29
It’s my fourth year at the Academy. S. B. is giving a course on contemporary music. I look out of the window. I can see the Hungarian embassy from here. I make notes mechanically, then turn my gaze to S. B. He’s still talking, but he’s facing the window now. He’s looking at the Hungarian embassy, too, and the Hungarian embassy is looking back at him, and quite innocently at that.
After the lecture, Vika and I bump into Rachmanova in the corridor. With a contemptuous half-smile she looks me over from top to toe:
“You’ve lost weight!”
Vika tells her:
“We’re studying in the same group now.”
Rachmanova, to me, spitefully:
“Still with Sergei Borisovich?”
“No, with Denisova.”
Vika adds:
“It’s me who’s with Sergei Borisovich.”
Rachmanova’s smile transforms into a fastidious grimace.
