After returning from Kenya, I once again began seriously thinking about my physical fitness. Climbing the mountain during the trip had been difficult for me, so I planned to start running again, improve my diet, and join a gym. Events, however, began to unfold quite differently from what I had expected. In late January 2020, news feeds filled with reports of an outbreak of a new coronavirus in China, and on January 30, the World Health Organization declared it a public health emergency of international concern. My intuition immediately told me that the virus would reach Russia too and that what was happening would affect us directly, although many people around me were far more optimistic. Dima E., for example, a DevOps engineer on my team, thought the outbreak would be temporary and that everything would soon settle down.
But the situation worsened with each passing day, and it soon became clear that the virus was spreading faster than many had expected. By March 30, reality had finally intruded into everyday life: Moscow introduced a strict self-isolation regime, gyms and many other establishments closed, and people were allowed to leave home only when necessary—for example, to visit the nearest shop or pharmacy, briefly walk a pet, or travel to work if they still had to work on-site. These measures were intended to reduce contact between people and slow the spread of the virus.
One of the biggest changes for me was our company’s switch to remote work. Until then, working from the office had been the norm: it was believed that being physically present made meetings and negotiations easier and accelerated the development process. The company-wide transition to remote work was a forced experiment, but the first few days showed that this arrangement was entirely workable: the company continued to function normally, work processes did not grind to a halt, and there was no noticeable decline in efficiency.
For me, however, what was happening felt quite different. Working from home, I watched my plans fall apart one after another. Instead of starting to run in the mornings or going to the gym, I found myself confined within four walls. Life began to seem slow and static, as though the entire world had entered an endless pause. My intended return to a familiar routine became a long wait filled with uncertainty and anxiety: when would it once again be possible simply to go outside without fearing that someone might stop you or feeling as though you were breaking some invisible rules?
During the first week after self-isolation was introduced, Moscow truly seemed to come almost to a standstill. The streets emptied, traffic dropped sharply, and most people tried to follow the new rules. At first, the restrictions were perceived as a temporary measure, but on April 2 the non-working period was extended through the end of the month. Gradually, the city began to come back to life: there were more cars on the roads, and people increasingly ventured out to attend to their affairs. Throughout April, I continued to stay home and comply with the requirements.
After April 30, however, when it became clear that the restrictions were being extended again and that the old way of life would not return any time soon, I too began thinking about at least occasionally going out for a drive. In early May, I decided simply to drive around the city in my BMW X6. By then, a digital permit was required to travel through Moscow in a private car: the rule had been in force since April 15, and permits could be obtained online. The very first time I applied, I made a mistake—I entered the wrong license plate number and received a fine of 5,000 rubles. After that, I made no similar mistakes when applying for travel permits.
On May 12, a mandatory mask-and-glove rule was added to these restrictions: masks and gloves had to be worn in shops, on public transport, and in taxis. Even the most ordinary trip outside now required preparation and constant attention to the new rules.
Against the backdrop of life coming to a general standstill, I remained troubled by the unresolved story with Nadya and everything that had been left unsaid between us. It seemed to me that there was an enormous gap between the person she saw me as and the life I actually lived. I worked, traveled, set myself meaningful goals, and tried to act responsibly, yet most of my story remained unknown to her. I hoped that if Nadya learned all this, she might understand me better and perhaps see our past differently.
It was then that I first felt the desire to tell the story of my life in a coherent way. In essence, this was an early, still unformed version of the book I am writing now. I had a powerful need to express my own truth, but I had not yet found an independent form for it and chose a personal path instead: I tried to tell everything directly to Nadya.
I began sending her gifts on VKontakte, accompanying them with fragments of my story. Of course, that narrative was far less detailed and structured than this book, but at the time this approach seemed like a possible way to tell it. I understood that Nadya would most likely not respond: her previous silence gave me no reason to expect a different reaction. And yet, deep down, I continued to hope that my words might reach her—that she would see the real me, look differently at our past, and perhaps one day explain her own actions. I wanted to believe that this new information would at least slightly alter the image of me that had already taken shape.
