For the sake of chronology and justice, it should be mentioned that before the mini-meal Mr. Lightner Levy drove to the nearest yeshiva, where he and many youth students prayed the afternoon prayer of Minch.

The yeshiva’s building was like a palace, and it struck Levi’s imagination, as did the service. At the entrance to the yeshiva building, on the windows of the right and left wing, white drying shirts hung in clusters. Until this day, Levy has never been in such a huge room, crowded with young men in black suits and hats, in snow-white shirts. Everyone swayed to the beat of prayer and repeated in chorus: “Baruch – Blessed” and “Amen, amen.”

The impression from this action was much stronger than from the sight of the wizard students in black caps at school in the Harry Potter book.

And so, only after this episode was followed by a yellow paste-grease for bread, after the meal of which Levy was left alone.

– I'm going to walk. I’ll inspect this nearest street, thought Levy, dressed, went out the door and went. He walked and walked along this bouncing road up and down, but he never met any sights. Only a few wretched Jewish shops and a couple of flocks of “peysatiks” in glossy komzols, like evening shadows, sailed past. There were women in wigs, pushing huge strollers and pulling one or two or three children. Levy moved, as if drawn by an invisible magnet, to the center of the city. He had completely passed Lancaster Street and ran into another street. He turned right, walked a decent distance and, seeing high-rise buildings, turned left. This road led first between garages, and then along a very, very high wall and an even higher tower. Frightened by curiosity and a desire to confirm his guess, Levy turned to the workers scurrying around the wall, busy splitting the tree:

– Sorry, it's’s a prison?

“Yes, yes, it’s prison,” the working peasant in a colored helmet nodded.

“Wow, a prison with such a huge fence that it’s probably three times as many as the St. Petersburg Crosses,” he marveled at the sheer size of Levy’s building.

Walking down this street, Levy met a brewery. And besides this plant, there are shops, shops, shops with large signboards on the doors on the right and left: “Entrance is forbidden for the private public. Only for wholesalers. ” Having overcome such a distance on foot, Levy was rewarded – the road became more interesting. Here is an old bridge of black and gray granite blocks, here is a church, here is a fortress, and there are skyscrapers and a Ferris wheel shining with lights in the distance.

“That's another matter!” Levy perked up. His legs got a second wind and joyfully rushed forward to meet new impressions and discoveries.

“But you will also have to go the same way back!” Intervened on the move, trying to slow down the move of the zealous legs, always such a reasonably cool mind. But the thirst for novelty carried Levy all forward and forth, without looking back and thinking about returning. Despite neither fatigue nor the long road, Levi liked the city. All he had heard about him before was just how gray, boring, always rainy.

“It is as if England itself is so sunny and joyful,” Levy stood up in defense of Manchester in his mind, enjoying new unfamiliar views.

– Imagine that London is sunny, it tried to speculatively compare two cities.

Levy walked around Manchester, absorbing the atmosphere of these streets and buildings. Once Levy was in London, and now, walking around Manchester, he could call him the younger brother of the English capital, so they looked like him in his eyes.

The sky turned gray, and then blackened. Stars were not visible due to overhanging crowded clouds. But now, neon lamps lit, illuminating the buildings,

streets and all the action around in general, turning the picture of the city into even more attractive and interesting than it was during the day. A slowly spinning Ferris Wheel hung over the buildings, snow-white and shining from the many lit neon bulbs. The city did not let go, I wanted to drink, soak up the meeting with him as fully as possible, but the lead night covered the sky, my back was bent from fatigue, and Levy, fortunately remembering the way back to architectural landmarks, stumbled to his room in Salford. The return road, as often happens, was shorter and did not ruin the already exhausted walking guy who woke up from his thoughts in surprise and stood in front of the house on the Metelochnaya trail – Broom Line – the house of his overnight. Mr. Lightner was already waiting for him. He put him in a car and they drove to the next street to the Beit Knesset Assembly House, to sway again with other people to thank the Master of the Universe for everything, including a well-spent and spent day. Upon returning to Broom line there was a hot pumpkin soup with the likeness of crackers, such small yellow pillows, overcooked meat and potatoes. Having risen in the cell allotted to him, Levi lay down on the bed and gently enveloping a dream immediately took him with him on his incomprehensible, unthinkable journey.

Everything is painfully familiar, everything is dusty, mothballed, as if you are in some kind of antique junk shop on the outskirts of a big city: dusty houses with crumbling plaster, dusty streets with asphalt in wide deep cracks, dusty trees through which dust glimpses a dull summer for a short summer emerald frosted leaves. Leninsky district, now Admiralty, and in antiquity in general a Finnish village, province. Levy moves toward the house along Riga, then deviates from the course, wanting to deviate from the noise of passing cars, from the hustle and bustle, looking for silence, turning onto one of the Krasnoarmeysky streets. Legs are floating on the asphalt, and eyes are on the walls, roofs of old houses. Everything is familiar, nostalgic, sad. The symphony is in stone, a requiem of human life, like a flower that managed to break through the thickness of the asphalt, but never managed to bloom, blossom, turned gray and finally withered.

On his left hand, towards Levi's house, his eyes meet familiar windows. There is dim light in the windows. The windows are large, but unwashed, the curtains behind the glasses are burnt out, wrinkled. Whose windows are these?

Memories of stormy fun festivities pop up in my head. Misha Burov! Yes, Misha Burov lived there with his wife Irina. They seemed to have

daughter, but both of them or from the previous relationship of Irina herself, is unknown. Irina is Jewish by birth, business, thrifty and patient. She has thick hair, a typical Jewish nose according to others, sensual puffy lips. A pretty, charming woman. It seems that, as in most such marriages, what Misha had, he should have been grateful to his wife. She was a real smart girl.

1981 year. Snowy Peter. Snow knee-deep and chest. At that time, when only Zhiguli or an old Moskvich stood in the yard for twenty Soviet families, Misha had a minibus from Japan, brilliant, with a right-hand drive. Misha, how a child was happy with his typewriter.

“Let's go to the restaurant,” he suggested to Levy.

Misha managed to spend almost every evening in restaurants, despite the fact that the cost of one lunch there was equal to the cost of the average monthly salary. It was forbidden by law to have connections with foreign citizens outside the state, but those who dared to deal with them, bought and sold, made good profits, could afford a daily lunch in a restaurant and a brilliant bus of non-domestic production.

The restaurant, where they went the whole campaign, was not far from the city. His huge hall was almost completely filled with idle people. It was unbearably noisy and stuffy. It was remembered that gypsies performed on stage all evening. They sang, danced. The visitors drank, ate and drank again. Misha raised his hand with a protruding elbow and the little finger laid aside, and poured, stack after stack, a clear liquid into his fireproof innards.