Sacred Flesh

“On Clean Monday night, the merchant Rodion Yakovlevich Glebov returned to his city from Moscow. He meant to get home for Shrovetide—he didn’t make it in time. And however repulsive Moscow’s Shrovetide noise and bustle was to him, he overcame himself: he met everyone he needed to meet, handled things well, and now drove on, satisfied. But his satisfaction showed in nothing at all: his eyes, as always, were strict, his eyebrows slightly drawn together. He dressed like a Russian—without showiness, yet also without any untidiness: tall boots, a warm fur cap. His lean, dark face, framed by a long steel-colored beard, looked like the face of an old letter…”