6 november

At the end of the third floor hallway, there were two doors. The door on the right was heavy, with a thick leathery pad, and lovely gold numbers: 302. The door on the left had no number, just a centered peephole seeming to split the thin, warped wood. One guess which door was mine. Right. Clearly left.

As the front desk lady fiddled ineffectually with the key, in a process I later discovered was actually a highly cost-effective security system disguised as a cheap lock, I leaned on what would reveal itself to be a white-washed wall (most likely part of the same security system, somehow), heavy with the weight of anxious anticipation. The very length of the preceding sentence should indicate to you the complexity of this situation, should you ever have taken a literary analysis class. Have you read any classic Russian literature? Come on.

When the door opened, releasing an exasperated sigh from my colleague and a waft of vintage must from the apartment, the nervous front door lady tottered in, exchanged a few words with herself, and disappeared back to the heat of her first-floor office. My colleague, Natalia, affixed what seemed to me to be a skeptical expression, and stepped inside.