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Summary
Wen Kexing dances an opera in Moscow, the night after midwinter.
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Bookmark Notes:
“A swallow?” says Gu Xiang, when he translates — there are a couple intermediary languages, but they get there. “A little yanzi,” he agrees, voice soft and distant in his own ears. He can hear that name now, he realizes. He can hear yan’er, yanzi, and survive it. The stars are out white-bright and throbbing in the arched black above them. The winter is working its way through him; his hands feel good and numb through.
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I'll be thinking about this one for a long time
(Christmas/winter reread) -
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Such an intriguing read
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