In this chapter, the author recollects the memories of his early life. The author conversation fell to soups and the native Slav borscht that had been a part of the author's childhood fare, and which he still fancied. But the best borscht ever is made by Nina Kandinsky. One must try it! Even over the telephone, he sensed the temperature drop. That was a dreadful show. She tried to stop it. Those pictures were all unfinished. They should never be shown as her husband's work! That was it. No amiable chat, no borscht. If he had only thought before he spoke. The exhibition he had seen in Venice was Gabriella Munther's collection – she had been Kandinsky's lover and muse in Murnau and Munich before he took up with Nina; and his leaving the pictures behind had been the condition of their separation.