Lychev answered at the first ring. ‘I’m looking at young Leon Pikser as we speak,’ he said. I heard a sound like a pencil tapping on glass and thought of the jar Lychev had brought to my office. ‘I don’t think he was anything like as handsome as Catherine says, do you?’ ‘He wasn’t at his best when I saw him,’ I said. ‘Was Catherine in love with him?’ he said. ‘I mean, really in love?’ ‘What does that mean?’ I asked. ‘Good question,’ he said with a thin laugh. He went on, ‘Pikser published some of his own poems in Moscow. They suggest he believed indulgence in vodka and sex was an act of political rebellion. His other theme appears to be that art’s first duty is to reflect the great issues confronting society. There’s a poem called Manifesto for the Soul – an aesthetic disaster, of course, but he takes his argument a step further: writers not only have a responsibility to speak out, they must participate. It’s all very tedious and juvenile.’ ‘Is this the sum of what you have learned about Pikser?’ ‘Not at all,’ he said, unperturbed.
