ALL THE GRAVES
I didn’t think I slept, but when I woke up, the daylight was reliable and unhurried. I lay in bed for a long time.
Lidia Ivanovna Ivanova, in a broken, feeble voice, did not refuse to meet, but she asked me to see her in two weeks, when she would have recovered from an illness. I waited six weeks, confident that the old lady wouldn’t die before I saw her.
Number ten in Simferopol alley, fourth floor, a door covered in fake leather. It took her a long time to reach the door, to walk inaudibly from far inside her apartment, but she did, and she opened the door.
A white shirt and a woolen vest. She was small and upright. She had a short, neat haircut. Lips touched with lipstick. She had gotten ready. When old people get ready, they dress in the way they would like to lie in
