“Color of November. The color of a foggy, brainy St. Petersburg night. Not now, but 50 years ago, or even 60 years ago. It seems like Fontanka. A flat and empty bridge hangs over the water, and the wind either creaks the lampposts, where something yellow blinks sadly, or explodes the black water of the canal above the rings. There are very few passers-by. Who would go on a night like this? And what is it that is sweeping from street to street, sweeping right into your face and down the collar of your greatcoat, and onto a lamppost, and into the river?..”