Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Judeophile

the departed my final respects. “What did he die off?”

“He caught a cold,” Vera Petrovna replied laconically, even more dryly than she had before, over the phone. I hesitated, but nevertheless got it out: “PyotrNaumovich was writing a book... If you have no need for these materials, then... I wouldn’t want them to disappear”. The watchdog, who barely fit in the armchair, made some sort of a fidgeting motion, obviously irritated by something. “You see,” said Vera Petrovna, “all the materials, according to father’swill, were donated to theAcademy’s archives...” It seemed to me that she was lying, but there was nothing I could do. Lena was sitting in the corner, stunned and blankly silent. When I politely said goodbye (the watchdog didn’t stir one bit at this,) she rose up to see me out. I didn’t even hug her in the old, familiar stairwell. It was as though the glue which had held us together all these years had suddenly come undone. “Are you pregnant?” I suddenly guessed it. “I see...” The street was crowded and noisy, and it now became absolutely clear to me that we are entirely alone in this universe – each to himself. “Grampa was acting strange at the end,” she said. “He had decided to go out on Red Square with some sort of a sign board. Only by a

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