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I had to agree.

I also remember saying to her that nowadays no sensation lasted more than three days. She gestured dismissively, “They don’t even last a day.”

A certain solemn person said to me today, “Do you mean to say that you told Anna Politkovskaya, whose work was the most long-lasting sensation of recent history, who was herself a symbol of free, independent journalism and unquestionably a heroine, that there couldn’t be any long-lasting sensations? You said that the only heroes can be people who evoke either pity or aggression? You said that to a saint after whom streets will be named?” Well, actually, yes.

These words were simply inapplicable to her in life. Depending on her mood she would either have burst out laughing in the face of anybody who spoke so pompously about her, or would turn away, having lost all interest in them.

I knew what she had achieved, I knew about the bronze presentation cases from award ceremonies, and I knew their recipient had never opened them. She not only never wore the mantle of the fine words which had been said about her, she didn’t even try it on because that was not her style.

Of course I knew who I was talking to. I wasn’t blind. I had seen the stream of people from every part of Russia coming to her, seeing in her their last hope of justice. I understood what she was doing, the risk she was constantly running. But as often happens, when you’re in the middle of a professional conversation, you can’t start viewing the person you are talking to as an icon, the more so when the icon herself never switches on her canonised look. You are talking to a colleague on a straightforward, everyday, down-to-earth, work level. I was just sitting too close to her, our desks side by side, for seven years.

I remember her coming back after receiving all sorts of amazingly prestigious awards. There was no celebration, no joy, only disappointment. There she was sitting, holding her column very close in front of her and reading out her own text. I came in and said in passing, “Anna, congratulations. That’s super.”

“But they don’t want to understand anything. They won’t listen! They are completely uninterested. It’s not super, Galya.”

“But it’s a victory?”

“No!”

And at first I didn’t understand. Why would they hand out these awards, how could they select and assess if they didn’t want to understand? OK, perhaps it wasn’t a victory, but surely an award was at least a demonstration of support?

“Yes, but it is support for a journalist and not for what he or she is doing. They not only don’t want to get involved in helping with what I’m doing, they don’t even want to try to understand it!”

If it had been anyone else, I would have suspected they were striking a pose, but the woman sitting there and saying this was so disillusioned, so weary, her expectations so clearly disappointed. The individuals on whom people’s fates depended, who might have brought about a breakthrough in the situation, didn’t want to lift a finger to help. It wasn’t just Russia, it was the world. It just wanted to buy her off.

She was being left alone with a burden she could hardly bear. She had been fêted and blessed on her way, and in the process they had psychologically washed their hands of her. That was how I understood the situation.

But there were other people, a whole pack of them within Russia, who seemed to be on her side. I’m not talking about those who hated Anna – their position was clear enough and what more can one say about them? I’m not even talking about those who did not like her, because that too is not all that important. There were others, though, who didn’t love her enough. They were agitated every time something terrible happened to her, when she was taken prisoner in Chechnya, when she was poisoned on her way to Beslan. Yes, they were upset, but when everything worked out all right, they didn’t think it had been that big a deal. They were sort of beside her, and this gave them the right to snipe at her. They stood shoulder to shoulder with her, but in a casual sort of way, and looked