There were some sophistos from the TV studios around the corner, laughing and gavreeting. The devotchka was smecking away, not caring about the wicked world one bit. Then the disc on the stereo twanged off and out. And in the short silence before the next one came on, she suddenly came with a burst of singing. And it was like, for a moment, O my brothers, some great bird had flown into the milkbar. And I felt all the malenky little hairs on my plott standing endwise, and the shivers crawling up like slow, malenky lizards, and then down again. Because I knew what she sang. It was a bit from the Glorious Ninth by Ludwig Van.

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