The taxi came to a stop. Elena looked out the window. This must be the place – West 145th Street. The street was busy in a very different way from 44th Street. Some people were busy: many were hanging about. She was worried at how conspicuous she’d appear, a seventeen-year-old Soviet girl dressed unfashionably, with no sense of this city, this neighbourhood or its culture. She didn’t have much time, little more than an hour before she’d be missed at the hotel. The group was due to meet at lunch, before the dress rehearsal, when Raisa returned from her preliminary visit to the UN Headquarters. She checked her watch. The cab ride had taken over thirty minutes, longer than they’d calculated for. The delay meant that she didn’t have long to find and talk to Mr Austin. She’d been told that he’d become a recluse, no longer performing, rarely leaving the apartment, unemployed, his spirit downtrodden by the oppressive measures used against him>

The driver – a white man – turned around, looking at her with concern.

—You sure you want to be here?

Elena’s English was competent. But the phrase confused her. She repeated the address.

—West 145th Street.

The driver nodded:

—This is the place for sure. Not the place for a girl like you.

Elena didn’t understand. She asked:

—How much?

The driver pointed to the meter. She took out the money given to her by Mikael.

—Can you wait?

—How long?

—Twenty minutes.

The driver looked uncertain. Elena paid him five dollars. She noted that the driver seemed pleased with the money. It must be a significant amount.

—There is more if you wait.

He nodded, his entire aspect changed by the money. Elena felt disgust for him, a man in love with money, whose character would change at the sight of a dollar bill.

—I’ll wait. But only twenty minutes, if you’re late, I’m gone.

Elena stepped out the cab, shutting the door.

In front of the taxicab was an old-fashioned wood wagon with a cloth-top screen for shade from the sun. The surface was loaded with heaps of ice, edges rendered smooth by the heat, melting fast. Among the ice, there were clams, some in their pale shells, many scooped out, cooked in spices, spitting in the heat, sold in cones of newspaper. Along the dusty street, instead of a mass of cars, there were children playing ball or jumping games or begging for shards of ice from the clam-selling man who struck out with his fist, shooing them away. At a glance the houses seemed nice to Elena, they weren’t too tall and they weren’t ugly concrete like the slums where she lived. They were handsome brick, framed by metal fire escapes. In one window there was a sign:

ABSOLUTELY NO LOITERING

ON THE STAIRS