The young Russian shut the door behind him, and set up the alarm, as he had been told. He looked around the small apartment which would be his own realm. He boiled water for tea. He had to choose the most convenient place. Moscow... no, it wouldn't be wise. Kiev ? Paris ? London ? No, it would be here. New York.
This bench, in the park. A wooden bench. He wiped the drops of rain. He brushed away the heavy gray clouds, and left one or two white flocks, for the sight. He poured the tea in a cup. He moved a tree, for a little shadow.. He took away the kids, for the quietness. Not to far, although, for... the life. He brought nearer two chess players, for the fun.
Then, he sat down.
He took his leather-bound diary, blew the dust, and untied the ribbon. Now, he would have to buy a padlock... He opened the book, at his only page. A white lined paper. It had been parchment, papyrus, wax, clay, granite... It would be paper. Lined paper. He drank the delicious Russian tea. He sorted out his quills, chalks, pencils... A ball-point pen was a good choice. Black ink.
Language... He had written in Russian, of course, in French, Latin, Polish, Chinese... in all the language he mastered. It would be English... well... American English
Illya Kuryakyn stretched his fingers and looked at both his hands. Today, he would use ... his left hand. He moved again the tree. Too much shadow. He needed warmth. He pulled aside a lock of hair and began to write.
Today, I met Napoleon..
