The next month, Moussa was lying in my fridge. I occasionally stumbled upon it in search of the pimples, and, overwhelmed by the girl’s memory and old-age sclerosis (in thirty years there is a harmonious balance between them), with great interest unfolded a three-layer bag, found in it an unshakable Musa, cried: “Your mother, dead rat!”“Rest in peace!” and rushed back.