There were over a hundred pages of entries. Polina Peshkova wrote about her work and life. Her character came through strongly: a whimsical style, punctuated by diversions, sudden thoughts and exclamations. The entries flitted from subject to subject, often abandoning one strand and leaving it unfinished. There were no political statements, concentrating entirely on the day-today motions of her life and drawings. Having read the entire diary, Leo couldn’t deny that there was something appealing about the woman. She frequently laughed at her mistakes, documented with perceptive honesty. Her candour might explain why she hid the diary so carefully. It was highly improbable it had been forged as a deceit. With this thought in mind, Leo gestured for Grigori to sit down. He had remained standing, as if on guard duty, for the entire time Leo had been reading. He was nervous. Grigori perched on the edge of the chair. Leo asked:

—Tell me, if she’s innocent, why did she hide the diary?

Seeming to sense that Leo’s attitude towards her was thawing, Grigori became excited. He spoke quickly, rushing through a possible explanation.

—She lives with her mother and two younger brothers. She doesn’t want them snooping through it. Perhaps they’d make fun of her. I don’t know. She talks of love, maybe such thoughts embarrass her. It’s nothing more than that. We must be able to distinguish when something is not important.

Leo’s thoughts wandered. He could imagine Grigori approaching the young woman. Yet he struggled to imagine her responding fondly to a stranger’s question. Why didn’t she tell him to leave her alone? It seemed wildly imprudent of her to be so open. He leaned forward, lowering his voice, not because he feared being overheard but to signal that he was no longer talking to him formally, as a secret-police officer.

—What happened between the two of you? You walked up to her and started talking? And she…

Leo hesitated. He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Finally, stumbling, he asked:

—And she responded…?

Grigori seemed unsure whether the question was put to him by a friend or by a superior officer. When he understood that Leo was genuinely curious, he answered:

—How else do you meet someone except to introduce yourself? I spoke about her art. I told her that I’d seen some of her work – which is true. The conversation continued from there. She was easy to talk to, friendly.

Leo found this extraordinary.

—She wasn’t suspicious?

—No.

—She should have been.

Briefly they’d been speaking as friends, about matters of the heart, now they were agents again. Grigori sank his head.

—Yes, you’re right, she should have been.

He wasn’t angry with Leo. He was angry with himself. His connection with the artist was built on a lie: his affection was founded on artifice and deception.

Surprising himself, Leo offered the diary to Grigori.

—Take it.