8
Beta comes to me in my dreams. With a dog. Like back then. We all go for a walk in the forest, the spring forest of three years ago. And Beta sits on a hillock among the yellow lamps of coltsfoot. The dog’s a big, amiable Airedale terrier, a bit on the daft side, and for some reason it reminds me of a friend from St. Petersburg: the poet Zhenya Rein. It jumps on Beta and, laughing, she throws herself onto her back. Her blouse rides up, baring a white strip of tummy. How I loved her then! But I didn’t say anything, kept mum. Because it wouldn’t do to say anything, because it wasn’t voiced yet. Though it was implied.
And then Beta and I go home – but we can’t get back. “Where’s our block of flats, Beta?” But no, it’s not there, our block isn’t there, and we roam the streets till dusk, an
