My real self wanders elsewhere, far away, wanders on and on invisibly and has nothing to do with my life.
I love you in my own selfish way.
”Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.
Bon jour!” sang Ippolit Matveyevich to himself as he lowered his legs from the bed.
“Bon jour” showed that he had woken up in a good humor. If he said “Guten Morgen”
on awakening, it usually meant that his liver was playing tricks, that it was no joke being
fifty-two, and that the weather was damp at the time.
The strangest things were going on in Ippolit Matveyevich’s head. He could hear the sound of gypsy choirs and orchestras composed of big-breasted women playing the tango over and over again; he imagined the Moscow winter and a long-bodied black trotter that snorted contemptuously at the passers-by. He imagined many different things: a pair of deliriously expensive orange-coloured panties, slavish devotion, and a possible trip to Cannes…