How?
A sleepy tributary with a cafe, a bank, and a cinema, Ulitsa Bahrushina T’s into Zatsepskii Val, a choking stretch of 6-lane highway grafted onto the heart of Moscow. On the sidewalk, food, drink, news, and waste kiosks form an aperture militating efficiency to the pulses of the men and women exiting in 45-second intervals from metro Paveletskaya. A square foot here costs 10,000 dollars, yet the corner, large enough for a duplicate of the two-story house that neighbors it, is the lot of a babushka heckling passersby. Exceptionally, today her turf is mounded a meter high with red and blue plaid fiber-reinforced sacks and bulging duffle bags atop which she is sitting akimbo and spread eagle. I stride past, disengage onto Bahrushina and watch. At her feet are six feral dogs- she is tearing pirogis in half and throwing them to the ones who stand tallest on their hind legs. She looks at me and screams, “What’s wrong with you? Go on the cock, you cunt! Go fuck yourself,” and then things I don’t understand.
No comments:
Post a Comment