The Night Class E-Book

alastair macleod

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

"Resentfully the women pulled on hats and gloves. Always after class they wanted to talk, to sit and drink tea, to let the session reach a natural end.
This abrupt turfing out thrust them back to a reality they had escaped for a moment.

Tanya watched the dark figures in ones and twos disperse along the street.
Behind her the door shut with a bang. Semeon turned the lock.

That sound, the sound of the bolt shooting home, clutched at her heart.

There were two cold places, the physical cold and the cold of her relationship.

The ground was rock at 40 below; lakes and streams still and solid; icicles daggering from eaves. A tree could explode like a pistol shot as it’s freezing sap burst out its body. Birds could literally fall out of the sky, their heart muscle finally stiff and cold.

In the forest green things had retreated inwards, underground, sleeping, waiting.

Like the forest she had retreated deep into herself, trying to keep some of her spirit alive."

Leseprobe

Alastair Macleod

The Night Class

and other Russian stories

"to the writers of Russia"BookRix GmbH & Co. KG81371 Munich

The Night Class

The smell of onions drifted out of Ludmilla’s fur coat. She always wore it in class. The rest tolerated her. It was cold in the Trepskaya schoolroom.

They all came in anoraks scarves and gloves. Only the slim teacher Tanya Nishineva wore less – she kept warm by skipping about in front of them in a large woolly jumper, jeans and fur-topped boots.

Grouped in a semi-circle the students were a picture of concentration. This was no leisure class, no fill in, this was serious. English was their meal ticket or so they thought. With it in the West you could get the better jobs; receptionist, beauty therapist, call centres.

Ludmilla worked in an onion store, unheated. She wore the fur there. It was her only outdoor coat so she wore it to class too. The rest understood this. They were all bound by a lack of funds and the lack of heat.

Tanya Nishineva taught the class to supplement her small wage at the museum and to get away for at least a night from her drunken husband.

Outside it was 40 degrees below. A thin wind blew down the main street past the Simbirsk Technical Institute, lowering the temperature even further.

Tanya looked over her young students. They had high expectations of the West.

One of their exercises earlier in the evening had been “How is life different in the west, answers in English.”

“Better heating,” said Lena; they all nodded. “Better bathrooms.” Again the nods. “Not so much drink”. Tanya could not let this go she’d been in the West; there was a lot of drink.

All of their impressions were second hand, passed back through those that had gone before, or gleaned from Western magazines. It was a distorted image seen through the eyes of hope.

The door opened and a blast of freezing air swept round them all as if someone was walking on their graves.

Semeon Semveronovich was here to lock up even though it was only 9.45. He wanted home to the evening football on TV.

He had no knowledge of the aspirations of this class; to him they were no different from the cross-stitchers or the weight lifters – a nuisance, that got him out of his snug armchair.

“Wrap up well ladies,” he growled, “it’s bitter.” He started stacking the chairs as soon as they were vacated.

Resentfully the women pulled on hats and gloves. Always after class they wanted to talk, to sit and drink tea, to let the session reach a natural end.

This abrupt turfing out thrust them back to a reality they had escaped for a moment.

Tanya watched the dark figures in ones and twos disperse along the street.

Behind her the door shut with a bang. Semeon turned the lock.