Noon Barbari

She punches the dough, kneads it, dips her whole hands in it, presses it between her fingers, watches it emerge between her phalanges, like a repressed desire resurfacing. Noon Barbari. Bread of the Barbarians? No. He is no Barbarian, and his country is that of the refined, of the elegant, […]

Babouchka

Retrouver ma grand-mère. Lui écrire le journal imaginaire de notre voyage inventé : dans les plaines de Sibérie, les collines de Mongolie, Oulan-Bator et le lac Baïkal. La crème sur les blinis posés contre le bol brûlant du bortsch. Et le fumet du samovar.