Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

ever caught in his career as a Southeast London fullback, but only the sniffing dog of his girlfriend, with whom he’d moved in only a few days earlier, was there to witness the amazing feat. “What on Earth?” asked Fergus, looking up at the sky searching for an answer, more or less around the fifth floor where an appalled Nurse Marianne was leaning out of the window. Four months later he became my godfather, my godlike all-protecting saviour, but I don’t want to rush ahead. Fergus was kneeling on the damp grass under the windows of the east wing of the clinic, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, and I, desperately and (forever) futilely began to yell for a breast. Of Aza nothing remained but one useless right rubber thong, which she carelessly threw into a corner before putting on her sneakers. She changed into the dress she had been wearing when the contractions started, when it was time to go to the hospital. Not ten hours had passed since then. Everything went so fast, so smoothly, such a promising start and, what with all the hurry, it was lucky that the flat wasn’t far from the hospital. Aza had stopped at the sink, legs apart, leaning forward and moaning in pain while a nervous Paul hurried to the hallway dresser looking for the envelope into which,

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