The lobbies and dining rooms of the original theatre were covered in thin, tattered red carpet.
This is where I met Olivia, but I can’t recall the circumstances, other than depending on her to get me from one room to the next. How did she know my name? I was reluctant to say anything about my fear of the place, and my suspicion of everyone there. Grushko and Litvikov were silent, as always. Rurik, from the Memory Institute, shared my fascination with the tables, the chandeliers, the plates and knives. I would see him again, with Olivia, at the embankment, where both would hastily—but kindly—usher me into the waiting cargo plane. The emblems on the buttons of her tunic—I can never place them. So I can’t be certain she’s one of us.
Green Vincentine’s recurring dream, first experienced summer of 1990.