“Are you asleep? That’s all right, you sleep now…”
“Well,” – Yevdokia begins, – “make up your minds about that TV.”
It’s an early, grey morning. “Now Maria Grigorievna Petrova is on the air.” They honor her with her patronymic, but her voice is weak, like a child’s, as if she hasn’t lived yet. Just the right voice to tell stories.
Sofia is frozen in her chair – she’s listening.
“Well, it’s a bit expensive,” – Glikeria has her doubts, – “I hardly know…”
“Other people manage to buy them, though. Antonina says you have to wait for your turn to get one.”
“Well, maybe they’ve got money to spare. Not that many mouths to feed.”
“Where from? …” – Glikeria waves her hand. – “There aren’t any masters any more: everybody lives on their salaries or retirement benefits.”
“You don’t say,” – Yevd
