Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Svyatoslav Loginov

fist. Therewas no doubting it now– hewas looking at Heaven! Or, rather, a craftily constructed model of it, probably a bit over half a hectare in size. Mulberry and apple trees, calico flowers in flower beds, idiotic columns and stuffed angels with palm branches, harps and double- edged Teutonic swords squeezed tight in their hands. Right in the center of this little garden, as expected, Ilya Ilych located a cloud topped with a carved armchair and atop that, the Lord God. As everything else around him, God was white and artificial. Slipping and assisting himself with the pole, Ilya Ilych clambered up onto the cloud, approached the model of the Almighty, and grabbed him by the ear. The sacrilege received no reaction. Or rather, the ear itself reacted, for it broke off, a bit of grayish powder pouring onto the surface below. – Oh, for crying out loud! – exclaimed Ilya Ilych, vexed. – Barely got here, and already destroying things, you vandal… I figured it’s papier-mâché, at least, not some dust. How I am supposed to fix this now? He bent down, picked up some of the powder, spit into his palm, trying to make some kind of paste that could be used to re-attach God’s ear. The ear would not stick. The Lord looked upon the goings-on with an all- forgiving smile and fearsomely knitted eyebrows. An absolutely ridiculous combination; clearly whoever had constructed the dilapidated decoration had no interest

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