“Another rally again?” my aunt asked as she walked up to the window.
For half an hour already, I’d been watching the crowd gathered in the central square near the monument to Ilyich. A sculpture that wasn’t removed in time— and there had been that opportunity— was still pointing its hand into nothing. The arm was twisted so unnaturally that it seemed as if Ilyich had an open fracture.
“Protest action,” I commented without turning around. “It’ll be over soon. Look at the weather yourself—just wait, it’ll start raining any moment.”