against the authoritarian drift of the current president, Mikheil Saakashvilli, have suggested to may observers that a similar pattern may be about to be repeated.)
Another important factor, shared by the Kyrgyz Republic and Georgia, is that they are held to be regimes of an intermediate type. That is, they benefit from neither the public consent necessary for the working of a consolidated democracy, nor the combination of institutions and resources for repression necessary to maintain wholly authoritarian rule. Additionally, Georgia's susceptibility to the underlying causes of unrest is greatly heightened by the combination of its intermediate regime type and a fractional polity (mainly reflecting the inability of the central authorities to exercise political control over the country's breakaway regions, which make up 10-15% of Georgia's territory). On the other hand, Georgia's better economic starting point puts it in a healthier position to deal with the consequences of the economic crisis than either Central Asian country. The likely impact the regional economic downturn on unemployment rates in the Kyrgyz Republic and Tajikistan thus put them at highest potential exposure to political instability overall.
Look at the fine print
Finally, at the beginning of 2009, suffering electricity shortages and blackouts, facing factional fallouts within the ruling group, a unifying opposition and a looming economic downturn, the government of the Kyrgyz Republic began to look vulnerable to a financial crisis. However, a large aid package from Russia in February has since turned the situation around completely. This shows the importance of looking at detailed country case studies, in combination with quantitative comparative models, when assessing vulnerability to political unrest in specific cases.
The possible impact of the global economic crisis on political instability in Central Asia and the Transaucasus
The level of trust in a range of political institutions across the counties of eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union was low even before the onset of the ongoing global financial and economic crisis, but it will make the situation worse.
In broad terms, the consequences of the crisis have been transmitted to the countries of Central Asia and the Transcaucasus through the impact of the financial meltdown and fall in hydrocarbon prices on the region's leading economies. For many former Soviet countries, the consequent fall in trade, remittances and investment inflows has already started to be felt, although not evenly, in terms of declining incomes and rising unemployment—two factors that tend to presage outbreaks of social and political unrest. However, economic stress on its own would not usually be enough to cause an outbreak of unrest. Rather, it is the interaction of economic stress with specific political and social factors already in place that is crucial.
Much in common
The states of Central Asia, the Transcaucasus and Russia share a number of these underlying factors associated with political upheaval. For instance, all of them, except Russia, have had a limited existence as independent states, all emerging as national entities only with the demise of the Soviet Union in 1991. In many, low levels of public trust hinder the effectiveness of political and governance systems, all of which are also mired by high levels of corruption. Finally, all of them, except Russia and Kazakhstan, are surrounded by countries that are also prone to the structural causes of unrest. This is the so called bad neighbourhood effect, which is one of the main causative factors behind political stability, according to the political science literature.
Most exposed
Those states most at risk because of pre-existing structural weaknesses—the Kyrgyz Republic, Tajikistan and Georgia—share a number of relevant traits in common. The Kyrgyz Republic and Tajikistan exhibit a high degree of ethic fragmentation; for example, conflicts between the ethnic Kyrgyz majority and the Uzbek minority, which is concentrated in the south of the country, have been a persistent source of political tension in the Kyrgyz Republic since independence. Tajikistan and Georgia have both experiences of at least two major episodes of political instability in the recent historical past. Tajikistan, for instance, suffered two bouts of all-out fighting in its five-year civil war of the 1990s, in which at least 50,000 people were killed (fuelled, among other things, by ethnic rivalries). For its part, not only has Georgia seen the outbreak of armed conflict as a part of it effort to bring its breakaway regions of South Ossetia and Abkhazia under control—most recently and disastrously in August 2008—but the existing political order has been overturned by force more than once. The first time was in the early 1990s, when the nationalist president, Zviad Gamsakurdia, was ousted in a coup. His successor, Eduard Shevardnadze, was kicked out in turn in a peaceful, large-scale social protest following a falsified election in the so-called Rose Revolution of November 2003. (Demonstrations in the Georgian capital, Tbilisi, ongoing since April 2009 against the authoritarian drift of the current president, Mikheil Saakashvilli, have suggested to may observers that a similar pattern may be about to be repeated.)
