Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Felix Austria

This gives chevalier’s face a sly expression. The tip of his nose parts just barely. He has a neatly trimmed bristly gray mustache and similarly neat goatee. On chevalier’s head a silk top hat; he is dressed in a swallowtail coat that emphasizes his imposing stature. Under the coat there is a snow-white shirt with a starched high collar with bent tips. The lighting picks out emerald sparkles of his apparently precious cufflinks. Over the shirt is a white pique vest with three buttons. A silk bow tie. A white pocket square, white gloves. Everything like it should be on an illusionist. Satin side stripes on his trousers. His lacquered shoes glisten. On his right arm bent at the elbow, a piece of black fabric hangs. In his hand, Thorn holds a traveling trunk

with leather handles. “I know how he did it,” I whisper in Adela’s ear, as she sits between Petro and me, firmly holding both of us by the hand. Petro also leans in closer so that he can hear. I notice Mrs. Helena Festenburg, one of the organizers of our city amateur theater circle, sizing me up angrily, her nervous lips grown thin as a thread. But I continue, seeking to satisfy Adela and Petro’s curiosity: “He was covered head to toe with the fabric he is now holding. On the inside it is blue-and-red, stripy, just like the pagoda, blending with it.” I am positive that I did not imagine this, that I clearly saw the silk cover smoothly slide down—it was as if someone pulled the thinnest upper layer off the air.

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