When Jean-Claude came out of the shower she was already in bed. Stark naked and swathed in a pungent cloud of eau de cologne, he crossed the room in darkness, and tossed a sports shirt or a terry towel onto the edge of the balustrade. Then he stopped before a tall, dark mirror and, as if lost in thought, ran his fingers several times through his damp hair, on which the blue light of a street lamp glinted. His skin also shone, with a dark, luminous glow. He closed the door to the balcony, and made his way toward the bed. It felt to Ol as if the ceiling were gently caving in on her, in a chamber made of synthetic foam.

After the third night, she had just emerged from the building in the early hours of the morning when the man who oversaw the interpreters loomed up in front of her. Without greeting her, he barked: "I see you know how to mix business with pleasure! Do I have to drag you out of bed to send you to work? What's going on? Is this the Olympic Games or a brothel? Report to the Organizing Committee. They'll soon deal with you!"

During those three days Olya had been so wildly happy she had not even given a moment's thought to seeking any justification or to preparing a plausible story. On their last night together Jean-Claude was intoxicated with happiness. He had come in second and won a silver medal. He drank, talked a lot, and looked at her with rather crazed eyes. It all involved a firm he had a contract with and a sports complex he would now be able to open. He talked about money without any embarrassment. He became so excited as he talked about all this that Olya said to him, laughing: "Just listen to you, Jean-Claude, you sound as if you were on drugs!" Pretending to take fright, he put his hand over her mouth, pointing to the radio: "They're listening to all this." Then he put his arms around her and pressed her back on the pillows. Recovering his breath, immersed in silent exhaustion, he murmured in her ear: "Yes, I am on drugs… you're my drug!"