It makes other books seem idle and irrelevant.
The stories are beautifully designed traps that snap shut with a satisfying slam. Neither slices of life nor experiments.
Osipov seems to be engaged in a capacious, easy-going realism. The title story starts off as an episode of “Midsomer Murders” translated to contemporary Russia. It doesn’t neglect to have mild fun with the provincial backwater and the imperious Boss Lady. But then ugliness takes over. It’s clear, but not an exposé.
Osipov tends to be reticent. But the information he provides is so pertinent and complete - though presented as if casually without melodrama or emphasis - that the end doesn’t require spelling out.
A list of the things Osipov omits would be very long: no melodrama, outrage or righteousness. No romance, no patriotism, no devotion to ones work, no religious belief, no philosophy, no heroism, no love of nature, pets, or literature, …. No community, no hope.
The tone is dire but not hysterical: Osipov keeps his head.
There is also humor. But a kind of humor that waxes and wanes over the course of a story, and afterwards. “On the Banks of the Spree” is – in one sense – a succession of increasingly hilarious episodes in the style of O. Henry. The daughter of dying KGB agent travels to Berlin to meet, for the first time, her German half-sister. But the woman refuses to believe Betty’s story. For one thing, here are photos of the grave of her mother and father. Betty tries to explain that father's "grave" was just a part of a deception that no longer matters. Her half-sister will have none of it. For Osipov, it’s light comedy; comic relief from John LeCarré. But the sting it leaves is overpowering. The stench it evokes. A vision of the future.