BRIDGE

Flecks of sunlight in the grass, which was wet after the died-out rain, fitted successfully the pattern of her light dress. They walked along an alley. Outgushing from ringing light-blue heights, the sun filled everything around and slopped over: it beat through transparent leaves, played in the grass, shined in her eyes and her smile. And it seemed that in the whole world, there was no force, able to tame that mad feast of light. The dress rustled in time to her steps, and he walked a little bit behind just to hear better those native sounds. She talked constantly, while he listened to her voice, and her dress, and stood still with happiness, when she turned around again and again to look into his eyes. "Aw, that's all of you! Wind's blown my hair about, but you're silent,"  she laughed with a playful reproach, then unpinned, and, wagging her thrown back head, unbound her hair For a short instant, the sun became even bigger, and then he nearly choked, when, having lifted her hands to the nape, she put all that magnificence together in a heavy knot.

Sergeyev had already been walking for six hours, as he left at once after dark. The ground was already thoroughly frozen, but there was no snow yet. He allowed himself a short halt only two times, and when he closed his eyes, he saw again the overmastering sun of that far-off spring shining, her dress rustling, her voice sounding, and her laughing, when she turned around to his eyes He had to hasten away. Soon, there must be the bridge, there was already little time left. Sergeyev mended his pace. He could not be late. He had no right.

Igor Savchenko

Minsk  Warsaw  Baden-Baden  Minsk

May-June 2001

Russian-English translation: Andrej Bursau