He goes out of the front entrance with a knapsack on his shoulder into which he has fitted everything he intends to secretly bury using his collapsible shovel. He has a feeling of lightness as he feels his burden, invisible and seeming even weightless. The little park by the square in front of Novodevichy Convent seems like an extension of the cemetery, only without headstones. Courting couples seclude themselves on the benches. An old man is sitting on one, fingering something in his hand, as if reading his fortune from his palm. He has evidently just bought a loaf of white bread and, after counting up his kopecks, starts eating. He tears bits off and puts small pieces in his mouth, quickly, hungrily. He is not the least embarrassed there is someone nearby, politely moves up and says, “Go