To complement my story and express myself through more than words, I decided to make a gift for Nadya myself. I knew how much she loved cats, so I chose a painting of a cat. I did not know how to paint one from scratch, so I bought a paint-by-numbers kit, paints, and brushes at the Leonardo hypermarket. Despite the ready-made outlines, the work required enormous patience, precision, effort, and care. Day after day, I carefully filled in individual sections with paint, gradually assembling them into a single image.
Despite her silence, the cat gradually emerging from many separate fragments retained a specific meaning for me: I hoped that one day I would still be able to give the painting to Nadya.
On the evening of July 10, while driving around the city, I suddenly felt a powerful inner impulse to pass by the dance school where Nadya taught. I had no intention of stopping or going inside—I merely wanted to see the place, drive around it, and continue on my way.
Next to the school was a residential building where I needed to turn. The cars were parked very close together, and making the maneuver in a large BMW X6 was not easy. I slowly and carefully tried to negotiate the turn, adjusting my course several times, but at some point I still clipped the corner of a parked Nissan Almera with the side of my car.
I drove a little farther, stopped, and got out to inspect the car. There were conspicuous scratches on the BMW’s door. When I saw them, I flew into a rage: I immediately imagined how much the repairs would cost. The Almera I had hit was old and its body already bore many scratches, so at that moment the damage I had caused seemed insignificant to me. The rules required me to remain at the scene and report what had happened, but I did not do so and drove away.
As I later learned, the wife of the Almera’s owner had been sitting on a bench nearby. She had seen what happened and remembered my license plate number. About a week later, while I was stopped at a traffic light on Verkhniye Polya Street, a man unexpectedly ran up to me, knocked on the window, and said:
“You hit our car in the courtyard that day and drove away. We reported it to the traffic police.”
Having said this, he immediately left. I became seriously anxious because I understood that leaving the scene of an accident could result in the loss of my driver’s license. I then returned to the neighborhood and found the owners of the Almera through local residents. I asked why they had gone to the traffic police, since the proceedings had already begun and could no longer be stopped through a simple settlement.
They replied that they would withdraw their report if I paid them. I tried several times to explain that once the traffic police had been contacted, it no longer worked that way and that dropping their claims would not by itself eliminate the possible consequences. They insisted, however, that they knew what they were doing and could sort everything out. In the end, I gave them 50,000 rubles—far more than it would have cost to repair a minor scratch on an old Almera. I expected them to withdraw the report after that, and for a while I considered the incident over.
Soon afterward, I took my BMW in for repairs. Removing the scratches from the door cost me another 50,000 rubles. By that point, one unfortunate turn had already cost me 100,000 rubles.
But the story did not end there. Some time later, the owner of the Almera and I were summoned to the traffic police to give statements. There we were told that the case would be sent to court.
“I told you that once you went to the traffic police, nothing could be called off,” I said to the owner of the Almera.
He continued to reassure me:
“Don’t worry. In court, I’ll say I have no claims against you.”
This did little to reassure me: I understood that the absence of claims on his part would no longer stop the proceedings that had begun.
Meanwhile, by July the atmosphere in Moscow had become noticeably less tense. The self-isolation regime and digital permits had been abolished, many restrictions were gradually being eased, and travel within Russia no longer seemed impossible. Masks were still required on public transport, in shops, and in other public places, but it was now possible to move around more freely and gradually return to normal life.
After several months spent mostly at home and the disheartening incident with the Almera, I was especially eager for even a brief change of scenery. I decided to take a vacation and find somewhere I could go. I once again opened the Club of Adventures website, which I had used before, and began browsing the available programs. Among them, I found a tour called “Mountain Camp in the Elbrus Region”—an active hotel-based program scheduled for July 19–24, 2020. I decided to join the group and head to the Caucasus.
On July 19, I arrived in Mineralnye Vody, where I met the instructor and the other members of the group. From there, we traveled to the Baksan Valley and checked into a hotel in the Azau clearing, at an altitude of about 2,300 meters.
