In a place I cannot enter because I’m not a V.I.P. the loudest voices are Russian: the imperial imperious tones of Nicholas II on his final visit to the grand duchy of Finland, two years away from undignified death; the raucous peasant brogue of Nikita Kruschev boom-box on legs on his first back slapping, finger wagging visit. And in response, the official courtesies, uttered through clenched teeth, foreign words, foreign matter stuck in the throat. Then, in Finnish, the softer voices of all the presidents: greeting, leave taking, carefully diplomatic. Late on the night of 12 December 1940 Kyosti Kallio worn out, made old by war resigned his presidency to Risto Ryti: with resignation, with weary, regretful words. Amongst the plush furnishings the sofas and Chesterfields upon which he wants to slump he greets his successor, draws him close, whispers in his ear and then turns. And these will be his last words.