Angel Hadjipopgeorgiev

Short Story


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The code

Translated by: Liz Wales

4.94   (130 votes)

Heavy raindrops were falling provocatively on my raincoat, but it did not respond with the same

tenacity. It looked on impassively. Together with me. Passively beige.

The greyness of the day synchronized with the grey paving stones. Grey depression. Depression

rhyming with impression. As does admiral and rear-admiral. Or maybe with anti-depressants. As

Marx with Engels.

From inertia, I stopped by a small puddle with an oily patch in the middle. The rain ceased. There

was no rain. Where had it gone ?

A light breeze formed the oily patch into a picture. La Gioconda. Mona Lisa. Da Vinci. The Da

Vinci code. The Leonardo cluster. Anomalous associations.

I felt like a millionaire in the Louvre, which had been opened for me on a normally closed day.

But the feeling vanished when a three-legged dog stopped by me. Somebody had mutilated it. And

it was depressed. Or was it ?

It looked at me with sympathy, even with pity.

Well yes, I only had two legs..

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