16
It’s my entrance exam for Gnessin College, the correspondence course. We’re milling around in the corridor waiting for the teacher. The history of music exam is about to begin. The teacher shows up at last. Introduces himself. He’s called Sergei Borisovich.
I can barely remember what the exam was about.
“We were very pleased with your answers,” I was told.
So that must mean I’ve been accepted. I blush, I expect. I usually do in such situations. Sergei Borisovich is sitting there, his legs crossed. He’s smoking, eyeing me up. When he turns round, I examine him surreptitiously. What is it they say about men like him? ‘The interesting type.’ But does that mean he is interesting as a person, too? I’ll have to wait until he turns sideways so I can see his profile. If you want to know wha
