For some reason I’m always amused by this expression.

But the phrase ‘At last we’ve got someone who knows how to run the country’ became a running joke for Finn and me whenever someone in a foreign country came to power. At the diplomatic parties we attended together in Moscow, an official would say, ‘I see that chap Berlusconi has got in in Italy’, and Finn or I, or worse still, both of us together, would say, ‘At last they’ve got someone who knows how to run the country.’ And then both of us would burst out laughing at our private joke. It was a child’s game and we upset a lot of pompous old diplomatic bores that way.

And that was one of the first things I noticed Finn did for me. He lifted me out of my hitherto serious, even repressed, behaviour. He eroded my solemn and determined ambition to be a workhorse of the state with his gleeful, carefree frivolity. I found it–the recklessness of his behaviour-new and exciting.

‘You know, Rabbit,’ he told me, ‘your seriousness exposes the disguise of my frivolity, and my frivolity exposes the disguise of your seriousness.’

And so we played with and reacted to each other’s character opposites–in this and other ways–like two dissonant musical instruments which, combined, made sweet music. We slowly lured each other out of our inner hiding places. We dropped the emotional barbed wire that we’d both used to protect ourselves. And we fell in love with the differences we saw revealed in each other. I looked in the mirror of Finn and he looked in mine, and we began to see who we could be, who we really were.

Finn used to list the things he loved about me, in a sort of league table of characteristics that changed positions according to his whims. But I remember one true and beautiful thing he said, from early in our relationship, which stuck in my mind more than others.

We were in a corner suite at the Marco Polo Hotel, north of Pushkinskaya and our room looked down on to the ice park.