taking their sea dips. Now Iâm thinking about how long it will take Tamara to sweep all the dog hair and other traces of our presence out of the flat.
The riddle of the plane remains unresolved: it has simply crept behind a cloud. Itâs time for me and Phil to creep away too. Weâve met and kissed, and now itâs goodbye: they need to rest after their journey. We can only hope that the hot water has come back on in our own building and feel a little regretful. Even the sentinel in the entrance had already begun to recognise us. Generally speaking, Phil and I are not much like the inhabitants of this place, so at first I had a feeling that the concierge was just dying to ask who I was and what business I had here. But he was a proud ex-military man and he didnât ask, so now he will never know that Iâm a writer and I was moved in here temporarily, to water my ex-wifeâs plants. And also because in the low-class housing development where I live, and which is where I belong, they fix the leaky water mains in the summer.
For two weeks, while Tamara and Dmitry Pavlovich basked in the natural delights of the Adriatic, I have basked in the amenities of civilisation. How very pleasant life is in an elite neighbourhood! In the morning here thereâs no gurgling, sneezing and hacking from old Zhigulis out in the yard. They donât demand anybodyâs attention, because they arenât there, but even if they were, no one would hear them through the triple glazing. At dawn the silent, mysterious yard keepers have already done their job and dissolved into the bright rays of sunshine, like little elves. The fountain has woken up and started sparkling. And there are gentlemen in high-quality suits, striding from the entrances to the parking lot along freshly washed pavements, still glittering with moisture. They swing their high-quality leather briefcases in their hands and twirl the keys of their high-quality automobiles on their fingers. These gentlemen are Moscowâs upper middle class, the hope and support of the new Russia. Meanwhile at this hour the new Russia that has been born here, in this monolithic brick tower, is snuffling in its cradles or already eating its pap. After the heads of families have driven off to their offices, the only people left in the building and the general neighbourhood are dependents, the individuals for whom the toiling gentlemen are a support in the literal sense: their little children, their beautiful wives and their mothers, who have been brought in from somewhere in the Lyubertsy district. And although this entire community left behind here creates no added value, they are the ones for whom the avenue with the babbling fountain has been laid out in the spacious courtyard, it is for them that the top-class playgrounds for children and dogs have been built, and the health club, with its âOPENâ sign already on display first thing in the morning.
Phil and I have lived a very, very comfortable life in this elite neighbourhood. Of course, there are even classier places in Moscow and the surrounding areas, only they say that no one ever comes back from there. But wherever Phil and I might live, whether temporarily or permanently, in the morning we always rise in response to the call of nature. That is, only when Phil canât hold out any longer and he starts licking my nose to make me sneeze and wake up. This usually happens some time during the hour before noon, that is, at a time which in any urban courtyard, elite or not, could be called the hour of the dependents. The bemedalled gentleman in the hallway has watched us pass by with a bewildered, questioning glance. On several occasions I felt an urge to explain myself to him, but I couldnât, because Philâs natural needs would brook no delay. And anyway, a retired military man was hardly likely to understand the difference between a writer without a job and an idle loafer.
On our way to the
The riddle of the plane remains unresolved: it has simply crept behind a cloud. Itâs time for me and Phil to creep away too. Weâve met and kissed, and now itâs goodbye: they need to rest after their journey. We can only hope that the hot water has come back on in our own building and feel a little regretful. Even the sentinel in the entrance had already begun to recognise us. Generally speaking, Phil and I are not much like the inhabitants of this place, so at first I had a feeling that the concierge was just dying to ask who I was and what business I had here. But he was a proud ex-military man and he didnât ask, so now he will never know that Iâm a writer and I was moved in here temporarily, to water my ex-wifeâs plants. And also because in the low-class housing development where I live, and which is where I belong, they fix the leaky water mains in the summer.
For two weeks, while Tamara and Dmitry Pavlovich basked in the natural delights of the Adriatic, I have basked in the amenities of civilisation. How very pleasant life is in an elite neighbourhood! In the morning here thereâs no gurgling, sneezing and hacking from old Zhigulis out in the yard. They donât demand anybodyâs attention, because they arenât there, but even if they were, no one would hear them through the triple glazing. At dawn the silent, mysterious yard keepers have already done their job and dissolved into the bright rays of sunshine, like little elves. The fountain has woken up and started sparkling. And there are gentlemen in high-quality suits, striding from the entrances to the parking lot along freshly washed pavements, still glittering with moisture. They swing their high-quality leather briefcases in their hands and twirl the keys of their high-quality automobiles on their fingers. These gentlemen are Moscowâs upper middle class, the hope and support of the new Russia. Meanwhile at this hour the new Russia that has been born here, in this monolithic brick tower, is snuffling in its cradles or already eating its pap. After the heads of families have driven off to their offices, the only people left in the building and the general neighbourhood are dependents, the individuals for whom the toiling gentlemen are a support in the literal sense: their little children, their beautiful wives and their mothers, who have been brought in from somewhere in the Lyubertsy district. And although this entire community left behind here creates no added value, they are the ones for whom the avenue with the babbling fountain has been laid out in the spacious courtyard, it is for them that the top-class playgrounds for children and dogs have been built, and the health club, with its âOPENâ sign already on display first thing in the morning.
Phil and I have lived a very, very comfortable life in this elite neighbourhood. Of course, there are even classier places in Moscow and the surrounding areas, only they say that no one ever comes back from there. But wherever Phil and I might live, whether temporarily or permanently, in the morning we always rise in response to the call of nature. That is, only when Phil canât hold out any longer and he starts licking my nose to make me sneeze and wake up. This usually happens some time during the hour before noon, that is, at a time which in any urban courtyard, elite or not, could be called the hour of the dependents. The bemedalled gentleman in the hallway has watched us pass by with a bewildered, questioning glance. On several occasions I felt an urge to explain myself to him, but I couldnât, because Philâs natural needs would brook no delay. And anyway, a retired military man was hardly likely to understand the difference between a writer without a job and an idle loafer.
On our way to the
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