The Black Marble [antikvár]

The BatushkaAn explosion of chrysanthemums, candlelight, Oriental car-pets, Byzantine eyes. Plumes of incense rising between two a cappella choirs, blown heavenward by chanting voices.The man in the yellow rubber raincoat swayed unsteadily and raised his sturdy arms toward those marbling clouds of incense enveloping the Holy Virgin. Her eyes were sweet.Other eyes were reproachful, severe. Byzantine eyes. A kaléidoscope of ikons, small and large: saints, holy men, ma-donnas. Ail around him the faces on the ikons stared with great, dark, unrelenting eyes.From time to time the man in the yellow rubber raincoat would wobble against the burly woman standing next to him.Finally she'd had enough. "Zhopa!" she muttered.He answered her in English: "Yes, I'm terribly sorry."Then both choirs burst forth with the tragic, timeless, Slavonic invocation: "Blessed art thou, Lord God of our Father . . . have mercy on us."The man in the yellow rubber raincoat was overwhelmed by the enduring pathos in those Russian voices, and by the clouds of incense he breathed gratefully, and by the lowl