Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Svyatoslav Loginov

after another, no rush. Where have I got to rush to? You can’t be late to where I am going. It is a long walk, though – a good three hours at a brisk pace. Too bad my pace isn’t what it used to be, I am afraid I might not make it at all. Well, I’ll flag down a taxi then, or just get a ride with one of them ‘mahr’ (dowry) drivers… What is it with that strange word, this Islamic ‘mahr’? What, are all these seedy drivers planning to take middle eastern beauties for wives and are saving up for bridewealth? Half of them are long married, but mahr drivers they are still. At least there is no problem getting a ride anymore, simply fling out an arm, and just about any car will pull over: where to, father? Where, where… nowhere! Take me to nowhere, and if you don’t know the way there then take me straight to the morgue. A step, and then another… and another long, agonizing step. The pain burrows into the right side of the body, passes over the ribs, shoots into the arm. Immediately the cane becomes essential, for his weakened legs would not hold him, and Ilya Ilych would have been forced to sit down straight in the middle of the sidewalk. “A sittin’ fool… shouldn’t have tried to show off, you idiot… wanted to strut your stuff. Before whom, pray tell? Ah, well, just got to make it to the bench, that’s the main thing, then I can rest.” A step, and then another… And there is that bench. And the pain, well I’ll be damned, it’s subsided once more,

258