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The third year. They are both lecturing us – S. B. is teaching contemporary music, Skvortsov, Russian music. I find it hard to see either of them. I had, of course, offended Skvortsov – he can’t understand why I refused to study under him.
On the eve of the exam I’m sitting in the Lenin Library revising the score of Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess. I’m singing something under my breath. Suddenly Ratner comes along, strikes up a conversation. Although she doesn’t say anything in particular, I don’t like talking to her: her words are gilded with lemonade but they taste of pure bile. There are well-wishers who wish only themselves well, and as for what they wish you, well, obviously nothing good, so it’s better not to ask.
I’m taking my exam. It’s Nadia’s turn next. She walks into the classro
