Nadia Sorel looks like me.
That is the first thing, the involuntary inventory that I apparently do now, that I did with Dmitri and that I am doing here, in the lobby of a Washington hotel at two fifteen in the morning with the rain starting again outside. Not dramatically. The jaw and the eyes and the specific quality of stillness that I have always considered entirely mine because I had no frame of reference for where it came from.
It came from somewhere.
She is thirty six years old and she is standing in my hotel lobby in a dark jacket with the composed, unhurried attention of someone who has been planning this moment for a long time and is now executing it with the focused clarity of a person who does not have time for anything except the essential.
She looks at me.
I look at her.
