Stepan Pyotrovich Pretensov treads back and forth along a length of metro platform that spans three doors. The others stand still: in the threshold of the two grey doors that automatically slide together in the centre, or form a line behind those that got there first, facing either the right or left door jamb, behind which a train will soon arrive. And some, the defiant few, stand between the two queues as if, with only their sparsely numbered bodies, they can halt the pouring flood of passengers that will spill into the silent gauntlet. The scene repeats itself every three minutes; sometimes every five minutes.

Those leaving the train step out delicately, but systematically. Those waiting by the great grey doors that spring open, stand on their hawk talons, anticipating a gap to swoop through. As the moments wear on and the train is threatening to close its doors, the now intolerant gauntlet converges on the weakening stream of outflow. There is a panic of arms that reach out to hold back the great grey doors and bodies lunge into bodies, driving with their legs. Pleas for space are heard over murmurs of, "My god!"

In such cases Pretensov shakes his head slowly, mutters under his breath, clasps his hands behind his back, and continues to pace up and down his territory of the platform, while waiting three more minutes for the next train. Sometimes - five minutes. This afternoon he climbed out of his rented bed to the ten-degree draught that came from an un-accusable place in the wall. Having completely plugged every crack between the room's windows and window frames with wet newspaper and masking tape, he now believed that the draught came through cracks in the bricks. In any case, the reptilian soviet radiator, whose blood was meant to keep his room warm, did not create enough heat to affect pain on the naked hand.

Under these circumstances, he found no need of incentive to dress quickly and breakfast hastily in order to be at the bus stop outside in five minutes flat. He had access to a shower only at night, but he did not feel the need to shower everyday, as it was common knowledge that bacteria freeze. His breakfast was simple, consisting of black bread, which could be taken in hand en route to the street and, therefore, was no cause of delay. At the moment, he was at the second to last stage of his daily journey to the University. He will travel only two more stations before exchanging the metro for a bus or a trolley bus, whichever comes first.

Stepan had been diagnosed early in life with schizophrenia. This condition, he believed, had passed and as a talisman, he had been left with a propensity for daydreaming.

He reorganised the principles of accounting to himself and repeated them in his head. He prided himself on his ability to regurgitate information, though he felt that his own theories would eclipse the theories he was studying at the Saint Petersburg State faculty of Economics. Having never received a lower grade than the highest (or five), here his ability to regurgitate was essential.

He thought about how he would take the state examination. How the most honourable and wisest professors would be there to witness the wonder of how he would answer each question taken at random from the hand of the chief examiner who would hold the stack of tickets, each ticket with a question typed across its narrow width. He would smile confidently, already distinguishing himself from the students who would pull a ticket with great fear and trepidation at reading the alien words; the process itself carried out like an execution - the death sentence so cruelly hammered into the ticket in black ink. They would have to restrain themselves not to applaud an answer so exact: quoting so many Economists verbatim. From the mouth of a new Economist, already made famous by the university's unanimous decision to publish his senior thesis (and its immediate success as a best seller), would drop pearls of wisdom of a splendour never heard.

He would be proud to turn down five figure offers from Wall Street in order to serve the Russian effort as President...

These thoughts passed through his mind without making an impression on the billboard of his face. He sat on a long brown metro seat with seven other passengers facing a long brown metro seat with eight passengers facing them. His face, as I have mentioned, did not betray the levity of thought that transpired behind and within, but rather kept an intense glare that one might see on the face of a shark, or a German manager.

A young girl of twenty was sitting opposite and felt that his stare was directed at the shock of wavy hair that adorned her striped, Navy jacket. Moving her hair with her hand, she let it flow over her slight, but graceful shoulder. She looked down at her outstretched hands and thought that he would certainly not fail to catch sight of her enchantingly painted nails, nor the rouge and eye-liner. After all, they were as nearly perfect in tone, hue and spiritual "karma farbe" as twenty minutes in a boutique du maquillage could afford. She trusted that all of these adornments, taken together, accentuated her attractive-by-nature cheekbones and large, almond-shaped eyes and would mesmerize this young man.

A second oblique glance did not confirm her presumption.

His glare was fixed on a plaque embossed in metal and screwed into the wagon's wall above a handle that opened the train's doors with the heading, "Manual door opener". In an emergency one should pull this lever out in order to free his fellow passengers from the overturned, smoke-choking, ready- to- explode wagon...