Read Online Calligraphy Lesson by Mikhail Shishkin - Free Book Online Page A

rushed to the dream book and read that if the beard is long, that means honor and respect; if short, a trial. Lord, what drivel! Wait a little. Alexei Pavlovich will be home from work soon.
    No no, Verochka Lvovna, 7 I’ll just help you tidy up and be on my way.
    But Zhenya, this might just be the healing action of the little gray housedress. Who knows? And the whole point was to get away from the hospital gown. Listen, there’s no way I can thank you for all you’ve done for us. I do realize how unpleasant it is—the trips to the hospital, the bandages, the pus, the bedpan.
    Stop it! And don’t you dare say those things ever again. Did they bring your prosthesis?
    What prosthesis? It’s an ordinary brassiere they’ve stuffed with something. Help me hook it up.
    There, Verochka Lvovna, look how nice.
    At home, in the dark entryway, I bumped into suitcases.
    Zhenya, how you’ve grown! I barely recognize you! I remember you when you were this high! You and your father were always playing Gulliver. He’d spread his legs and shout, “Gulliver!” And you’d run back and forth, bubbling over with giggles. Remember? I came to visit and everyone here was hysterical because you’d eaten two apricots and swallowed the pits. The pits were sharp and got stuck in your bottom. Poor thing, you were wailing and no one knew what to do. They were just about to take you to the hospital, but I said, “Stop!” I washed my hands, poured oil over my finger, and in I went! I rotated one pit and both popped out as if they’d been shot from a cannon. And this is my Roman. Do you recognize my Roman? You were little when he and I came to visit and you played together. There was no leaving you alone for a minute or there’d be a fight. Remember how you ate all the candies and said it was him? I locked myself up in the bathroom with little Roman and took a belt to him. Immediately you pounded on the door: “Aunt Mika, 8 Aunt Mika, don’t beat him, don’t beat him, it was me!” You look so much like your papa, not at all like your mama. Your mama and I were like sisters. Here, look, this is us at the seashore, hugging, wearing identical swimsuits. That’s what we told everyone, that we were sisters. Then she got married, became a provincial, and had you. That’s where everything happened toyour mama, too. We aren’t staying long, Zhenya dear. Your papa wrote, “Stay as long as you like.” But we’re here just a little while. Once Roman passes his exams, we’ll find an apartment. How pretty you’ve become! May Roman touch your face?
    Kind Alexei Pavlovich, something’s happened. Oh no, as always the ardor of my feelings raises no doubts. But in the last few days, I admit, I haven’t been able to shake a sensation that I can’t bring myself to put into words. Just like in Gulliver, the picture, remember? You’re the cook, you’re plucking a turkey, I’m sewing something, and suddenly a face peeks in the window, only it’s not a face of our—Lilliputian—proportions. The turkey falls to the floor. The needle jabs my finger, and the people we’d imagined ourselves to be up to that moment, whose lives were special and happy, are thrown into disarray. But I knew you were right before, you know. It only seems that you’re sculpting me in your own image and likeness, whereas in this reality, rainy since morning, you yourself are merely the fruit of my fantasies, a perfectly commonplace occurrence in belles lettres . Apparently, it doesn’t take a great mind or an exacting imagination to create this world. Make the paper white, the ink black, yesterday’s leftover bread stale, the stockings thrown over the chair back, having given up the ghost, the window transparent from rain, the sky grayish, and the land sinful. But maybe nothing worse happened than what you so feared. Even that little fool Psyche