Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

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

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