Another important factor, shared by the Kyrgyz Republic and Georgia, is that they are held to be regimes of an intermediate type. That is, they benefit from neither the public consent necessary for the working of a consolidated democracy, nor the combination of institutions and resources for repression necessary to maintain wholly authoritarian rule. Additionally, Georgia's susceptibility to the underlying causes of unrest is greatly heightened by the combination of its intermediate regime type and a fractional polity (mainly reflecting the inability of the central authorities to exercise political control over the country's breakaway regions, which make up 10-15% of Georgia's territory). On the other hand, Georgia's better economic starting point puts it in a healthier position to deal with the consequences of the economic crisis than either Central Asian country. The likely impact the regional economic downturn on unemployment rates in the Kyrgyz Republic and Tajikistan thus put them at highest potential exposure to political instability overall.
Look at the fine print
Finally, at the beginning of 2009, suffering electricity shortages and blackouts, facing factional fallouts within the ruling group, a unifying opposition and a looming economic downturn, the government of the Kyrgyz Republic began to look vulnerable to a financial crisis. However, a large aid package from Russia in February has since turned the situation around completely. This shows the importance of looking at detailed country case studies, in combination with quantitative comparative models, when assessing vulnerability to political unrest in specific cases.
Saturday, 27 February 2010
AD-AS & IS-LM-BoP
The goods market
Mainstream macroeconomic models make simplifying assumptions to look at the behaviour of the participants in a number of markets, at first imagined and understood discretely. These are the goods market (in fact, the market for goods and services) and the factors market, the money market (representing the workings of the domestic financial sector), the foreign-exchange market, and the labour market. How they work in combination is then investigated systematically. One of the main purposes of this is to try to assess the likely impact of policies in addressing specific economic problems, such as unemployment, or inflation, or destabilising shocks to economic growth.
An important concept in mainstream economic modelling is that of aggregate demand (AD), which is a summation of the spending plans faced by firms, and is itself the outcome of the myriad spending decisions of different groups of "economic actors". When firms are willing to supply all the goods and services that households (C), other domestic companies (I), government institutions (G) and foreigners (X) want to buy, the goods market is said to be in balance. In short-run, demand-side models, this is assumed always to be the case—ie firms will always have spare capacity to raise production, or the freedom to cut it back, when faced with changes in aggregate demand.
However, market balance need not correspond to a level of sales that ensures that everyone who wants to work is employed. In fact, finding a way to close the gap between the two (the so-called deflationary gap) was the motivation for the generation of Keynes's economics as a whole, since mass unemployment was the specific problem that he set out to address in the 1930s. He thought that firms' production plans depended in large part on the demand they expect for their products, itself conditioned by their recent sales experience. In order to influence company behaviour, therefore—and so the level of aggregate supply and employment—it is necessary to understand both how aggregate demand is composed and what the knock-on effects of changes in the components of aggregate demand might be. These components, of consumer demand (goods and services wanted by households), investment demand (goods and services desired by domestic companies), government spending and net exports (foreign demand for domestic goods less domestic demand for foreign ones) are conventionally given the letters of C, I, G and (X – Z).
Mainstream macroeconomic models make simplifying assumptions to look at the behaviour of the participants in a number of markets, at first imagined and understood discretely. These are the goods market (in fact, the market for goods and services) and the factors market, the money market (representing the workings of the domestic financial sector), the foreign-exchange market, and the labour market. How they work in combination is then investigated systematically. One of the main purposes of this is to try to assess the likely impact of policies in addressing specific economic problems, such as unemployment, or inflation, or destabilising shocks to economic growth.
An important concept in mainstream economic modelling is that of aggregate demand (AD), which is a summation of the spending plans faced by firms, and is itself the outcome of the myriad spending decisions of different groups of "economic actors". When firms are willing to supply all the goods and services that households (C), other domestic companies (I), government institutions (G) and foreigners (X) want to buy, the goods market is said to be in balance. In short-run, demand-side models, this is assumed always to be the case—ie firms will always have spare capacity to raise production, or the freedom to cut it back, when faced with changes in aggregate demand.
However, market balance need not correspond to a level of sales that ensures that everyone who wants to work is employed. In fact, finding a way to close the gap between the two (the so-called deflationary gap) was the motivation for the generation of Keynes's economics as a whole, since mass unemployment was the specific problem that he set out to address in the 1930s. He thought that firms' production plans depended in large part on the demand they expect for their products, itself conditioned by their recent sales experience. In order to influence company behaviour, therefore—and so the level of aggregate supply and employment—it is necessary to understand both how aggregate demand is composed and what the knock-on effects of changes in the components of aggregate demand might be. These components, of consumer demand (goods and services wanted by households), investment demand (goods and services desired by domestic companies), government spending and net exports (foreign demand for domestic goods less domestic demand for foreign ones) are conventionally given the letters of C, I, G and (X – Z).
