THE LANGUAGE OF MOTHERLY HATRED
Lenka most likely told her mother herself. I can just imagine it: sitting in the corner, teeth chattering. “Smoking?!” Good Lord! Mother’s panic was justified: final exams just around the corner. “No, no, not us! We didn’t! They were lying.” “But they could give you bad marks for behaviour, no college will take you!” Or maybe she didn’t tell. Maybe one of the parents rang. Either way, Perova didn’t come to school the next day.
I answered the doorbell in my dressing gown, towel round my head, after the bath. She entered: “I want to talk to your mother.” Mum was already coming out of the living room to greet her. Raising her fur coat, Alla Georgiyevna sat on my sofa and announced she wanted to talk without me. I got up and went into another room. Alla Georgi
