She rang the bell anyway. She didn't want her journey to be a waste of time.

At first it seemed like the apartment was empty. Then she heard hasty footsteps, those typical of someone in a hurry whose worn slippers are falling off their feet as they shuffle along. For a brief instant the tiny spy-hole went dark, then the lock grated and the door opened.

"Oh, Natasha, is it? Come in, come in…"

She had never liked people who spoke too familiarly upon first meeting. There ought to be a little bit more formality.

But the woman who had opened the door was already pulling her into the apartment, clutching her unceremoniously by the hand, and with an expression of such sincere hospitality on her aging, brightly made-up face, that Natasha couldn't bring herself to object.

"My friend told me that you…" Natasha began.

"I don't know, I don't know about that, my dear," said her hostess, waving her hands in the air. "Oh, don't take your shoes off, I was just going to clean the place up… oh, all right then, I'll try to find you a pair of slippers."

Natasha looked around, finding it difficult to conceal her disgust.

The hallway wasn't so very small, but it was crammed full. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling was dull, maybe thirty watts at best, but even that couldn't hide the general squalor. The hallstand was piled high with clothes, including a musquash winter coat that fed the moths. The small open area of the linoleum floor was an indistinct gray color. Natasha's hostess must have been planning her cleaning session for a long time.

"Your name's Natasha, isn't it, my daughter? Mine's Dasha."

Dasha was at least fifteen or twenty years older than her. She could have been Natasha's mother, but with a mother like that you'd want to hang yourself… A pudgy figure, with dirty, dull hair and bright lacquer peeling off her fingernails, wearing a washed-out housecoat and crumbling slippers on her bare feet. Her toenails glittered with bright lacquer too. My God, how vulgar!