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he does not ask why I am here or who I am. Whatever
elseI am a young man in a bad placeand the current has thrown me up upon her strand.
Yelena Lubitsch does not shirk the responsibilities of such occurrences―and nor yet does
she base her decisions upon swift examinations on doorstepsbetween swinging brass
lampsin the middle of the night.
“Come in
” she says againmore forcefully because I
am standing with my mouth open like a dog unsure whether he wants to be in the garden or
by the fireand without the sense to draw conclusions from the gathering clouds. And
finallywhen I still stand thereshe makes a
“tcha” sound which I recognise as meaning
that all men are idiotsand all young men most especially so (and God has cursed her with
a husband eternally
young)and she plucks at my sleeve with a fraction of her strength
and brings me firmly across the threshold into her house. There’s a new smelllike honey
and coal and furniture polish. Not unpleasantbut strong.
“Boil the kettle
” she saysand it
’s only when I look round and find that Old Man
Lubitsch has already gone that I realise she is talking to me.
THE OLD IRON KETTLE is where I rememberhanging like a benevolent bat [link widoczny dla zalogowanych]yilai:
[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

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