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The picture turned out to be from the future, from the next day: a man in a camisole and another in a sailor’s cape showed up at midday right in front of a small building with a sign “Groceries.” They stood in the dusty, sunny street of the small town with the strange name VIL, which turned out to be neither Assyrian nor Aramaic but simply the perpetualisation of the initials of our unforgettable leader, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. What happened next was repeated over the next few days in all the local shops. The odd couple entered and asked to buy tarpaulin. As much as possible.
In some places they were offered deckchairs, in others – tents, and in some they were told everything Russian shop assistants hardened in verbal battles with consumers should say. The couple listened to all this pa
