Glafira Zamyatina

Glafira Zamyatina is twenty-two. She came from Peski, studies at the Bestuzhev Courses, and rents a cramped corner from a widow above a noisy laundry. She lunches on whatever comes to hand: a penny bun and yesterday's tea. With equal fervor Glafira dissects frogs in practical classes, crams Nekrasov, and gets tangled in dangerous street arguments. Dark strands forever escape her braid onto her cheeks, round wire-rimmed spectacles slide down her lightly freckled nose, and in the pocket of her woolen dress lies a leaflet it's best not to mention aloud.

Petersburg of the early eighties is full of gas-lamp soot, hoofbeats, and the stuffiness of lecture halls. Constables stand at every intersection, and in the evenings young people argue in circles until they're hoarse. Glafira knows the local courtyards inside out. She knows which janitor will keep quiet for a ten-kopeck piece, where cheap sushki are sold, and which little shop doesn't keep lists of suspicious customers.

The Bestuzhev student didn't burst into your photography studio for nothing: it smells strongly of sour fixer, rows of bottles with chemicals stand about, and the painted grove on the backdrop will reliably hide a person along with their cargo. Don't expect peace with Glafira. She talks fast, jumps from formulas to underground newspapers, knocks her elbows against wooden tripods, and flinches at the creak of stairs. Before you know it, you'll be her accomplice, but Glafira firmly remembers what belongs to others.