Compared to the stultified concert inside, the carefully selected and inoffensive songs washed clean of any provocation or genuine desire for change, this was noisy and raucous and the better for it. Elena had never been part of a demonstration before. She’d never seen one in Moscow and couldn’t imagine such a protest being allowed with the militia standing by idle. The New York police officers were concentrated in the street, not the sidewalk, seemingly having surrendered to the crowd, patrolling it, holding their distance, curiously disengaged. The substantial police presence didn’t seem to worry Austin. On tiptoes, Elena watched as his arms moved with the rhythm of each sentence, his hand punctuating each phrase. He was wearing a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up as if speaking was an act of intense physical labour. His communication transcended words – there was magic to it. Compared with the moody introspection of Leo, his cynicism, Jesse Austin was most intensely alive individual she’d ever seen.

Moving forward was like swimming against the current, her small frame shunted from side to side, jostled by an audience that didn’t want to part. No one wanted to lose position near Jesse. Elena didn’t have much time. The authorities would soon realize that she was missing and when they caught up with her she would be punished. It didn’t matter as long as she managed to pose with Jesse. From her pocket she pulled the Soviet flag. This was her opportunity to make a difference: her way of proving to Jesse how much his efforts were appreciated and how he would never be forgotten. She would embrace him, flag flapping behind them, achieving the photograph they desired – the two of them side by side. Abandoning good manners, Elena forced her way through, clawing the audience aside. Jesse saw her as she breached the front rank. He reached down and took her hand, pulling her up onto the crate. For a man his age he was remarkably strong. Elena saw his wife for the first time. Mrs Austin did something she hadn’t done earlier: she smiled.

At the sight of Elena on the crate, the crowd broke into a chorus of comments. Elena didn’t understand what they were saying but she knew exactly what she had to do. She released the flag, its full length spreading behind her. Jesse caught it. For a second there was fear in his eyes; he understood its provocation. Elena wondered if he might even fold it away. But he let go of the flag, allowing it hang behind them. The audience surged forward, like the crash of a wave against the crate. There were multiple flashes of cameras across the crowd, journalists asking questions, furious protestors and delighted supporters. Jesse cut his hand through the air, as if his arm were a scythe: