|
An excerpt:
When I move on I almost collide with a procession of local artists. They
are not advancing in a flock as they usually do, but walking in single
file, each peering at the heels of the person in front as if afraid of
losing the trail. Heading the parade is Yura Pikulin, a small, thin man
with the face of a boy, but disconcertingly pale and haggard. Three thin
bearded individuals follow.
Yura bears before him, like the icon in a religious procession, a
painting shrouded in a sheet. His eyes are as white as if he were
wall-eyed, and fixed sightlessly ahead. Right now it is unlikely that
Yura can see any more than the blurred outlines of the Commercial Centre
through the fog of a cataclysmic hangover. Assuredly he has not seen me,
because he jumps a mile when I ask, “Flogging the picture?
He stops, trying to focus, and looks me up and down before croaking,
“Yup, there we are... Hello.”
The artist following Yura is Shura Reshetov, a lanky man with a long,
scrawny beard. He bumps into Yura and obediently stops without saying a
word; the others in turn bump into the person in front of them before
coming to a halt in a concertinaed column. |
Roman
Senchin |
“You wouldn’t, I don’t suppose... anything to drink?” Yura asks
in a parched, suffering voice.
“Skint.” I spread my arms. “Not a bent kopek.”
Yura gulps, frowns and walks on. Shura, Dima Kovrigin, and Sanya Missing
also start up like shunting wagons. I catch up with Yura and fall into
step beside him.
“What’s
the painting?”
“Here, look ... We’ve decided to realise ‘The Goddesses of Ganja’.”
“What are you doing!” I am genuinely shocked. I know this is
Yura’s pride and joy, one of the best things he has painted.
“Oh, what the hell!” he frowns again. “A man’s gotta drink.” |
