At the front door of the residence stood a tall man, boyishly skinny with colourless hair and a cigarette stuck between his lips, like the ones you don’t actually smoke. It was Zhenya Yevtushenko.
‘Have you seen Bella?’ he asked.
I shook my head, but it seemed obvious he didn’t give a damn where Bella was.
‘You seen that?’ he questioned, directing his eyes to his right-hand jacket pocket from which a copy of Literaturnaya gazeta was poking out, showing half of Pasternak’s name.
‘Yes, I’ve read it,’ I said.
‘Hee-hee,’ he said, with a triumphant grin. ‘The Nobel… at last!’