The explosions had stopped there was one more little pop not much louder than an ordinary firecracker one last lingering star falling to earth trailing sparks like a comet and its tail through thick brown smoke streaked with yellow whose billows we could see slowly sinking from the windows of the gallery I tried again to tell Brodsky how the fat jovial interpreter had intervened how I'd feigned indignation played the victim of an affront poor buggers in the end that was how they earned their living But he listed to me blankly the fireworks were over now the King and the Queen had left the gallery was emptying out From the ballroom came the sounds of an orchestra We left the little parlor Beneath the gleaming chandeliers a throng of young men in rented evening clothes were dancing with student girls I asked him if he didn't miss Russia He watched the dancers still without expression he said No not at all I said Now they'd surely give you a tourist visa you could go back He said No I'll never go back There was no anger in his voice he was very calm Most of the girls were wearing white caps with patent leather visors coquettishly set sideways on their heads they had long blond hair that fell over their bare shoulders the couples were dancing or rather oscillating in place crowded up against each other