Let me tell you about my last three meetings with Nemtsov. Looking back now, it all feels rather eerie to me, and it completely stunned me when I started remembering what we had talked about shortly before his murder—though of course, they were just coincidences.
But today is the right day to remember some stories about him, so I’ll share a few too.
Third: when I came to see him at PARNAS (a Russian opposition party) to convince him that the march in Maryino was fine, he spent a long time explaining to me and to Olga Shorina, who was there, why, despite the equally harsh rhetoric, they dealt with us differently:
- You have to understand: I used to be Putin’s superior. Later, I signed off on housing for FSB officers for him. We lived in neighboring cottages. So to them, I’m a man from within the system, and certain rules apply to people like that. They hate me, but I make sense to them. Which means they can only use systemic methods against me.
He told a funny story about how he and Putin were always the ones late to meetings with Yeltsin. They would often literally race down the corridor, because Yeltsin would tear into whoever walked in last.
Second: then, at our next meeting, he for some reason started talking about bodyguards and how he couldn’t stand them. Once, after a threatening letter from Basayev, Yeltsin assigned him protection, and he was constantly followed around by what felt like a dozen Alpha officers (members of Russia’s elite special forces), which of course horrified Borya. He couldn’t simply refuse the protection—it had been granted by presidential decree—but after two weeks Nemtsov begged and persuaded “the old man” to revoke the order.
- You understand, I had no life at all. I just can’t live with security around me; I don’t need it.
The last time I saw him was when he and Yashin came to visit me in the special detention center. He was cheerful, energetic, and talked about what a great march there would be on March 1. Then, for some reason, he gave me his book as a gift—and even signed it. He knew perfectly well that I already had the book and had read it many years earlier. Yashin and I joked with him: still can’t get rid of the whole print run, huh? Want people to read it a second time? He laughed with us too: well, you didn’t have a signed copy before—now you do.
I told this story at the memorial gathering, and Borya’s wife said: that’s right, I remember that. He decided he ought to bring you something to read, spent a long time choosing, wanted to bring Solzhenitsyn, but in the end picked his own *Confessions of a Rebel*.
It was probably the last book he ever signed.
The phrase “Nemtsov foresaw his death” can only provoke laughter in someone who knew Borya personally. You could have put his photo in the dictionary next to the word “cheerful.” The book, obviously, was just what he happened to have at hand.
Rest in peace, Boris. May the Kingdom of Heaven be yours.