Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Felix Austria

the flying out of something unimaginably weird— for something entirely unthinkable to happen, something completely unfathomable. And they are fully prepared for this, tensed and frightened, utterly excited. But nothing happens. Five minutes pass. Seven. Eight. The stage is just as boring and dark. The pagoda, familiar to the tiniest details, sticks out absurdly, senselessly. And now the air that had been taught like a string begins to sag, yielding its place to disappointment and irritation. No tightrope walker could take a stroll on it now, waving dangerously above the audience’s heads. The chairs squeak more and more vigorously, thewhispers grow louder, blending into a monotonous thicket of

sound broken by occasional, ever more frequent shouts. A wave of sighs rolls through the theater, passing from one person to the next, without any desire or consent—what intimacy, it is just like kissing. Some gray-haired corpulent gentleman (it is hard to see in the dark, but it seems this is the grumbly Mr. Bibring, Master of Pharmaceutical Sciences), groaning and snuffling, tries to rise from his seat, grabs the back of the chair in front of him and the outstretched hands of his neighbors, but each time heavily falls back, which makes his monocle fall out, dangling on a golden chain, while Mr. Bibring (yes, that’s him), puffing his cheeks and nostrils, almost breaks out in sparks from anger. A few people have already left, others hesitate, trying to decide whether to wait

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