Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Svyatoslav Loginov

The approaching gentleman had a straw boater hat! A white Marcella shirt with French cuffs and a studded detachable collar! He donned pants with foot straps and a striped vest with a watch pocket! A silver chain ran in a graceful loop over to the pocket, and there wasn’t a shadow of a doubt that the watch in it was also made of silver, with a flip-back lid embellished with a handsome engraving. And the feet that trod so easily upon the grey stuff were attired in lacquered black shoes. – I am too late! – wailed the runner. – As I live and breathe, I am too late! Oh, what has he done, the poor fool! … I am coming, sir! – The latter he bellowed out with the full force of his voice, even though he was now all of ten feet away from Ilya Ilych. Ilya Ilych rose up to meet him. He was discomfited, and so felt his nakedness with particular acuteness. By all appearances, the owner of the mini-heaven where Ilya Ilych made such an unapologetic mess had arrived. Can’t hide a thing, either, there they are, his footprints, bloated, laid bare for the world to see, as if imprinted on melting snow. What on earth could he possibly say in his defense now? Lost his pants, but hasn’t learned a lick of sense! – Or maybe not too late!.. – mumbled the newcomer, coming to a halt and taking in Ilya Ilych’s naked figure. He proceeded to take a breath, then blurted out: – Do you speak English? Nǐ huì shuō zhōngwén ma? Sprechen sie Deutsch?

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