Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Naum Vaiman

decaying leaves...

Once upon a time, on a sunny day in April, I set off for Izmailovo, where, after the crackdown on Pushkin Square and around Ivan Fedorov monument (apparently, the authorities had decided to reign in the book market at this shrine to Russia’s first book printer,) the swap meet had temporarily moved. I was in search of a bible – it was high time for me to somehow cover with a fig leave the gaping hole in my acquaintance with my own history and its role in world culture. A bible cost fifty rubles at a minimum, two month’s stipend, and I only had a twenty-ruble note on me, but I did have books to trade; in the extreme case, I was prepared to part even with my “intimates”. The flea market was situated along both sides of a well- trodden path, along which the blackened and crusted over snowbanks still persisted; hundreds of pairs of feet were kneading the spring mud, and periodically, someone would slip and fall, spurring a brief period of confusion. The sellers had placed some of their books on top of newspapers, spreadover thebaldpatchesofdriedground or on the iced-over sections of snow, carrying some of their wares underarm, and the most precious of the books in the deep inside pockets of their old overcoats; for such affairs, people dressed indiscriminately. I was pacing along the displayed books like a voluptuary at a

196