“Well, then, go to a beer-shop if it’s cheaper there,” Zociya became offended. “But if you’ve come to a respectable establishment, the regular price is half a rouble. We don’t take anything extra. There, that’s better. Twenty kopecks change coming to you?”
“Yes, change, without fail,” firmly emphasized the German teacher. “And I would request of you that nobody else should enter.”
“No, no, no, what are you saying,” Zociya began to bustle near the door. “Dispose yourself as you please, to your heart’s content. A pleasant appetite to you.”
Manka locked the door on a hook after her and sat down on the German’s knee, embracing him with her bare arm.
“Are you here long?” he asked, sipping his beer. He felt dimly that that imitation of love which must immediately take place demanded some sort of psychic propinquity, a more intimate acquaintance, and on that account, despite his impatience, began the usual conversation, which is carried on by almost all men—when alone with prostitutes, and which compels the latter to lie almost mechanically, to lie without mortification, enthusiasm or malice, according to a single, very ancient stencil.
“Not long, only the third month.”
“And how old are you?”
“Sixteen,” fibbed Little Manka, taking five years off her age.
“O, such a young one!” the German wondered, and began, bending down and grunting, to take off his boots. “Then how did you get here?”
“Well, a certain officer deprived me of my innocence there...near his birthplace. And it’s terrible how strict my mamma is. If she was to find out, she’d strangle me with her own hands. Well, so then I ran away from home and got in here...”