“We decided to wait for you,” put in Gumbatov, the provost for academic matters, patting into place the sparse hair carefully combed across the top of his head, which had parted to reveal the pale dome of his bald patch. “To avoid any unfortunate incidents.”
“How did she get into the building?” he asked.
“Literally forced her way in. The doorman wouldn’t admit her.”
“She wants to talk to you,” said Ramazanov. His calm tone of voice sounded defiant.
“What about?”
“She refuses to explain. You’re the only one she’ll see.” Ramazanov even permitted himself a smile.
They walked along the corridors of the institute, nodding in response to greetings from students crowding around the doors to lecture halls. In the glass corridor connecting the old block with the new one they were greeted by
