In place of any guitar, Rooshtic presented me with another tall story about three strings torn off his guitar by his younger brother at a heated merrymaking.
I humbly begged him to pardon me for the disturbance.
At the Club the veteran—for whom all the doors in the Editorial House were to be kept permanently ajar—visited the former Renderers' (me). For a good half-an-hour, I listened to exposition of his views, complaints and criticisms—both global and private.
Near twelve a.m., Wagrum fluttered in the Renderers' crisply-neat and freshly-shaven and powdered.
He asked if I could provide him with a piece of paper to make a cigarette and matches to light it. The latter I had not.
He shared his optimistic military-political forecast.
After lunch, one page from Joyce.
Sashic tapped at our communicational window to ask how we were doing.
I complained of my futile efforts to find a guitar and asked for the address of his aunts who, as rumors had it, possessed one.
Sashic promised to negotiate with them personally.
An hour later, he triumphantly honked for me to go out and take "the gypsy toy".
For more than two hour, I was reconstructing it from being a Russian guitar of 7 strings into the international (Spanish) type.
Finally, I went upstairs to tune it up by the disordered piano of Nuneh, the landlady's elder daughter.
Ahshaut was beside himself hitting the roof and yelling at the top of his lungs demanding the instrument into his possession.
After supper, I accompanied the three of them over to Underground.
The water-walk is ahead.
Reportedly, at the Three Taps nobody is allowed to fill more than six pails at a time.
<!-- Rather a reasonable decision to my mind.-->
A real springtime day it was—warm and sunny. And a good day deserves a