“So where is it we’re going?” the driver interrupts.
My brother is offended.
“Why, how impatient you are, old man. Straight on as far as the tunnel, then we’ll turn off and carry straight on again…”
“And is it far?”
“No… close by here.”
“Where are we going, though?”
I’m interested in this question too — the meter is rapidly gobbling up the pitiful remnants of my money.
“To Bolshevo,” my brother mumbles in annoyance and turns towards me again.
“To Bolshevo!” the driver exclaims, and it’s immediately clear to me that that’s somewhere a long way away. “Where in Bolshevo?”
“Past the station, over the Klyazma and to the right.”
“But that’s just a forest path!”
“We’ll make it there fine,” my brother says, with a wink at me. “Artists don’t live on the main thoroughfares… Not yet… But,
