The year is 1929. Moscow.

Mayakovsky woke up early in the morning. The muscles of his face were slightly tense: "Again, it's not a good morning. Again, this bed and this mixture of soot with something dead dangerous for such a fierce mind as mine. And again, there is no salvation in this bright face of a sunny morning... And like my road-worn, still patent-leather shoes, I'm going to my immediate doom" * he thought, staring at one point right in front of him*

Mayakovsky turned over on his other side, hoping, at least for half an hour, to fall out of reality back into a dream, but his eyes immediately widened.

There was a stranger lying in his bed.

— Too much... I didn't get drunk yesterday so I wouldn't remember that you were supposed to be here.

Barely moving his lips, the poet said.

Mayakovsky rose on his elbows, carefully examining the stranger.

— Hey... * he poked her shoulder with his finger, hoping that she would wake up*