A tiny shadow of my native Kyiv neighborhood, Bessarabka, has just walked by.

I'm reading the Atlantic Monthly short stories; some are so powerful that occasionally I light up a cigarette without leaving the computer. Since it's the baby's room - baby Glasha's room - I open the window when I smoke.

Suddenly, I hear a man's voice: "I don't give a fuck that it's so fucking far from here..."

I don't hear any more of the conversation because the man and his companions have quickly moved out of my hearing range. But I'm forced to interrupt my reading - it's dark and I don't bother looking out of the window, but it feels as if I just did - and instead of seeing the Griboyedov Canal (previously, the Yekaterininskiy Canal), I see our Bessarabka backyard, with its playground for kids, a favorite gathering spot for half of Kyiv's drunks. I used to hear them curse outside till 6 a.m. every single summer night. I almost feel homesick for a moment.

Yet, right below my window is the head of Pushkin, on the wall of this red ochre building, along with several more heads of Russia's great writers.

I'm within three (or perhaps five, in this weather) minutes from where the poor old moneylender lived, and as close to Raskolnikov's house. From my window, I can see the bridge from which Raskolnikov disposed of his murder weapon, an axe. Must have been warm then, for now the Canal is frozen.