The last time I talked to her was on a New Year’s Eve, not long before her death.

“Happy New Year!” I shouted. “I hope you’re having a glass of cognac!”

“Remember, Masha, when you and I celebrated?”

“Of course, it was wonderful.”

“You were the last. They said I shouldn’t host anymore.”

“You were a very good host,” I said.

“You shouldn’t have told them,” she said. “Whatever you told them.”

Then she added, “But I forgive you.”