Over the following days, we hiked the mountain trails of the Elbrus region. Among the places I remember were the Geologists’ Waterfall and the slopes of Mount Cheget, which offered views of the surrounding peaks. We also visited the slopes of Mount Elbrus, ascending to an altitude of 3,847 meters. After several monotonous months at home, the change of scenery, physical exertion, and mountain routes allowed me to reset a little.
On July 24, the final day of the tour, the Russian government announced that international flights would begin to resume on August 1. Initially, flights were permitted to only three countries: the United Kingdom, Turkey, and Tanzania.
This news made me look at the possibilities of remote work in a new way. If this arrangement had become the norm and the company did not care where I connected from, why not try living in another country for a while? Of the three available destinations, the United Kingdom seemed the most suitable.
I began seriously considering the idea. Living in the United Kingdom offered several interesting opportunities at once. First and foremost, I would be immersed in an English-speaking environment and could significantly improve my command of the language. I also wanted to become more deeply acquainted with the country’s history and culture and see places I had previously known only from books and films. Moving to the West had long remained a dream of mine, and the United Kingdom could become the first real step toward making it a reality. I also hoped to make new acquaintances, expand my social circle, and fill my life with new experiences.
Some time later, I applied for and received a UK visitor visa. It was valid from September 21, 2020, to March 21, 2021. All that remained was to choose a departure date—I was tentatively aiming for early November.
By August, the cat painting I had been making for Nadya was finished. By then, through gifts on VKontakte, I had already told her the main part of my life story. Nadya, however, continued to maintain complete silence.
I then thought the time had come to visit the dance school where Nadya taught in person. It seemed to me that after telling her my story and spending a couple of months on the painting, a face-to-face meeting would help clear up the misunderstanding between us and the inner discomfort associated with it. Before going, I informed Nadya of my intention by sending her another gift on VKontakte.
To preserve this important moment for me, I asked my friend Natasha Zh. to accompany me and film what happened. Natasha agreed, and together we went to the school, where I hoped to give Nadya the painting and finally talk to her.
On August 5, we arrived at the school, went up to the right floor, entered the premises, and found ourselves in front of the reception desk. From the staff’s reaction, I understood that they recognized me. The school’s director, Ekaterina T., one of Nadya’s colleagues and friends, stood behind the desk and began typing something on her phone. I interpreted this as her warning Nadya that I had arrived.
After a while, Nadya herself appeared. She already had a phone in her hands and was filming what was happening. Despite my intense anxiety, I approached her and said:
“Nadya, let’s talk and sort this out.”
I felt extremely tense and struggled to find the right words. The phrase came out harshly, but at that moment I found it difficult to speak calmly: what was happening mattered too much to me and was far too personal.
Nadya continued filming. I tried to lighten the atmosphere with a joke:
“I’ve got someone filming here too,” I said, pointing to Natasha Zh.
For a moment, everyone smiled. The scene really did look almost comical: we stood facing each other while what was happening was filmed from both sides. Yet beneath this outward comedy, nothing changed—no conversation ever developed between us.
Eventually, I said:
“All right, girls, I’ll get what I want anyway.”
Natasha and I then left. What I meant was that I would still manage to convey my truth and show who I really was. In the circumstances, however, the phrase could have sounded entirely different—as a promise to keep pursuing Nadya’s attention despite her silence.
Natasha Zh. and I went to a nearby café to wait for Nadya’s workday to end. While we waited, I withdrew about two thousand dollars from an ATM. I thought the money might somehow help soften the situation or at least create an opportunity to begin a conversation.
When we returned to the dance school, Nadya had already left. Ekaterina T. was still near the building with her bicycle, along with several of Nadya’s other colleagues.
At first, Ekaterina reacted sharply to my appearance and tried to avoid a conversation. I drove around the school through the neighboring courtyards, then returned and stopped beside her. Lowering the window, I tried to speak to her again. From the car, I offered Ekaterina one thousand dollars, hoping she would help me begin a dialogue with Nadya or at least pass along my message.
