As I was about to get off the metro, I saw a man opening the first pages of a book, a worn copy of Bulgakov's Master and Margherita. One of my all time favourite novels.
"You'll have a great tune reading this book" I said.
The man looked up from where he was sitting, probably surprised that a total stranger would address him.
"I said, you will enjoy youself with this book. It's a really great novel!"
The mean stood up. Tall, in his late forties, tired looking or worn out by life, with longm greyish hair and a baseball cap on his head. He got off the train with me.
"I just found this book" he said, with an accent I couldn't immediately place.
"That's my favourite novel" I went on.
He smiled again, his eyes glimmering with pride. "It's a Russian novel... I'm Russian." He showed me the other book he had in his beg: Emmanuel Carrère's Limonov. Our short exchange ended. We had to take different directions. He stopped, glanced warmly at me and extended his hand. A friendly and firm grip.
"Yes, Master and Margherita is my favourite novel" I thought to myself, as I was walking in the long metro corridors.
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