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East Acton. The black youth in huge boots continued his silent dance, reminding a big marionette, whose master had forgotten to switch on the music. Tanya looked at his feet, performing some strange convulsive steps. «No, definitely he is not listening to Tchaikovsky», — she reflected. «Has he ever heard of Tchaikovsky?» — she wondered and closed her eyes, going back to one of her childhood memories. She, an eight year old girl then, her chestnut hair arranged beautifully in a plait with a blue ribbon, her white dress decorated with the blue belt, playing the white concert piano in the dining-room of Tchaikovsky’s house in Votkinsk — a small town in the Urals where the great composer was born. As one of the best pupils of the piano class she had been granted the honour to play the Tchaikovsky’s piano. It was the only white concert piano she had ever played, all the others were traditionally black. Tanya sighed and opened her eyes.

«White City» — the station board read. White City. White snow. It was like the word «white» itself had triggered the intricate mechanism of her memory, and in a moment her mind was carrying her back again to another far away picture of her childhood. White snow. Yes, that’s what she was subconsiously missing so much amidst grey and snowless London winter. She suddenly realised how hungry her eyes were for those gorgeously white snowfields she used to ski across as a child, She strained her memory trying to revive her favourite picture. Yes, that’s how it was. She was eight then, a little girl in a bulky fur coat — shuba, and big Russian snowboots «valenki» was making her way across the snowfield which separated the forest from the lake. Her feet went deep into snow as she walked to the edge of the lake, her tiny figure representing the only dark dot on the virginally white space, glistening luxuriously in the sunrays. She reached the lake and stopped enchanted, for at its edge the ice was absolutely transparent and she could easily see through it: some greenish-brown water plants, a pack of small fish moving lazily to and fro, air bubbles making funny pictures on their way up. She stepped cautiously on the ice. How queer. As if she were walking on the acquarium glass. She moved a bit further and her feet in valenki glided on the smooth ice surface. She made a few skating steps and laughed happily, the sound of her laughter carrying far in the air and breaking the winter silence. There was nobody around. She was alone in that dazzlingly white world, superb in its perfect purity, impeccable and wise. A snowy Princess walking around her white premises. She picked up a piece of ice and threw it up, the ice glistened brightly in the sun and fell breaking into a hundred of tine splinters. And then she saw it. Something that made her remember that day for the rest of her life — a bright colourful butterfly, its wings fluttering with yellow, orange and red, floated graciously in the air right in front of her nose. A painted lady! A feast of summer colours amidst white winter. (Actually it wasn’t winter, but spring, the 31^st of March, but snow stays long in the Urals and butterflies appear very early provided the sun is warm enough). Tanya smiled at her memories. How far away that little girl seemed now from her present day grouwn up self.