Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Svyatoslav Loginov

Ilya Ilych loosened the string on his pouch, counted off ten of the larger coins, and handed them to the spotter. – Right? – Right! Like I said, a sensible man you are! – Afanasiy pulled his pouch from beneath the detachable collar and poured in his earnings. His pouch was exactly the same as Ilya Ilych’s, only considerably lighter. – How about those clothes? – reminded Ilya Ilych, who was really beginning to dread standing there naked, like a recruit before a medical commission. – Straight away, straight away! Give me a mnemon, I’ll show you how it’s done… Ilya Ilych shook his head, but handed over the mnemon without complaint. Afanasiy pressed the coin into his fist, and asked: – What kind of clothes? – The same kind I was wearing before I died, – replied Ilya Ilych, marveling as he did so at how easily he spoke of his own demise. – It was a good suit, nearly new. – That same suit, then… that we can do. For something brand new you’d have to go see a tailor. The next instant Ilya Ilych felt clothes upon his body. He really was wearing his old “nearly new” suit. Even the faded stain on the lapel that the dry cleaners failed to eliminate remained in place.

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