Dad had always been awkward. His awkwardness, however, had never prevented him from being socially mobile and successful in life. There was no stiffness and arrogance in him, yet it was difficult for him to conceal his disregard of any type of deceitful nonsense: my guess is that I partially inherited his clunkiness. (I vividly remember my frustration amid any “small talk” with people when I was much younger: I sort of learned how to do it much later in life yet still don’t seem to see the point.) That is why it was always easy to keep silent in his presence and not to feel obliged to launch a discussion.

Yet we had plenty of them—truly, a lot. Dad’s ironic approach was nevertheless warm and welcoming, and I felt special when, being 9, 10 or 11 or 12, I talked to him about history or literature.

All day long I am constantly coming back to one episode from my early childhood: I am around five, playing with my friends outside (there were two of them, Vika and Zakhar, from my kindergarten: where are they now?...), it’s very sunny, although somewhat late (an everlasting polar summer day, as we are in Tiksi). We noticed that the door to a flat in a neighbouring building was slightly ajar, we went in and noticed a few toys in the corridor, grabbed them and started playing, then our parents called us. I ran home and showed Mum and Dad a tiny plastic doll, they asked who gave it to me and I answered that I took it from that place as the door was open. I remember that Mum got pale, grabbed my hand and asked me to show her the way to that door. I was freaking out yet complied, we went there, knocked on the door, someone opened it. Mum apologised and said that we came to return their things, the people inside a bit puzzled, but they smiled. I gave them that doll, they thanked us, saying that it’s nothing and they’ve been already visited by other parents, then laughed, and we left.

Mum started sobbing. It was the very first time in my life when I saw her crying. Do you understand, she turned to me, that you did a very bad thing? Do you ever remember that we told you that you simply cannot take other people’s possessions without asking first? Did you forget what we taught you? Why did you do this?

Seeing my Mum—always calm, and resilient, and reassuring—in this state was horrible: I began crying, too, repeating that I wanted to play a bit, but then I was planning to put the toy back. I still remember that crippling feeling of guilt: I was absolutely mortified. We were already in our apartment: Mum left to the kitchen where I heard her and Dad’s voices, and then Dad said something like, “I will talk to her, give me a second.” He came out, sat next to me and opened his hands: I cried even louder and hugged him. “See,” he said, “some things can be upsetting, especially when you know that they are wrong. If your friends do something you are not sure is right, tell them you don’t want to join them. And perhaps you forgot it so I will repeat it again: please, never take anything that is not yours; it’s very wrong. This time everything has been resolved. Next time it can be different. So, let’s make it the last time, ok?” I nodded, and he picked me up. Mum also stepped out from the kitchen and also gave me a hug.

I still remember Dad’s voice and how quickly he returned everything to normality—almost without effort. He made everything better that day, and later he often did it, too. It’s unforgettable.