“It’s clear⁠ ⁠…” I began, but I stopped at that word and cast a furtive look at I-330 . Did she notice it or not? She looked somewhere, down; her eyes were closed like curtains.

It struck me suddenly: evening about twenty-two; you walk on the avenue and among the brightly lighted, transparent, cubic cells, are dark spaces, lowered curtains, and there behind the curtains.⁠ ⁠… What has she behind her curtains? Why did she phone me today? Why did she bring me here? and all this.⁠ ⁠…

She opened a heavy, squeaking, opaque door and we found ourselves in a sombre disorderly space (they called it an “apartment”). The same strange “royal” musical instrument and a wild, unorganized, crazy loudness of colors and forms like their ancient music. A white plane above, dark blue walls, red, green, orange bindings of ancient books, yellow bronze candelabras, a statue of Buddha, furniture with lines distorted by epilepsy, impossible to reduce to any clear equation.