Mother Russia
Post Scriptum: It dawns on me I never told you very much (come to think of it anything) about the house in which I live. It is the (excuse the expression) cul of an L-shaped cul-de-sac. The structure as far as I can judge through my bifocals has no straight lines, no sharp edges, only worn angles and soft sexy shadows. The windows, some of which have eucalyptus branches on the sills stare out at the alleyway like bruised eyes, which is not unreasonable considering the house has seen more than most. In winter it leans into the winds that cut through the cul-de-sac. In summer it leans into winds that aren’t blowing. Inside it smells of sandalwood and peeling wallpaper and fireplaces that don’t draw. I mustn’t forget to mention the Boors creak under foot. The stairs too. I am moved to tell you all this because in one of the silences between sentences (ha! you see I am not all talk!) the sound of hammering reached my ears. Naturally I went down to see what was going on. Everyone who lives in the house was milling excitedly around a piece of paper that had just been tacked to a tree. My attic angrily scrawled across it, Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? What language is that, Jewish? asked a pretty young thing called Ophelia Long Legs. The paper served notice that the bosses who deal with such things have decided to tear down the last wooden house in central Moscow. To construct an enormous high-rise asylum. But that’s another story.
Or is it?
Robert Littell, Mother Russia (9781590209028)
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