It has come to the attention of the more inquisitive members of our society that Mrs. Lyudmila Ulitskaya, a writer of some renown and currently a resident of Berlin, has seen fit to purge herself of all material attachments within the city of Moscow. One cannot help but admire the decisiveness with which she has cast off her domestic burdens, treating her real estate as one might a worn-out bonnet that has long since gone out of fashion.

Our sources, those diligent purveyors of modern gossip, inform us that three apartments were offered up for sale. Two of these were situated in the prestigious 'Soviet Writer' cooperative—establishments where the intelligentsia once gathered to discuss the finer points of prose over tea and confectionery. One, a modest three-room dwelling of sixty-one square metres, fetched some thirty million roubles; the other, more spacious at ninety-one square metres, commanded forty-two million. To complete this grand exodus, a four-room residence, valued at forty-six million roubles, was likewise relinquished.

One wonders if the lady felt the air of Moscow had become too heavy for her lungs, or if the mere thought of a Russian deed of sale caused her a sudden, inexplicable migraine. Indeed, it is a most singular tragedy of the modern age when a person of letters finds more solace in foreign quarters than in her own drawing room.

Alas, the divestment was not entirely seamless. It appears the lady still possesses a certain business entity whose bank accounts have been frozen since the dawn of this year, 2024. Furthermore, she has neglected to provide the tax authorities with her annual declarations—a lapse in etiquette that the state, unlike a forgiving drawing-room hostess, rarely overlooks. Thus, while her gold remains locked in Russian deposits, the keys to her doors have been handed to strangers.

In a contrasting display of misfortune, we are reminded of Mr. Alexei Panin, a gentleman of the stage whose financial affairs are in a state of utter chaos. While Mrs. Ulitskaya clears her ledger with a flurry of millions, Mr. Panin owes the tax collectors some two and a half million roubles. In a twist that would amuse Mr. Dickens, the bailiffs have ceased their pursuit of some four hundred thousand roubles, simply because the poor man has vanished so thoroughly that neither he, nor his money, nor even a single stray piece of furniture could be found.

Truly, gentlemen, the dance of wealth and exile is a most tedious choreography.