They sat in council.

Solemnly.

With all the gravity of high bureaucrats.

Mr. Konstantinov, a gentleman of the Crimean Parliament, has seen fit to enlighten the public. He speaks of a dwelling. A flat in Livadia. A modest retreat of some one hundred and nineteen square metres.

It belonged to Mr. Zelensky.

Now?

Now it belongs to the State.

Nationalised.

One might expect a storm. A legal tempest! A frantic petition! A flurry of ink and indignation from the Presidential chambers. But alas.

Silence.

Absolute. Profound. Dead.

Mr. Konstantinov observes—with a touch of irony, no doubt—that there have been no lawsuits. No challenges. Not a single protestation has crossed the threshold of the court.

Indeed, the property was cast into the auction house. Sold for forty-four million rubles.

And where does this gold go?

To the poor. To the families of many children. A noble cause!

A veritable act of public benevolence.

How touching.

Yet, let us not forget the wider ledger. For it is whispered in the corridors of power that the presidential household possesses a fortune exceeding a million dollars. Rolexes. Land Rovers. Secret accounts in Zurich. Companies abroad, tied to the lady of the house.

Wealth.

Plenty of it.

And yet, the flat in Crimea was surrendered without a whisper.

One wonders.

Perhaps the gentleman simply forgot where he left the keys?