Ekaterina, however, interpreted my offer quite differently. She took out her phone, began filming me through the open window, and said sarcastically:
“Oh, I’m being offered a bribe.”
She then looked over my car and added:
“Your car is certainly great, but you yourself…”
She did not finish the sentence, merely curling her lip in contempt.
Her words hurt me, but I replied calmly:
“Then help me become better.”
My reply seemed to take Ekaterina by surprise. Instead of continuing to speak with me, she looked at Natasha Zh., who was sitting in the passenger seat, and said:
“Look at the beautiful girl sitting right beside you.”
I took her words as a hint that I should turn my attention to Natasha and stop trying to obtain a conversation with Nadya. This irritated me because it was not about finding another girl at all. What mattered to me was talking specifically to Nadya, hearing her opinion, and understanding why everything between us had turned out the way it had. I did not say this aloud, but that was the thought going through my mind.
I merely smiled, deciding not to continue a conversation that was already going nowhere. After that, we left. Once again, the attempt to establish a dialogue ended in nothing. All that remained was the bitterly ironic thought that at least I had shown them my car.
But I still wanted to give Nadya the cat painting. The painting was finished, and I wanted to complete what I had spent so much time working toward. A week later, I therefore decided to return to the dance school—this time alone. I hoped that someone would at least accept the painting from me: it seemed to me that the painting itself could not be perceived as anything other than a harmless gift.
I arrived early and waited for a long time on a chair near the entrance to the school. It turned out, however, that Nadya had not come in at all that day. Many employees saw me, and some clearly recognized me, but no one told me this directly.
As the school was nearing closing time, two girls came out of the room. As they drew level with me, one of them addressed the other:
“Oh, that’s right—Nadya isn’t here today.”
The intended recipient was obvious: formally, one girl was speaking to the other, but in practice the message was meant for me. Instead of telling me directly, they staged a brief scene that I was supposed to overhear. “For fuck’s sake, why couldn’t they just tell me directly?” I thought.
I had no choice but to leave and return again a week later.
A week later, I came back and sat near the entrance, waiting for Nadya to finish work. At one point, Ekaterina T. came out of the room. I asked whether Nadya was at the school that day. Ekaterina did not answer—she merely sighed, looked at me, and stepped into the elevator. From her reaction, I understood that Nadya was there. I stayed and waited for an opportunity to give her the painting.
When the classes were due to end and Nadya should have been coming out, her boyfriend suddenly appeared. As he passed, he looked directly at me, smirked, and continued on his way. I continued to sit calmly with the painting, however. All I needed was to give it to Nadya and, if possible, talk. Her boyfriend’s presence changed nothing for me—even if ten boyfriends like him had walked past.
After a while, Nadya came out. “Now we’ll finally be able to talk calmly,” I thought. But she and her boyfriend simply walked past without paying any attention to me.
I followed them, continuing to address them and trying to start a conversation.
When we went down to the ground floor, Nadya stepped away to return the keys because the school was closing, while I remained beside her boyfriend. At one point, I touched him with my hand. He reacted sharply:
“Don’t touch me.”
“Or what?” I replied.
He merely grimaced in annoyance. Having finished what she needed to do, Nadya headed for the exit with him.
I was still carrying the painting and wanted only one thing—to finally hand it over. We approached their car, and I said:
“All right, guys, that’s it, that’s it. Just take the painting, and I’ll leave.”
Nadya looked visibly tense and irritated. I wanted to bring the scene to an end as quickly as possible, so I tossed the painting into their car and immediately ran away.
Later, I returned to the place I had recently fled and saw my painting beside the trash containers. It was terrible to realize: it felt as though everything I had tried to express—and I myself along with it—had been thrown away.
After that, I continued living my life, but as it turned out, the story was still not over. One weekend, I drank heavily—I started almost first thing in the morning and continued throughout the day. By the time I was severely intoxicated, I called Nadya’s number.
To my surprise, she answered. We were silent for a few moments, and then she said:
“Hello.”