AD = C + I + G + X – Z
For the two most important components—consumer demand (C) and investment demand (I)—I'm going to start at the end result, missing out the stage of building them up from their simpler to their more complicated versions.
Consumer demand, often the largest demand component of any economy, is the only one that is held to be conditioned by changes in the income of the economy overall, whereas the factors affecting the other three lie outside the model of income determination. Not all of the income received by households (in the form of wages for labour, interest for capital and rent for land) is available for spending, since some portion of it will usually be saved. This portion tends to decline with rising individual household incomes. For economies as a whole, the share of an increase in income that goes on consumption spending (the marginal propensity to consume) is historically and culturally conditioned, slow to change, and can vary between groups, generations and regions. Since the share of income that households have available to spend—their disposable income—has the most bearing on buying decisions, this is what interests economists most. It is affected by the level of net taxes (taxes minus benefits), which is the link through which governments can influence the level of private consumption demand.
However, some part of consumer spending is taken to be independent of changes in income. This component, sometimes called autonomous consumption, takes account of the impact to changes in consumer preferences or taste, for example. Importantly, it is also taken as a proxy for consumer expectations and confidence, which can be lifted or depressed by perceptions of the economic outlook, or by more specific factors, such as the prospect of a tax increase or of rising unemployment.
One final factor that can help to explain changes in observed patterns of private consumption demand is changes in the value of household property or financial holdings—ie their wealth. The proportionate change in consumer spending linked to a change in wealth—the so called wealth effect—is usually much smaller than for the corresponding relation to income, perhaps because changes in wealth can vary. This is something to look at when property booms or busts are prominent features of the economic scene, or when economically significant numbers of households own stocks or shares.
C = a + bY +dW
Sunday, 31 January 2010
With a clear conscience
Chapter 26
Day of Knowledge, Southern Cemetery.
Hauling himself up with difficulty over a high cemetery wall, Galkin dropped to the ground on the other side unsteadily, glanced left and right, then set off at a bulky trot across the unkempt Jewish plots. Puffing and wheezing as he neared the back wall of a primitive outhouse, above the entrances of which on either side, he noticed, were daubed crudely the letters for male and for female in thick red paint. For a few moments he leaned his heaving frame against the decrepit brick structure to catch his breath.
Composure regained, Galkin peeked out around the building's right-hand side. Through a ringed array of bunched-up silver birches, which helped to conceal his position, he was able to watch the funeral proceedings at a safe distance. Between the figures at the front of a band of dark-clad mourners, the tussled grey hair of Valentin Kulyeba could just about be seen like a stormy cloudscape. When some late-comers in heavy grey overcoats arrived, they shook hands discreetly with some of those at the back of the group, bear-hugged, laughed at some inaudible remark. The tubby priest seemed to be eking out the ceremony, prolonging his stint at the centre of the drama. After a while, one or two of the attendees sat down nearby at a wooden table and chairs fixed next to a mottled-pink marble headstone, sharing a drink from a chrome and leather flask.
For Chrissakes, was he ever going to get a shot at Kulyeba? The thought crossed Osip's mind that it might not happen, a surge of panic rising inside him momentarily, though after a while his concentration wandered, so that he found himself brushing the smudges of dirt on his pleated trousers with his fingertips, considering…. He poked at a small, neat rip in the fabric around the knee, which he must have got rolling in over the graveyard wall (it was set along the top with worn-down broken glass). The torn flap in the sea-green garment that rose on the hole in his trouser leg reminded him of a small pyramid casting its shadow, and by the time he checked back on the funeral gathering, Kulyeba was gone. "Oh, Christ!" the officer gasped. Had he let him get away again? What should he do? He found himself pulled in several directions at once.
He crept back along the rear wall of the toilet block. On the side path leading to the main exit, behind a clump of dense sedge thicket, a dark shape moved—he was in time to see Kulyeba pass through the cemetery’s huge cast-iron gates. A stillness infused Osip’s consciousness, underpinned with an unexpectedly firm sense of determination. It was as if he had changed his relation to physical space: his path was not just clear, but inevitable, almost, and he felt full of energy, a ball poised at the top of an arc, ready to roll. Everything was happening in slow motion, the details sharp and vivid.
One half of the gate was turned in towards him. Through the distorted perspective of its widely space bars, he could see Kulyeba come to a halt no more than two hundred metres in front of him, pull out a mobile phone to take a call. Osip advanced, trying to carry himself lightly, all the time keeping to his left, close to the cemetery wall, so as to make his approach out of the line of sight. At the gate post, he peeked around: Kulyeba was pacing back and forth slowly along the narrow dirt pathway outside the graveyard, one hand flattened to his ear to listen more intently, gesticulating with the same hand agitatedly every now and then as he spoke.
