Red Moth

Less than an hour

Less than an hour after his release from solitary confinement, Valery Semykin approached the doors of the Museum of the Kremlin. His beige prison pyjamas had been exchanged for a set of clothes that did not belong to him, as well as a pair of shoes that did not fit, which caused him to limp over the cobblestones.

From the moment he left Lubyanka, Semykin had thought of nothing else but wandering the halls of the museum and reacquainting himself with the works of art which he had worried he might never see again. But when he finally reached the doors, some force beyond all reckoning compelled him to continue on his way.

All through that day and on into the evening, Semykin walked and walked, as blocks of flats gave way to single-storey houses which in turn gave way to thatched-roof peasant huts.

By then, he’d tossed away the shoes that did not fit. Barefoot now, and with the cool autumn air like electric sparks across his wounded fingertips, Semykin pressed on down the wide roads lined with poplars. As gusts of wind shook loose the yellow leaves, he raised his hands to catch the ones that tumbled past his face.

Only when the light was gone and stars winked from the darkness did Semykin turn at last, and head for home.