22
A knock at the door. A knock at the door? Impossible! Maybe it’s one of those mysterious noises that sometimes roam the house?
But the knock was repeated. A genuine, insistent knocknocknock. Only a visitor knocks like that…
N. opened the door. A man of around fifty was standing on the doorstep. He had a greying hedgehog of hair, was clean-shaven, self-assured, smiling, wearing an English sports jacket and carrying a reddish leather briefcase.
“I couldn’t help but come and visit my neighbour,” the visitor began. His manner of speech was very correct, intelligent. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Porozhdestvensky. Yes, that’s right, I have a strange surname. But my friends call me Kesha.”
N. burst out laughing – such a childish name really didn’t suit this grown-up gentleman. Altho
