Back to Moscow

Начало книги

FIRST I NOTICED THE cockroaches. Smaller, quicker. Every time the lights went on, I glimpsed their glossy mahogany shells darting across the floor. They were called tarakany and, perhaps because I liked the word, I felt no hostility towards them. They roamed freely around my room, enjoying the darkness beneath the rusty cot, crawling up the cracked walls, onto the desk — totally unconcerned by my presence.

Other than the cockroaches, Sektor E was deserted. On my first night I’d ventured into the maze of corridors hoping to bump into other international students. To my disappointment, I’d heard nothing but the creaking of the wooden floors under my feet. I’d located the communal kitchen, strewn with empty vodka bottles and crushed beer cans. The fridges were stocked with a wide selection of used ketchup and rancid milk, courtesy of the language students who had fled the university at the end of summer, just before my arrival.

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