Soul

Into the courtyard of the Moscow Institute of Economics walked a young man who was not a Russian, Nazar Chagataev. He looked around in surprise and came back to himself from the long time that had passed. He had crossed this yard again and again over the years; it was in these buildings that his youth had gone by, but he felt no regret. He had climbed up high now, onto the mountain of his mind, and from there he had a clearer view of the whole of this summer world, now warmed by an evening sun that had had its day.

He asked her to dance; he did not know how to dance himself, but she danced very well and led him in time with the music. Her eyes dried quickly, her face grew prettier, and her body, accustomed to shy fearfulness, now pressed trustingly against him, filled with a late innocence that smelled warm and good, like bread. Beside her, Chagataev stopped remembering himself. This temporary stranger, this woman he would probably never meet again, gave off a sense of sleep and happiness; thus it is that bliss often lives unnoticed beside us.

Chagataev saw reed huts and a few yurts, also woven from reeds. There were about twenty dwellings in all, perhaps a few more. Not a dog, donkey or camel was to be seen in the settlement; nor were there even any chickens or ducks ranging about in the grass.
Beside the last hut sat a naked man. Folds of skin hung down on him like worn-out exhausted clothing, and on his knees lay a pile of reed stems; he was sorting through them, preparing to make an ornament or something that would be useful about the home. He showed no surprise at Chagataev’s arrival and did not even answer his greeting; instead he went on muttering to himself, imagining things no one else could see, keeping his soul occupied with some secret consolation of his own.