Nomen Nescio
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On Saturday night, you would drive half an hour on a dark rural road to a
community hall. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke. A band played, there was
a man with a balalaika and a woman playing a clarinet made out of apricot wood.
At midnight, the village matriarchs would throw rose petals into the dancers.
When the Ouzo ran out, everyone went home, quite contented.