Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

Igor Sakhnovsky

preoccupied with its own deep-water affairs. Across from me sat an attractive looking young mother, a Madonna with child, just as resolute as the sea. We sat down to eat without Gena. The wine was smooth and potent. It was starting to get dark. It seemed that the crushed grapevine, mixing with the blood, was slowly rising and stretching itself out to full height. The optics were somehow miraculously transformed, though nothing special was happening. The diner flowed effortlessly. The young mother sitting across from me remained as tranquil as before, slightly apart from the others. I suddenly noticed her again – and my breath was taken away. To call her beautiful would be denying far too much. She was majestic. Soft, pale lips, a limpid gaze. A mother ’s gentle softness, untouched by colors. The long line of the neck, a girlish collarbone, the milk- bearing heaviness of the breasts. An almost animal- like calm and meekness. I allowed myself to imagine the fortunate madman (almost as though it were me) who would abandon everything and wind up here, at the edge of a wild stretch of beach, for the sake of this “particular,” unattached woman with an infant. Schneiderman finally appeared with a meter-long broom of lavender, hugged and slobbered over everyone by turn, like a sailor at the end of a long journey, and planted himself next to the “Madonna”. It became suddenly clear that the woman’s name was

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