Lucy
LucySvetlana holds birthing class in a conference room on the third floor of the Kremlin, where there appears to be various offices. I see a sign on a door that says, “quiet, massage in session,” and guess that must be where Natasha sees her clients.
There are a few other couples sitting around the large conference table and a mother with a baby on her hip standing up, talking to them.
“Lucy, Ravil, welcome,” Svetlana says in English with a relatively thick accent. “I’m delighted you could come.”
She gives me a hug like we’re old friends. Like the last time she saw me, she didn’t stonewall me by speaking only Russian. Of course, that was Ravil’s fault.
Svetlana pulls down a projector screen and plugs her Macbook in. She starts by having us introduce ourselves.
Hi, I’m Lucy, and