Just then, pacing back, Kulyeba tripped, his shoes' smooth leather soles losing their grip on a loose rock or stone, so that the mobile slipped from his hand like a bar of soap, spinning in a descending curve through the air until it bounced down into an open manhole between him and the adjacent building site. Kulyeba's face reddened, and the veins in his forehead rose. His arms jerked in angry, staccato movements and a frothing stream of obscenities flooded over his lips. Behind gritted teeth, he restrained a gurgling howl of rage.
Osip stood rigid, held his breath, as Kulyeba with his back turned got down on all fours, stiffly, and crawled towards the drain; stretching his legs out behind him, knees bent, he balanced on the tips of his toes, hands placed either side of the opening, as if preparing for a sprint start. Then he lent forward and peered timidly inside.
A new plan came to Osip: he'd sneak up from behind, grab Kulyeba by the ankles and tip him in. Much less noise to attract attention. Also, with Kulyeba distracted, he'd have the element of surprise. If necessary, he could finish him off with a couple of caps, firing the gun inside the cavity to muffle the percussive sound of the shots. All these lines of reasoning went on simultaneously, in a flash.
He reached for the gun in his jacket, but it was stuck. Curling his left hand around inside his jacket to hold the ad hoc holster, he gave a good tug on the gun's grip, but by the time he’d managed to withdraw the weapon, this time resolved to use it, Kulyeba had again disappeared.
Galkin scanned a monotonous horizon. It took a second or two to realise what had happened: in front of him, a pair of well-made leather shoes were poking out of the ground, flailing: Kulyeba must have lost his balance and tumbled in, head first, so that the sides of the drain bound his arms tightly around him.
Without thinking, Galkin moved reflexively to aid the stricken man. But then, halfway, he stopped in his tracks. What was he doing? His thoughts swirled, adapted, curled themselves around him. Looking around furtively, he began to withdraw towards the cemetery gates. It wasn't as if he had pushed him in, so it couldn't be said he was to blame. The same thing would have happened even if he hadn't been there. Was he a killer? Not at heart, he knew. But did he really intend to save Kulyeba now, after tracking him for so long? Of course, he'd have shot him if it had come down to it, he reasoned: he wasn't a coward. But now that he didn't have to, couldn't he wash his hands of the matter? Continue to walk tall in front of his wife and his colleagues, his conscience clear?
The tan shoes flapped for a while in the sullen air weakly, as Kulyeba's lungs gave out. There were no cars or passers-by, and Maltsev's mourners had vanished, presumably for a well-oiled wake; even the gang of workers who were doing up the bungalow opposite seemed to have knocked off for a tea break. The officer pulled out a sky-blue Prima packet, but then thought better of it, wheeling about to creep back through the iron gate, back past the crumbling outhouse, across the Jewish plots, as if by retracing his steps he thought he was erasing them, removing any evidence of his having been there, and he hopped back up and over the cemetery wall, feeling horrified and relieved.
Day of Knowledge, Southern Cemetery.
Hauling himself up with difficulty over a high cemetery wall, Galkin dropped to the ground on the other side unsteadily, glanced left and right, then set off at a bulky trot across the unkempt Jewish plots. Puffing and wheezing as he neared the back wall of a primitive outhouse, above the entrances of which on either side, he noticed, were daubed crudely the letters for male and for female in thick red paint. For a few moments he leaned his heaving frame against the decrepit brick structure to catch his breath.
Composure regained, Galkin peeked out around the building's right-hand side. Through a ringed array of bunched-up silver birches, which helped to conceal his position, he was able to watch the funeral proceedings at a safe distance. Between the figures at the front of a band of dark-clad mourners, the tussled grey hair of Valentin Kulyeba could just about be seen like a stormy cloudscape. When some late-comers in heavy grey overcoats arrived, they shook hands discreetly with some of those at the back of the group, bear-hugged, laughed at some inaudible remark. The tubby priest seemed to be eking out the ceremony, prolonging his stint at the centre of the drama. After a while, one or two of the attendees sat down nearby at a wooden table and chairs fixed next to a mottled-pink marble headstone, sharing a drink from a chrome and leather flask.
