August 18, 1998
Tuesday
6:00 p.m.
I stood with my back to the Kremlin, facing the House on the Embankment. The cameraman fussed around, hunting for the three-ruble angle, glanced at a little meter, and croaked something in German. A shadow of displeasure crossed her face, and she gave it voice:
– Jürgen says the light’s too weak. The piece is falling apart. Would you be able to help us out and meet again tomorrow morning?
– Of course.
– Where?
Where? If I’d had the faintest idea, I’d have answered. She measured me with a long look, and nodded:
– Let’s go.
We loaded into the minivan. Ten minutes later, we arrived on Leninsky Prospekt, pulling into the courtyard of a big yellow building on Gagarin Square. She got out first, motioning for me to follow. I climbed out of the vehicle; Jürgen sped off.
She headed for the entrance. I trudged after her.
This is how it had to be. I could feel it.
