‘Yes, singers. An oral tradition. But now they are gone. I am not sure people will bring them back, or should try.’

‘That sounds a provocative angle.’

‘In a Western university it would not be provocative.’

‘Do you get funded?’

‘Very little.’

‘But enough to survive on?’

‘Just.’

Our drinks and cake arrived. She ate the cream off the hot chocolate first. I sipped the sbiten and was transported back to a winter in Moscow, when I had decided Russia was the country I loved the most: the stark, magisterial beauty of the place, the cautious friendships, the writers I had met.

‘And what exactly do you do?’ she asked.

‘I advise people investing money. I’m here to do some research. It is very dull.’

If I embodied the West she hadn’t attacked me yet. Perhaps her politics were a private matter, to be preserved in fantasy.

‘Will you go back to England for Christmas?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘What about your family?’

I was momentarily thrown. The image that flickered into view was of Croxley Green. It was replaced by Toby’s parents: richer, more glamorous.

‘They are dead,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘A long time.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No,’ I said. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. I changed the subject.

‘What do you make of recent events here? The ethnic tensions?’

‘I think a lot of it is exaggerated.’

I managed to stifle a laugh at her audacity.

‘Your family is originally from Russia, no?’

‘My father came here in 1970.’

The Virgin Lands campaign, I thought: Khrushchev trying to turn the emptiness into agriculture, importing Russians by the thousands to summon wheat from the steppe.

‘What did he think of moving here?’

‘He felt he was doing his duty. At that time a lot of Russians came, to farm. It was an adventure. That is what they told them. Building the socialist future. My grandmother was furious when she learned that my mother was marrying a Russian. But I solved everything when I was born. I am harmony.’

I laughed. ‘You are exceptionally harmonious.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So your mother is not Russian.’

‘No. My father rose quite high in agricultural work. Under the Soviets, he would have been looked after. Now, ethnic Russians can only rise so high. They are made to feel uncomfortable. Sometimes people refuse to serve them.’

‘Does he think about going back?’

‘He loves this country.’

‘Of course.’

‘And my grandmother is with them. She is not well. Home is not such a good place to be. But I am saving money.’ She wiped cream from her lips.

‘Do you feel free here?’

She shrugged. ‘You are free until you want to criticise the government. People are not used to thinking for themselves anyway. Do you like it here?’

‘Very much so.’

‘You preferred Almaty to Astana.’

‘No.’

‘It is nicer.’

‘It is pretty. I like places that don’t entirely work, though, the less pretty ones.’

‘Why?’