Just like before, that time too, the most important things were not spoken. Both  both she and he were listening to each other's voices, divided by time zones, thousand miles, and kilometers, and not less long years. That night, behind his window, a thunder-storm had been blustering for more than an hour, and the atmospheric electricity's rustles, cold jets, which were hitting the window, trees in gushes of wind, and peals of thunder were their interlocutors. Her call, always awaited and unhoped-for at that minute, found him when he was shaving  the parcel, delivered by hand, was now open, he had been ordered to leave without delay in half an hour. The train was already being prepared. The conversation was flagging, he was nervous and lingered away saying words of farewell.

Suddenly, the cloudburst fell out of the blue, just at that moment when she replaced the receiver. "My hat! As if in a bad playlet" She approached the opened window. Splashes were falling on the floor from the window and cooling her bare feet. A rough cloud, invisible before, was moving forward out of a house's roof right above her head, and, covering all of the sky, was slowly overriding the sun, which had already slithered down to the green ocean. It darkened. The first lightnings simultaneously flashed from different sides.

Igor Savchenko

Minsk  Warsaw  Baden-Baden  Minsk

May - June 2001

Russian-English translation: Andrej Bursau