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The first couple of days back on land after a voyage were always difficult for Viktor Krysanov. The old training ships flopped around in the waves like dying fish, and quite a few of his fellow-students turned green and lay on the deck moaning. And since then, in nearly twenty years in the merchant marine, he had not once felt ill at sea, even in the worst weathers.
But every time he returned from a trip, the first forty-eight hours after docking were unpleasant. His ears rang and he felt dizzy. He stumbled on doorsteps, he dropped cutlery at meals and knocked over glasses.
The only exception was when he was painting. The act of painting completely absorbed him; he would forget even to smoke or drink tea, let alone to eat. A stack of paintings leaned against one wall of his flat. This flat was huge by Odessa standards; nearly two hundred square metres. It provided Krysanov with a combined studio and living quarters.
Ten years before a speculator had put up a block of apartments along the edge of Shevchenko Park, overlooking the beach, but the financial crisis left most of them unsold. Each flat was a single large undivided room with rough-dressed concrete walls, floor and ceiling. Big plate glass windows along the east wall gave views out over the Black Sea. There was cold running water and a toilet, and electricity if you were prepared to twist some bare wire-ends together.