Was it possible that Grisha had skipped that page and not seen the inscription?
She went to meet her friend Lidochka on Thursday afternoon, after Grisha had boarded his train.
At the gate, Lera looked for Grisha among the people holding bouquets and spied his head.
Grisha gave her a dark look, like that of a teen-ager whose privacy has been intruded on.
She could think of no one else who could tell her what was going on with Grisha.
She would make Grisha a special dinner before he went on his overnight trip to Tver on Thursday.
Grisha must have decided to keep some of their money at a local bank, she thought, on her way home.
They competed to help her, appropriately outraged by what Grisha had done.
So it surprised only a few when Grisha started travelling back, seeing old friends and making new ones, looking for his own golden formula.
Mitin had had an Orthodox priest bless each of his businesses, Grisha had told her, which made her think the man had more than enough to atone for.
When she was working again, in a lab at a medical-research park in Eastview, surrounded by test tubes and electrophoresis trays, she had a lot of time to think about Grisha.
Whatever envy his fast climb had stirred in the hearts of others, to hear Grisha Arsenyev talk one might guess that immigrating had turned out to be the great anticlimax of his life.
At the get-togethers that Lera and Grisha attended, Lera would often see her husband off in a corner, rattling his drink and talking with someone about the moribund state of American culture, the absence of any real spirituality here.
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