Chekhov on a rainy day

Portrait of Anton Chekhov by his brother Nikolai, in 1889, when he was 29 years old.

In the middle of a scorching noon this past summer I ran into an old acquaintance.

Spread out on a bench, more than breathing, he waddled.

He was a curious and brave editor, a bit snobbish, of course, and now I don't know what he's up to.

I asked him the ritual question under these circumstances: "What are you going to do this summer?"

He looked me up and down and the energy returned to his unappetizing eyes.

"Well, read the Russians ...".

And there he left it floating, with the ducks in the pond as the environmental background.

When someone says something like that, it is always boastful.

Asshole, I thought.

"But do you know Russian?", I asked ...

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