THE 3RD OF JUNE
Finally, I was seeing it for myself: Moscow had emptied out with the throat-catching brief emptiness of New Year’s Eve, its buildings had sucked people in, and if you stopped (I could not — I was propelled by the power of a young, incipient love) you could glimpse a few living shadows on the far side of the river, in the distant windows of the House of Government on Serafimovich Street, behind innocent-looking curtains in crayon colors. We were outside — alone with motionless cars and streetlights, so no one would interfere. I hurried to the Great Stone Bridge, high above the black water sprinkled with silver pinpricks of reflected electric lights, glanced happily at the Kremlin, and turned right, on to the stairs that lead off the Bridge toward the Popular Music Theater.
