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By the time Mazurenko finished college and moved back to Moscow in 2007, Russia had become newly prosperous.
The country tentatively embraced the wider world, fostering a new generation of cosmopolitan urbanites.
And his parties attracted sponsors with deep pockets — Bacardi was a longtime client.
But the parties took place against an increasingly grim backdrop.
hen the engineers had at last finished their work, Eugenia Kuyda opened a console on her laptop and began to type. “This is your digital monument.” It had been three months since Roman Mazurenko, Kuyda’s closest friend, had died.
Kuyda had spent that time gathering up his old text messages, setting aside the ones that felt too personal, and feeding the rest into a neural network built by developers at her artificial intelligence startup.
“It was like a flamingo living in the house,” she said recently, sitting in the kitchen of the apartment she shared with Mazurenko. But it doesn’t really fit anywhere.” Kuyda hoped that in time her friend would reinvent himself, just as he always had before.
And when Mazurenko began talking about new projects he wanted to pursue, she took it as a positive sign.
The dream of a more open Russia seemed to evaporate.
He successfully applied for an American O-1 visa, granted to individuals of “extraordinary ability or achievement,” and in November he returned to Moscow in order to finalize his paperwork. On November 28th, while he waited for the embassy to release his passport, Mazurenko had brunch with some friends.
It was unseasonably warm, so afterward he decided to explore the city with Ustinov. Making their way down the sidewalk, they ran into some construction, and were forced to cross the street.
Kuyda and Mazurenko, who by then had become close friends, came to believe that their futures lay elsewhere.
Both became entrepreneurs, and served as each other’s chief adviser as they built their companies.