For Chrissakes, was he ever going to get a shot at Kulyeba? The thought crossed Osip's mind that it might not happen, a surge of panic rising inside him momentarily, though after a while his concentration wandered, so that he found himself brushing the smudges of dirt on his pleated trousers with his fingertips, considering…. He poked at a small, neat rip in the fabric around the knee, which he must have got rolling in over the graveyard wall (it was set along the top with worn-down broken glass). The torn flap in the sea-green garment that rose on the hole in his trouser leg reminded him of a small pyramid casting its shadow, and by the time he checked back on the funeral gathering, Kulyeba was gone. "Oh, Christ!" the officer gasped. Had he let him get away again? What should he do? He found himself pulled in several directions at once.
He crept back along the rear wall of the toilet block. On the side path leading to the main exit, behind a clump of dense sedge thicket, a dark shape moved—he was in time to see Kulyeba pass through the cemetery’s huge cast-iron gates. A stillness infused Osip’s consciousness, underpinned with an unexpectedly firm sense of determination. It was as if he had changed his relation to physical space: his path was not just clear, but inevitable, almost, and he felt full of energy, a ball poised at the top of an arc, ready to roll. Everything was happening in slow motion, the details sharp and vivid.
One half of the gate was turned in towards him. Through the distorted perspective of its widely space bars, he could see Kulyeba come to a halt no more than two hundred metres in front of him, pull out a mobile phone to take a call. Osip advanced, trying to carry himself lightly, all the time keeping to his left, close to the cemetery wall, so as to make his approach out of the line of sight. At the gate post, he peeked around: Kulyeba was pacing back and forth slowly along the narrow dirt pathway outside the graveyard, one hand flattened to his ear to listen more intently, gesticulating with the same hand agitatedly every now and then as he spoke.
Just then, pacing back, Kulyeba tripped, his shoes' smooth leather soles losing their grip on a loose rock or stone, so that the mobile slipped from his hand like a bar of soap, spinning in a descending curve through the air until it bounced down into an open manhole between him and the adjacent building site. Kulyeba's face reddened, and the veins in his forehead rose. His arms jerked in angry, staccato movements and a frothing stream of obscenities flooded over his lips. Behind gritted teeth, he restrained a gurgling howl of rage.
Osip stood rigid, held his breath, as Kulyeba with his back turned got down on all fours, stiffly, and crawled towards the drain; stretching his legs out behind him, knees bent, he balanced on the tips of his toes, hands placed either side of the opening, as if preparing for a sprint start. Then he lent forward and peered timidly inside.
A new plan came to Osip: he'd sneak up from behind, grab Kulyeba by the ankles and tip him in. Much less noise to attract attention. Also, with Kulyeba distracted, he'd have the element of surprise. If necessary, he could finish him off with a couple of caps, firing the gun inside the cavity to muffle the percussive sound of the shots. All these lines of reasoning went on simultaneously, in a flash.
He reached for the gun in his jacket, but it was stuck. Curling his left hand around inside his jacket to hold the ad hoc holster, he gave a good tug on the gun's grip, but by the time he’d managed to withdraw the weapon, this time resolved to use it, Kulyeba had again disappeared.
Galkin scanned a monotonous horizon. It took a second or two to realise what had happened: in front of him, a pair of well-made leather shoes were poking out of the ground, flailing: Kulyeba must have lost his balance and tumbled in, head first, so that the sides of the drain bound his arms tightly around him.
Without thinking, Galkin moved reflexively to aid the stricken man. But then, halfway, he stopped in his tracks. What was he doing? His thoughts swirled, adapted, curled themselves around him. Looking around furtively, he began to withdraw towards the cemetery gates. It wasn't as if he had pushed him in, so it couldn't be said he was to blame. The same thing would have happened even if he hadn't been there. Was he a killer? Not at heart, he knew. But did he really intend to save Kulyeba now, after tracking him for so long? Of course, he'd have shot him if it had come down to it, he reasoned: he wasn't a coward. But now that he didn't have to, couldn't he wash his hands of the matter? Continue to walk tall in front of his wife and his colleagues, his conscience clear?
The tan shoes flapped for a while in the sullen air weakly, as Kulyeba's lungs gave out. There were no cars or passers-by, and Maltsev's mourners had vanished, presumably for a well-oiled wake; even the gang of workers who were doing up the bungalow opposite seemed to have knocked off for a tea break. The officer pulled out a sky-blue Prima packet, but then thought better of it, wheeling about to creep back through the iron gate, back past the crumbling outhouse, across the Jewish plots, as if by retracing his steps he thought he was erasing them, removing any evidence of his having been there, and he hopped back up and over the cemetery wall, feeling horrified and relieved.
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