“Ivan,” I said. “Finally, we meet.”

“That’s true,” he said.

Then neither of us said anything.

“Ivan,” said Irina. “Don’t you have something to tell Nina?”

“Well,” he said. He looked at the floor and then looked at me. Lines appeared on his forehead. “I have a wife,” he said. “And it’s not you.”

I knew it wasn’t real—I knew it was just a story. But my stomach sank, my breath caught in my throat, a wave of nausea rose in my chest. I realized I had been hoping to hear a justification—like that he was a spy, or was escaping from being framed for a crime he didn’t commit. I had been hoping to hear his marriage was a sham.