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Moscow Dogs


Part One
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There was someone at the door. „…forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred.
Twenty, forty sixty eighty, a hundred.’ Three taps, softly. Ivan
Vladimirovitch.
He brought me tort that his mother made as well as other tidbits. He
was always asking me what I was doing here and saying how he worried that
I didn’t eat enough and that you had to be careful with your health here
because there were lots of bad things here and was my room warm enough
and did I need extra blankets. His father was a local judge and he gave to his
only child beyond what was decent, mapping out a scheme for his son, a
means to allow him everything he wished. I never took Ivan seriously when
he told me how awful life was in Moscow, whilst at the same time he was
spread out like a tired pussy cat, consoled by the extravagance of his
parent’s garden ring apartment, neither when he said he had a lover, though
it was notable that he never took to naming names, for the impression I duly
formed, was that there was something of the queer about Ivan.
„I’m going to London, Leo. Pradstavlayesh? We’ve spoken with
Papa about the Royal College. Help me with my English. I’m going to
make new friends...’
Yes Ivan, all your wonderful friends waiting for you there, waiting on
Hampstead Heath after dark, in the toilets of the underground, and in
Bloomsbury Square. „ Go Ivan, quick, bistra,’ I thought, „they’re waiting for
you and your father’s money!’ But I didn’t encourage him. I didn’t even
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