This summer, Arslan felt like a grown-up. He dreamt of girls more and more, and, curiously, they slipped into his dreams as they would into the sea, completely naked. He couldn’t wait to experience real, grown-up love. But it was unlikely to happen now, before exams, with so little time. Yet the aroma of the lilac garden lingered in the air, beckoning with ever more force, rousing ever more deeply, his pure, youthful desires.
The sun was fiery hot but Arslan didn’t want to move to the shade, and didn’t want to open his eyes. He was scared that the enchanting stranger might no longer be beside him. So he stayed there until the heat became unbearable, and only then did he open his eyes. He was surprised to see the stranger hadn’t vanished. Rather, she had made herself more comfortable by taking off her shoes and tucking up her feet, exactly like the women in his distant homeland. And what legs she had, visible under her skirt. What dainty ankles. Arslan could hear his heart beating. He could no longer act indifferently. He wanted to talk to the girl.
And, of course, without giving it much thought, he asked her the first question that came into his head.
“Aren’t you hot, Miss? Are you sure you’re not going to get sunburnt by mistake?”
The girl looked up and smiled at him, and answered cheerfully, “By mistake, no, but maybe on po-o-rpose.”
Arslan also gave an unwitting smile, but more at her pronunciation than her words. That’s interesting, thought the curious boy. Which republic is she from? Maybe one of the Baltics? Must be one of the Baltics. Where else would she get an accent like that?
“Where are you from, Miss?” he asked. And then started to try to guess: Riga? No. Tallinn? No. Lithuania?
“I’m from Sveeden.”
Arslan was confused by her answer. “Ho-ow?” he asked, warily. “Just like that? Straight from Sweden?”
The girl gave him that sweet smile which, later, over the following days and weeks, would appear so often in his dreams at night.
“Yes, and so vat? I’m from Stockholm.”
“But how did you get there ... to Stockholm? You’ve, what, lived there all your life?” The words unwittingly escaped from Arslan’s mouth.
“I’m Sveedish,” she answered, with a giggle.
Arslan was at a bit of a loss. He had no idea how to act now, what to say to her. Should he carry on the conversation, or should he excuse himself and slip away? He was even ready to close his e
