Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Felix Austria

and starts bearing fruit, how out of mirrors, candlelight, and water, shadows emerge and start moving inside transparent vessels, how they dance hair-raising dances, how they answer questions from the audience. Inside the theater itself it is stuffy. The barely perceptible smell of oil from the gas lamps mixes with the greasy scent of hair pomade, sweet powder, and perfume. The rustling of silk and satin softly envelops the excited murmurs of the audience. The chairs upholstered in red plush are simultaneously coarse and tender to the touch. Excitement titillates the nerves: ladies’ cheeks are flushed; gentlemen, on the contrary, are subdued and focused. Someone’s noiseless silhouette floats along the

walls, the lights one after the other, hiding in the darkness the white molding covered in golden sparkles, the chairs, the audience—only the semicircular stage remains lit, covered by the blood- red folds of the curtain. The hall gradually descends into darkness and quiet, only the exotic butterflies of fans rustle with their giant gloomy wings. “I would kindly ask the lady to take off this caravel,” one hears angry whispering from somewhere. “This is impossible,” resounds an unshakable answer. “My hat is attached by pins. They would scatter around and someone might get hurt.” “But the lady makes it difficult not just for me— your hat obstructs the view for three persons!” insists extinguishing

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