“Where are you now? Who kisses the tips of your fingers? Where has your c******n Lee gone?”
Artiom squinted at the Chinese man, who slept nearby, but he seemed not to hear the words of the song. He sat on his second level, stroking his neck and face, as though he were finding himself again under his hands, his body and his consciousness.
“Shut up, you f*****g operetta!” yelled one of the gangsters who hadn’t gotten up yet.
Moisei Solomonovich tripped in the middle of a word.
“I thought I was being quiet,” he said to the air, shrugging his shoulders.
In any case, Moisei Solomonovich didn’t remain quiet for long. Soon enough he was rumbling something barely audible — they were bringing in the food.
You could stand in line and wait forty minutes before it was your turn, but Artiom culti
