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[Alexandr Korol]

We left early in the morning — I don’t remember exactly what time, maybe five or six — because we had to get there by morning. We arrive. Just a little house. Like an old Russian dacha, wooden, single-story, you know, made of planks, painted green or something like that. A house with white window frames. When we pull up and go inside, there’s a room, and she’s sitting behind something like a school desk or a teacher’s office table, that typical Soviet-style desk. The table is covered in stuff. Behind her, there’s a whole wall full of icons. Everything is laid out in order. She was an energetic, lively woman — not some frail old lady gasping for breath, but rather someone who looked like she could whack you properly on the back of the head like in fairy tales — feisty. And the two of us walk in. And she kind of gets startled, flustered a bit, and says:

– And who did you bring with you?

And my friend says:

– My friend here wants to talk with you.
– Alright, go on then, what’s hurting?,- she asks me.
– Nothing hurts,- I reply.
– What do you mean nothing? Then why’d you come here?, — just like that: “So, why’d you show up?”
– We have a mutual acquaintance, Valentina, she lives in Petersburg. And she said that you are the keeper of the keys to paradise.

I just remember my friend standing behind me, red in the face, laughing so hard he’s crying. I remember her face — just shocked. And I say:

– Well... the keys... I came to you for the keys to paradise.

She crosses herself.

– What the hell are you talking about, you little devil? What keys? What paradise? Who even are you? Where did you come from? What Valentina? I don’t know any Valentina.
– Well, alright. I don’t know who I am either. Can you help me? Please, tell me.”