She had a beautiful voice. The moment I heard it, I felt my blood pressure shoot up. I was overwhelmed with emotion, and the first thing that burst out of me was:
“Maybe I should go and see your father?”
I did not understand why I had said those particular words. Nadya immediately hung up. When I realized what had happened, I felt profoundly ashamed. I understood that the phrase had sounded like a threat and could have frightened her.
Over the following days, I began drinking every evening.
Some time later, while I was still trying to make sense of my own actions, my boss told me that a woman who introduced herself as Nadya had called the company. She asked management to influence me so that I would stop trying to contact her, because my attention was troubling her.
This left me even more confused and angry. Nadya had not told me directly that she wanted all contact to cease, although she had had the opportunity to do so. Instead, she decided to approach my superiors, thereby bringing our personal history into my workplace.
According to my boss, during a conversation with a company employee, Nadya claimed that she had explained everything to me long ago. I saw what had happened differently: the last words Nadya had personally said to me, in December 2014, were that I needed to correct my mistakes. Everything that followed was expressed through silence, avoidance of contact, and communication through other people.
In my conversation with my boss, I stated my position: what was happening concerned my private life and had no effect on my performance of my professional duties, so I did not consider the situation a matter for management intervention.
I tried to understand why Nadya had chosen to contact my boss instead of telling me everything directly. One possible explanation, it seemed to me, was an episode in 2019 when I wrote an emotional message to Ekaterina T. on VKontakte. At the time, I hoped that through her I might obtain at least some response from Nadya. Perhaps the fact that I had once approached her manager influenced Nadya’s decision to approach mine.
As I chose new ways of reaching out to Nadya, I imagined how each of them might look from her perspective. I believed that among the possible approaches there was one that would overcome the established view of me and convey the meaning embodied in my actions.
My attempts therefore took different forms: I told the story of my life, painted a picture, tried to speak to her in person, and looked for a way to pass my words through someone else. If one approach failed to open a dialogue, I tried coming from another direction, hoping to find an opening in the established form of perception.
Only later did I see a closed mechanism in what had happened. The substance of my actions changed, but I saw no difference in the responses to them. What conformed to the established image confirmed it directly. What did not conform did not change the attitude toward me either. As a result, the form deprived every action in advance of the ability to disprove it.
I could reveal different sides of myself, but I could not unilaterally determine what meaning would be assigned to my actions. For this reason, the story remained unresolved for me for a long time. Years later, the need to express my true self and reclaim my own story became one of the reasons I began writing this book. Reflection on these events became one of the foundations of “Deconstruction of Reality”.
Meanwhile, the trial concerning the traffic accident took place. I fully admitted my guilt. The owner of the Almera confirmed that he had no claims against me and that the damage I had caused had been fully compensated. The judge established that no financial dispute remained between us. Leaving the scene of an accident was a separate offense, however, so she revoked my driving privileges for eighteen months.
When I heard the decision, I froze. Then I looked sullenly at the owner of the Almera. I had paid him 50,000 rubles because I believed his assurances that he could stop the proceedings, but in the end it had made no difference. I felt that he had set me up. He said nothing, and after the hearing we went our separate ways in silence.
The period of disqualification would begin from the moment I surrendered my driver’s license to the traffic police. Immediately after the trial, however, I did not surrender it.
Despite what had happened, my plans remained in place. I already had my UK visa, and I intended to fly there before long.
Before the trip, however, I decided to get my health in order. The habit of drinking regularly that had developed in the wake of recent events was draining much of the strength I would need in the United Kingdom. On the now-familiar Club of Adventures website, I found a program called “Mountain Camp in Mezmay,” scheduled for October 25–31, 2020. Mezmay is a small mountain village in the Apsheronsky District of Krasnodar Krai, situated in the valley of the Kurdzhips River. The trip seemed like the best opportunity to change my surroundings, regain my strength, and break the habit I had developed.
