Pushkin

Pushkin

I F

I ’M VERY

still, Pushkin forgets I’m here, comes out of his little igloo and scurries around in the sawdust. He comes out now, stops still, breathing fast, black beady eyes darting about the cage.

‘It’s just you and me, buddy,’ I whisper. But I don’t think ‘buddy’ suits him. ‘Old chap,’ I correct. ‘Little fella?’

If he can hear me, he doesn’t let it show.

‘It’s not so bad, really, is it?’ I ask him. ‘We gentlemen against the world.’

He doesn’t reply. Perhaps he doesn’t agree.

It is a quarter past two and the night is low. The taxis that line up across the road have fallen quiet, except for the occasional whoop or beep. It is time for sleep.

Off I creep.

‘Goodnight, my friend,’ I whisper.

He seems to like that one.