Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Judeophile

On the appointed day, at seven o’clock in the evening, with the twenty in my pocket and the Tyutchev Complete, the 1913 Marx edition, in my bag, I entered the apartment house at the address I had been given, noting with surprise the massive Stalin-era building with balconies on the Prospect of Peace, the spacious lobby, and the spic and span staircase. You can imagine my amazement when the door was opened by Lena Kharitonovа. She was dressed in a casually unbuttoned cardigan and pants. I thought I was dreaming. She raised her eyebrows, recognizing one of her worshipers, and a smile barely escaped her lips. “Forgive me,” I mumbled, “Pyotr Naumovich… does he live here?” “Aa, you’re here to see grampa? He’s not here now.” “Yes, indeed… I was afraid I would be late, forgive me….” “Why don’t you come in and wait for him. If he said he’ll be here at seven, he will be here.” A large living room, old, solid-looking furniture, two monolithic book cases, to which my attention was involuntarily drawn. “You’re not by chance a student at the Communications Institute?” Lena asked. I smiled, happy to have been unmasked. “He asked me to come at seven.…” “But it’s only a quarter to now.”

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