A car with a driver is waiting for us. Denis, in a gentlemanly way, opens the door for me and helps the drunk lady get into the car.

“To the airport,” he says curtly, and sits down beside her. Denis is so tense, he is all on pins and needles. And I'm frightened looking out the window and trying to come up with an excuse.

“Sorry,” I lower my eyes. Then I pick it up and look at it for a long, long time.

He reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out my house keys and hands them to me. My pupils are dilated. I know what it means -...