Auntie on the guitar strings, plum plum . . .She and mum sang like that sometimes . . .two voices
Behind the window . . .white with white . . .there is cherry in the garden . . .
But no, they don’t allow them to sing. You can’t kill conversation anyhow, not kill, Auntie laughs and quietly leaves the guitar in the corner. ‘Efim! pronounces one of the guests, one of the institute colleagues. ‘Reckon on it.’ Mum squints, throws herself onto the armchair. I have a very beautiful mum. ‘Reckon on it!’ already a little whim. ‘How is it there?’, Auntie quietly asks. ‘Yes almost already. The apples are ready, but the potato is tough . . .’ in a tone Mum answers. ‘And I take it into account!’ Dad in excitement, his eye lights up. Dad is drunk. ‘Go on!’ ‘Get out!’ ‘But you want to’ Dad doesn’t know
