‘I employ youngsters to do that; their minds aren’t so cluttered up with knowledge.’ He eased his boots off and flexed his toes in front of the stove. Stok could pick things up with his toes when he was a kid. It was a long time since he had demonstrated that. They had a different set of values nowadays and not only about prehensile toes. ‘Veal I’m having,’ said the Czech officer whose name was Vaclav. ‘Anything you have,’ said Stok. He wasn’t a fussy man. Something hot to eat, something cold to drink and a bed—with sheets if possible—and he wouldn’t complain. ‘Veal and strawberries,’ said Vaclav. Stok nodded. ‘They are tinned,’ said Vaclav. ‘Good God, man. I’m not Tsar Nicholas. Just heat it and bring it in.’ Stok wished he hadn’t said ‘God’; he’d probably given the wrong impression the other way now. Vaclav went out to the kitchen. Stok lit up. He relished the taste of Makhora. He made a point of smoking fancy things when he was talking to Westerners but the coarsest Russian tobacco was what he enjoyed most.
