He shouted out the words. A sizeable part of the audience had now turned from Austin to Grigori. He continued to speak, this time in a whisper:

—They arrested her last night. She didn’t survive the questioning. A weak heart, that’s what they said to me. A weak heart… a weak heart! Was that her crime, Leo? If that is a crime you should arrest me too. Arrest me, Leo. Arrest me. Charge me with a weak heart. I would rather a weak heart than a strong one.

Leo felt sick.

—Grigori, you’re upset, listen to me—

—You keep asking me to listen to you. But I won’t, Leo Demidov, I won’t listen to you! The sound of your voice is appalling to me.

Other agents were moving closer, several rising out of the audience. Grigori bolted forward, running up the stairs, past the orchestra and towards Austin. Leo rushed after him, following up the stairs but pausing at the threshold of the stage. If he tried to make Grigori leave, they would end up in a fight. The cameras were rolling. Thousands were watching.

***

Grigori stood, blinking in the glare of the spotlights. He wanted to shout out the truth. He wanted to tell them an innocent woman had been murdered. As the faces of those seated in the front rows came into focus he understood that they already knew – not that Polina was dead, but they knew her story, they knew it many times over. They did not need to hear it from him. They did not want to hear it. No one wanted him to speak. They were afraid, not for him, but of him, as if he had some sickness that might infect their lives. He was a lunatic, a man who stood onstage and made himself a target – an act of suicide. There was nothing noble in his actions. What did it matter if he spoke the truth? It was a useless, dangerous truth. He turned to the man onstage with him, the famous Jesse Austin. What had Grigori hoped? Perhaps he’d hoped that a man full of dreams about this land would hear the truth and transform from an advocate to a critic – it would be a bitter blow to the regime, a suitable revenge for Polina’s murder. But looking into Austin’s kind eyes he realized that this man did not want to know the truth either.

Austin wrapped an arm around Grigori’s shoulder, announcing to the audience:

—I don’t know if he’s a fan, or someone telling me to shut up! There was laughter. Grigori slurred the words, drunk, but exhausted, defeated:

—Comrade Austin.

Grigori pulled out the diary page:

—What does this mean to you?

Austin took the page, examining the doodle. He turned to the audience.