I met the Russian group again at the home no, he is already dead at Hemingway’s Museum. Always the same thing. We hadn’t been there even five minutes when a penetrating stench of life also entered and began to gesticulate: “Comrade, please. There, one minute, please, a photograph.” I looked at him, half attracted, half repelled; he was blond, with an enormous round face with his small black camera dangling over a checked shirt.