For the whole week I conducted excursions on my own, and I have never seen Lev Semenovich during these days. By Saturday, anxiety took root in me - I had only a week left to find out the reason for his strange attitude towards me. I was worried that I wouldn’t find a reason to talk, I secretly hoped for his initiative, but he, as if on purpose, avoided me. But apparently what should happen, surely happens, even if later than we would like. We met on Sunday, in one of the many cafes where I wandered in, driven by hunger after a long walk through the shopping center. Already at the exit faced him in the doorway. He also left, he had several packages in his hands - he must have bought from the same shopping center.

- Sonia, did not expect to see you here. - He said, helping me out, holding the heavy glass door with one hand.

- So it turns out that we are constantly faced. I smiled and narrowed my eyes slightly.

- Your practice is not over yet?

I shook my head and said:

- Another week. Last one - On this word she made a significant emphasis, as if stressing the importance of this week, as if she carried the only chance for herself to be able to clarify everything between us.

- You do not mind a walk? - Without waiting for an answer, Lev Semenovich gave me his right elbow, and without thinking twice, I clung to him.

Still I was against! I was frantically searching for reasons to extend this inadvertent meeting, and here he himself gave a reason. How could I refuse?

We walked along the central wide streets, and he, like an experienced guide, told me about the history of buildings, towering on the edges of sidewalks, about the fate of famous scientists or writers who have been in this city, in these places. I listened to him with wide eyes, he was fascinating and very vividly told. So, the question that tormented me to voice was not yet decided: everything was waiting for the perfect moment, but it somehow did not occur. We had an interesting but abstract conversation, and it seemed to me indecent to transfer the conversation to a different direction. Near the old four-story house with square arches, Lev Semenovich stopped.

- How do you find this house, Sonya?

- Excellent. I like old houses, they have their own history. They must have witnessed many events.

- If you knew how right you are. In this house there were those about whom much can be told and there is something to remember. And I am blessed with the honor of living in this house.

I could only sigh admiringly and look with awe at this beautiful, stately house with tall windows. We also had such houses in the city, however, there were very few of them, and there lived a different party elite, major heads of various departments, and now their heirs, or those who had money. I have never been to such houses.

- Sonya, by no means do not interpret my words in the wrong sense, but you do not want to visit my apartment? I see in you a deep and true interest in art that has its own history. You will be interested to see my collections.

- Do you invite me home? - I clarified.

- Absolutely. He paused, staring at me in anticipation. I didn’t doubt my decision, but it wouldn’t be entirely correct to immediately agree, and therefore I agreed only half a minute later, depicting genuine confusion and doubts on my face.

Even the entrance itself made an impression. High walls, carefully plastered, forged antique railings, reproductions on the walls and pots with branched birch. Such entrances, probably one in a million. Well maintained, clean and comfortable. On the third floor there was only one door. Two figures glittered with gold on a dark oak canvas - thirty-seven.It was near this door that Lev Semenovich stopped, taking a weighty bunch of keys from a purse.

- How many doors could be opened! - I joked.

- I wear all the keys to the museum and from my own house on this bundle. - Explaining this, he chose from all one long key and inserted it into the keyhole, covered with a golden tongue. Finally, the door flew open, and he gesture missed me: - Please.

At that moment I forgot about the excitement that enveloped me in the presence of Lev Semenovich. I was absorbed in his magnificent and luxurious home. It smelled of wealth and antiquarian heritage everywhere, in the whole atmosphere - and the apartment, it must be said, was notable for a considerable number of rooms and impressive footage - there was not a single modern thing, all the furniture seemed to come here directly from a nineteenth-century manor. However, I almost guessed it - later my middle-aged friend told me that he spent a lot of time at auctions and left a lot of money there, furnishing this house. But he inherited a lot from his parents. I was ashamed to clarify, but even so it was clear that the family was wealthy. Surely his parents were not workers from the factory.

Each new room, opening up to my eyes, amazed with perfect harmony, interesting, old-fashioned, but so dear to my heart interior. I especially liked one of them - apparently, it was a cabinet. A massive mahogany table with carved, ornate rounded legs, stood next to the window. On its dark burgundy surface was a written set of some dark stone, an iron typewriter and a vintage telephone with a round disk and a beautiful, refined tube that rocked on high steel levers. One wall was from top to bottom crammed with books — apparently, shelving for them was made to order. Oh, what just was not there! Here and antique literature, and classics, and poetry of all times and cultures. A real treasure. And all the books are in old, but strong covers, with deep golden embossing. “They did it in the workshop,” I thought.

There are two small sofas upholstered in red velvet comfortably against the opposite wall. The flexibility of the bends of this furniture made it look like soft scarlet waves, beckoning to lie on their crest with some of these amazing and valuable books. The walls were covered with real wood, and the parquet slightly creaked, which quite complemented the general old entourage of the room. On the wall, near which there were sofas, hung just a gorgeous copy of Sandro Botticelli's “The Birth of Venus”. Apparently, her age was a little less than the original. One of my favorite pictures! In enthusiastic admiration, I turned around and saw on the threshold of his master's office. He stood with his hand on the doorframe, and, apparently, was waiting for me any reaction.

- I'm shocked. It's great. - Lev Semenovich smiled a proud smile and went into the office, imposingly leaning on his carved cane.

- Please, sit down. I'll show you something amazing. You, Sonia, should like. - With these words, he opened the glass case of the cabinet with some folders with a key and pulled out one of them. He sat down next to me on the sofa, opened the folder and showed me. These were old, faded and yellowed photos, which depicted ballet dancers who died, probably almost a hundred years ago. I could not recognize almost any of them, only on one card I saw a familiar face. It was Vaclav Nijinsky, imprinted in the dance. Gently touching the photo of the great dancer, I looked up at Lev Semenovich:

- Is it "Giselle"?

- You are right, Sonia, you are right. I knew you would like it. I collected these and other photos all my life, gave a lot of time and money to search for these pictures. In this folder I have everything about ballet, if you scroll further, you will see not only artists, but also wonderful shots of performances.

- This folder is all about ballet, but what about the rest? - I was delighted with his selection, I had never seen these shots before, although I had seen many similar works during my studies. It was really rare work, and therefore such valuable. How great it was to keep this wealth in their hands!