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Sofia Andrukhovych
poisonously purple lips, coal-
black eyebrows. The man is
relatively slight in stature,
thin, delicate, just like his
other half; on his narrow face
(eyes and brows also heavily
painted) sticks out a fake
mustache, no less absurd
than on the fabric ball that
had served as the dummy’s
head.
The pair dances to the
uneven sounds of the sitar
which do not much resemble
a proper melody. In fact, the
movements of the man and
the woman you also cannot
call dance: they rock back
and forth like sleepwalkers,
sluggishly turn their heads,
bend their backs, as if
stretching after a long sleep;
they touch each other with
their fingertips as if they
are trying to recall someone
forgotten.
“And how will our smart miss
explain this?” I hear a caustic
whisper next to me. Petro
smiles with the right side of
his mouth.
“Later, I’ll tell you later,” I shoo
him. “Now I must remember
everything.”
Mrs. Festenburg hisses at
us like an angry goose, even
puffs her wattle. I look at
Adela: her eyes are open
wide, her mouth half-parted;
it looks like she is holding
her breath. Petro follows my
gaze, for a moment peers into
Adela’s fair face, and I see
how a wave of feeling rolls
through him: he too begins
to radiate breathlessly. I turn
to the stage but something
now begins to interfere
with my enjoyment of the
performance, some parasite
has sucked up to my heart
and poisons my blood.
In the meantime the child
puts the sitar on the floor