I bought a plane ticket and flew from Moscow to Krasnodar on October 25, 2020, the first day of the program. After landing, I headed from the airport to the Krasnodar-1 railway station, where our group was gathering. There were sixteen of us in all, arriving from Moscow and Saint Petersburg. The participants included a father with his school-aged son, a mother with two children of about the same age, and Dina, with whom I soon struck up a conversation. Once everyone had assembled, we traveled to Mezmay by minibus.
When we arrived in the village, we were met by two young guides—a man and a woman who were a couple. The woman stood out to me because of her long red hair. Both were passionate about sports and outdoor activities, especially hiking in the mountains. They would be accompanying our group over the coming week. We checked into the hotel, where a hearty dinner awaited us, and spent the rest of the first evening getting to know one another.
The active part of the trip began on the second day. We set out along the surrounding trails, one of which led to Eagle Ledge, a rocky shelf high above the valley. It offered an expansive view of the forest-covered mountain slopes. This place became one of my first vivid impressions of Mezmay.
On one of the following days, we went to the Guam Gorge, where we rode a tourist train along a narrow-gauge railway. The route ran between steep cliffs beside a winding mountain river.
Our guides introduced us not only to the natural surroundings but also to everyday life in Mezmay. Our meeting with a local blacksmith was especially memorable. He showed us his forge and explained the forging process in detail. His activities were not limited to blacksmithing: he also played an active role in improving the village.
We also visited a weaving school, where we watched local craftspeople at work. These encounters allowed us to see Mezmay not merely as a tourist destination, but as a village where people lived, worked, and preserved traditional crafts.
Every evening after returning from our hikes, we gathered on the ground floor of the hotel and played board games. We relaxed after the day’s trekking, talked a great deal, and gradually got to know one another better. These evenings brought our group noticeably closer together.
During one of our conversations, I told the group about my plans to live and work in the United Kingdom. Dina supported the idea and said it was a great plan. She had traveled through English-speaking countries herself and told me about her trips.
On one of the final days of the tour, we visited some thermal springs near Mezmay. There was a small complex with outdoor pools filled with hot water.
On October 31, the final day of the tour, our group traveled by arranged transport to the Krasnodar-1 railway station. Dina decided to remain in the area for a few more days, so she did not come with us.
After returning from Mezmay, I decided to try appealing the court’s decision and seek help from a lawyer. There were many specialists online offering assistance with cases of this kind. I found one and contacted him. He said that for 10,000 rubles, he was prepared to obtain the necessary documents from the court and examine the case file.
I immediately warned him that I would soon be flying to the United Kingdom and asked whether he could handle the appeal in my absence. The lawyer replied that he could review the case independently and represent me before the appellate court. We agreed on that basis.
I was not confident, however, that the lawyer would succeed or that the appellate court would overturn the decision. Before leaving, I therefore decided to make an alternative arrangement as well. With my driving privileges revoked, I effectively had no need for the car, so I asked my friend Nikolai to sell it while I was in the United Kingdom. I promised to pay him for his help—I believe it was 15,000 or 30,000 rubles; I no longer remember the exact amount.
While I was making these preparations, I remained in touch with Dina. On November 5, she wrote to tell me that she had contracted COVID-19 and had been placed in quarantine for two weeks in Maykop, the capital of Adygea, about ninety kilometers from Mezmay. She told me that on November 1 she had returned to the same thermal springs. The very next day, she developed a fever and her legs began to give way beneath her. She became so ill that she was unable to leave or even lift her backpack. Dina believed that she had become infected at the thermal springs because they had been crowded that day.
The following day, November 6, with only one day left before my flight to the United Kingdom, I needed to finalize my arrangement with Nikolai. For him to sell the car in my absence, I had to give him a general power of attorney. I began looking for a notary, but some notary offices were closed, others accepted clients by appointment only, and still others had such long lines that I might not be seen before the end of the working day. Eventually, I found a notary who was able to see me and draw up the power of attorney that same day. I then drove the BMW X6 to Nikolai’s home in Podrezkovo, left the car there, and handed him all its documents.
By the time of my departure, I had done everything I could to prepare: the lawyer was handling the case materials, the car remained with Nikolai, and the United Kingdom lay ahead of me.
