Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Two Stories

“No one. But I’m making an iron-clad promise. Immediately after you commit this very deed , I will also commit a deed. I swear to it. Let her rot in jail.” “This is depraved.” “You bet. She’ll get a substantial sentence.” “You son of a bitch, you traitor!” “Well,” said uncle Marik, “so what if I’m a traitor.” And he ordered another beer. The evening was incredibly luminous. And one could, incidentally, marvel at the strutting of the young man leaving the cafe – he was walking out having assumed an expression of such maturity and a delectable air of his own superiority. The life he now had in store was equal to the quantity of the air in this April’s expanse. And that old, bald traitor, his nose stuck in his beer, was entitled to no earthly measure of forgiveness.

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