Taras turned to look at Isaev, but Isaev didn't look back.

There was silence in the room for a few moments, then Taras cleared his throat.

"I didn't bring a glass," he said, slowly.

Almost reluctantly, he gestured at the bucket.

"I thought you wanted to throw it on him, not let him - "

He fell silent, then looked down at the paperwork.

"Merkurii...Ievlevich...Barshov," he read, "fifty-three years old. A hundred and sixty-seven centimeters tall."

He paused, glancing up to eye the dancer's long and lean form.

Taras dropped his gaze again.

"Hair...black. Eyes...green."

He stopped reading, falling silent again, then he carefully folded the paperwork and put it back in his pocket.

Taras glanced at Lasha.

"Maybe I should go get that glass."