Once in Moscow these two guys met, sharing a flat, set up by the
school they worked for. Strangers to each other, one was a friend of mine, a
hearty, salt of the earth type, a good man, and the other, a Welshman, I never
met. Anyway they had a long, awkward, and oddly intense, “getting to know you”
conversation in the crummy little kitchen, about life and Russia and who they
were. Then my friend said goodnight.
Later, in the wee small hours, when he was going to the toilet he
heard the other through the door repeating the conversation verbatim, both
sides of it, word perfect, but in a strange strangled voice, and after each
exchange he laughed a horrible laugh.
That’s all there is to it, but it’s unnerving to remember it even
now.
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