Selima Hill, 13 July 2016
Upstairs, in the heat, beside the handkerchiefs, my mother’s navy-blue horsehair mattress
still, although it’s August, smells of damp, of horses in the hush of damp forests,
of Spassky, still a child, playing chess all day long, with nobody, in silence –
Spassky, whose seductive ingenuity my mother has no need to understand.Eerie Bittern...