Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Naum Vaiman

“I see,” Lena nodded her head and also smiled. We got to talking. Then, she offered me a smoke, but I said I don’t smoke. She was surprised. In order to show her that I wasn’t such a boy scout and bookworm, I said that I do it for sport, that I box. This confession immediately struck me as bragging and, in order to smooth over this impression, I launched into a rapid- fire monologue about our coach, Nikiforov, what a marvelous old man he was, that in ‘25, he was the light heavyweight champion of Russia, and that even now, when he puts up his dukes, you better not get your mug in his way and, if she’s interested, tomorrow, at four, in our gym, there will be a match against the Power Engineering Institute, for bragging rights among Moscow’s universities. I tried to be modest (the modest know why they are being modest, Goethe used to say,) and said that I had made the team by accident: our regular welterweight, in the second match, got sick. I somehow even forgot that I would probably get my mug bashed in this time (when Nikiforov offered me the spot, I even thought to say no – the entire MPE team consisted practically of masters of sport, and if that’s really so, then – they’ll have to carry me out of the ring). My inspired flood of words was interrupted by the sound of the front door being slammed shut. After another minute, Pyotr Naumovich entered the room, wearing a thrown open general’s uniform, all covered in medals and shiny like a New Year’s tree, and slightly tipsy. Clicking his heels, he made a deep bow to me. I

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