25
At the end of our second year, Vika says to me:
“Why don’t you ask Sergei Borisovich for tutorials? He’s a good teacher, and he obviously likes you. Talk to him.”
Her advice seems sound. I ask S. B., he replies evasively:
“Actually, I’ve already promised to take on two students. I should know in a day or two whether I can take on a third. Ring me at home, here’s my number. Just don’t leave it too long, I’m going away soon.”
Damn it, I can find neither pen nor paper. So I say:
“I’ll remember.”
“It’s not easy: 222 59 74.”
Not so tricky, I think to myself. Three twos, that’s simple, then the next four digits are Beethoven’s quartets’ opus numbers.
“I’ll remember.”
I see a smile spread over S. B.’s face, from ear to ear. I don’t like that smile – it’s unpleasant, nasty, as if he w
