“Not exactly,” Malone said. “But when you’ve seen one Square, you’ve seen them all, is how I feel about it. There must be somewhere else to sight-see.”
“Somewhere?” Petkoff said. “There is everywhere. This is Moskva, the capital and the greatest city in Mother Russia. That is what we are told to say.” He lowered his voice. “Personally,” he added, “I come from Leningrad. I prefer it. But in Moskva one talks only of Moskva.”
“I know just how you feel,” Malone assured him. “I’ve been to San Francisco.”
“Well, then,” Petkoff said, almost smiling at him. “What is there you would like to see?”
Malone fished in his pocket for an American cigarette. He’d brought a carton with him, having once tried Russian makes. They seemed to be mostly cardboard, both the long filter and the tobacco. He lit the cigarette and thought for a second. “I don’t suppose,” he said cautiously, “that we could take a look around inside the Kremlin, could we?”
“Aha,” Petkoff said. “I see what is in your mind.”
“You do?” Malone said, startled.
“Naturally,” Petkoff said. “You wish to see the tomb of Lenin. It is famous throughout the world.”
Malone considered that for a minute. “Somehow,” he said cautiously, “the coffin of Lenin doesn’t exactly sound like a gay start for sight-seeing.”
Petkoff looked pleased instantly. “I understand,” he said. “Truly I understand. You, too, feel sad over the death of the great Lenin. How beautiful! How cultured!”