– Why is there no index?
– No index.
– How so?
Her colleague from the next window on the left, aВ woman ofВ about forty, probably having heard our dialogue, askedВ her:
– International?
– Yes.
– Then it is possible without an index.
– And how to send it, by air or by ground?
– As he wishes.
The girl clicked on the keyboard:
– No Hong Kong!
– How not?!
– Wait a minute, I’ll find out.
The girl went toВ the window on the right behind which aВ girl ofВ about twenty was also sitting:
– Take a look at Hong Kong.
– Wait a minute…
– You don’t have it either!
The girls asked me inВ bewilderment:
– And what is Hong Kong?
– Hong Kong is a former British colony, in 1996 it went to China.
– Wait a minute… No, not in China either… I’ll ask the boss.
The boss, aВ woman ofВ about fifty, casting aВ glance at my parcel, pointed her finger at the monitor:
– This is Hong Kong.
Then she took a pen and wrote “Hong Kong” on the parcel post, crossing out the words “Kong Kong” I had written in a hurry.
SkyscraperВ girl
Hello dear American girl! I am very glad that you answered me. We’ve got hares at every turn. Shoo, damn it! On your letter I answer unequivocally. We need warm socks. And felt boots will not hurt. Minus thirty is not a pine hedgehog for you. We have few poachers, and even then only passers-by. Nature is beautiful. White steppe. Fir-trees are green. The girls are only in the plague, and even then until dawn. I would be with them, but the gray hair does not start up. In general, come, you will find out everything yourself.
Always modestly yours, Yatagan Yatagansky
Trains
I like trains. I like to come to the platform and listen to the arrival announcements from the loudspeaker. At the sound of an approaching train, I fall into a light trance. I love underpasses, rails and benches where you can smoke and watch what is happening. I like to wander around the station, going from ticket offices to waiting rooms. I love unshaven taxi drivers and pies in a cafe. The smell of a vestibule, conductors and hot tea in a compartment along with refined sugar bags and funny tinkling teaspoons. The clatter of wheels, the upper shelves and the smell of dirty but skins that you touch with your nose when passing on a reserved seat carriage. I love unwashed toilets in which you lose your balance from the rocking of the train and are afraid to get lost. I love to wash my hands and flush the toilet when I see in the hole a rapidly flashing railway track with gravel pebbles. I like to look out the window of the last carriage at the rails floating away into the distance. I love bridges at train stations where you can go to another path. Wires and frequent transfers. A long journey and an open window from which, sticking your head out and closing your eyes, you watch the starting cars when the train makes an arc. The entire train is clearly visible and black smoke is coming from the chimney of the locomotive. Having sent an SMS before arrival, I get out of the car and noticing the face of my whole wife. We go through the inspection and head to the car. The wife loves nature and silence. She doesn’t like trains and stations. We are going home and tired we go into the house. All dear, I’m back. The path is over.
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