. . Dostoyevskian. It took them nearly four hours to cover thirty-odd kilometres; they witnessed two serious accidents and took part in a festival of fender-bending. They set off into the oncoming traffic, insulting whoever had a problem with that; they drove along the verge with the windows rolled up because of the dust; they bounced out of spectacular potholes and shoved the smaller vehicles out of the way by giving them a taste of Western manufactured bumpers. They’d even have driven over the injured if they could have. His driver pointed first to the pavement and then to the windscreen wiper lever, and his joke seemed to amuse him so highly that Charles made an effort to understand his jargon. It is for blood, he guffawed, understand? Blood! Krov! Ha, ha. Good joke. The air was stifling, the pollution extreme, and Charles’s migraine kept him from concentrating on the appointments lined up for the following day. He gulped down his packets of powder, running his tongue over his gums to accelerate the effect of the aspirin.
