"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. The Final Circle of Paradise (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

don't know how to deal with a nervous child in these modern
schools. Today I let him go visit."
"We'll go, too, now," said Vousi. "You'll walk with me.
I'll just fix myself up, because on account of you everything
got smeared. In the meantime, you can put on something more
decent."
Aunt Vaina wouldn't have minded staying behind to tell me
a few more things and maybe show me a photo album of Len, but
Vousi dragged her off and I heard her ask her mother behind the
door, "What's his name? I just can't remember it. He is a jolly
fellow, isn't he?"
"Vousi!" admonished Aunt Vaina.
I laid out my entire wardrobe on the bed and tried to
imagine what Vousi would consider a decently dressed man. Until
now, I had thought I was dressed quite satisfactorily. Vousi's
heels were already beating an impatient rat-a-tat on the study
floor. Not having come up with anything, I called her in.
"That's all you have?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.
"It really isn't good enough?"
"Well, it will pass. Take off the jacket and put on this
Hawaiian shirt... or better yet, this one here. They sure have
dressing problems in your Tungusia! Hurry up. No, no, take off
the shirt you have on."
"You mean, without an undershirt?"
"You know, you really are a Tungus. Where do you think you
are going - to the pole or to Mars? What's this under your
shoulder blade?"
"A bee stung me," I said, hurriedly pulling on my shirt.
"Let's go!"
The street was already dark. The fluorescents shone palely
through dark foliage.
"Which way are we bound?" I asked.
"Downtown, of course.... Don't grab my arm, it's hot! At
least you know how to fight, I hope?"
"I know how."
"That's good. I like to watch."
"To watch, I like, too," I said.
There were a lot more people out in the streets than in
the daytime. Under the trees, in the bushes, and in the
driveways there were groups of unsettled-looking individuals.
They furiously smoked crackling synthetic cigars, guffawed,
spat negligently and often, and spoke in loud rough voices.
Over each group hung the racket of radio receivers. Under one
streetlight a banjo twanged, and two youngsters, twisting in
weird contortions and yelling out wildly, were performing
fling, a currently fashionable dance, a dance of great beauty
when properly executed. The youngsters knew how. Around them
stood a small crowd, also yelling lustily and clapping their
hands in rhythm.
"Shall we have a dance?" I offered.