Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Svyatoslav Loginov

– Where to, father? – Lahta. He whistled, looked over my quarter-century-old suit. – That’s a ways… I’ll take you for forty. A merciful price, would you believe it… Should be no less than fifty to out there. Off we go. The ‘Jigul’ popped out onto St. Petersburg’s Primorski expressway, the yellow maples of Elagin Island visible off to the left, beyond the blue ribbon of the Big Nevka river. The thought of never seeing those trees green again seemed completely unreal. – Where to here? – Make a left. Pull over by that entrance there. Veered over right to the bottom step. Lowered his head to read the sign: ‘Hospice’ – oh look, he got it! There goes the color in his face. Ilya Ilych pulled out a hundred ruble bill – theMotherland does not forget those whose sons it puts in the ground, – handed it to the driver. – You got anything smaller? Don’t think I can make change… – Just take it. Have a drink to… my health. He takes off, tires screeching, as if afraid someone might

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