She was buried at Saint‑Genevieve-des‑Bois. There, where so many endlessly strange Russian fates have ended. There, too, visiting her grave, I once met a former Soviet engineer, now a voluntary Paris clochard. And the nicest possible life-loving clochard he was. I gave him a lift back into Paris, and when we were already sitting in a cafe, just about to part, he suddenly said to me: “They say those who could fly, once they get to the West they simply lose the ability.”
He was a merry soul, and his smile, hanging in the dimly-lit cafe, reminded me of the Cheshire cat—one of ours.