Once in Moscow these two guys met, sharing a flat, set up by the school they worked for. Strangers to each other, one was a friend of mine, a hearty, salt of the earth type, a good man, and the other, a Welshman, I never met. Anyway they had a long, awkward, and oddly intense, “getting to know you” conversation in the crummy little kitchen, about life and Russia and who they were. Then my friend said goodnight.
Later, in the wee small hours, when he was going to the toilet he heard the other through the door repeating the conversation verbatim, both sides of it, word perfect, but in a strange strangled voice, and after each exchange he laughed a horrible laugh.
That’s all there is to it, but it’s unnerving to remember it even now.