‘I don’t know. They are just themselves. People are surprised you are there. I like places that haven’t been expecting me.’

She drank her chocolate, considering this. ‘Does England work?’

‘Sometimes. Have you been to Europe?’

‘No.’ She hesitated as she said it, which made me curious.

‘Really?’

‘What do you mean, “really”?’

‘You sounded uncertain.’

‘I have never been out of Kazakhstan. It is not easy for us. Why don’t you have a wife?’

‘I’m never anywhere for long – not in England.’

She waited for a proper answer.

‘I haven’t found someone I want to be with. I am a very private person.’

‘You date Kazakh women?’

‘No.’

‘A rich English businessman in Astana and you have not found a wife.’ Her eyes held a wry glint that reminded me of Joanna.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I can’t have been paying attention. Still, I’m not being sent home yet.’

‘You think you will be sent home?’

‘It was a joke. I’m very much my own boss anyway, and I would happily stay here. Perhaps I will.’

She looked sceptical. I felt the lightheadedness that comes as you begin to enter your cover and believe the things you say; when you are most convincing and most vulnerable. Stay sharp, I thought. Maybe it was too hot in here, sudden comfort after the cold. The Italians left, a family of four arrived. It was 7.15 p.m.

‘May I ask,’ I said. ‘Is there a special man in your life? A boyfriend?’

She shook her head, stirred the remains of the cream into the chocolate. ‘I do not have time. A man will want me to stop working.’

‘All men?’

‘Kazakh men.’

‘Marry an Englishman.’ I turned my cup in its saucer. ‘I mean, I have heard this is still a very traditional society.’

‘More than ever.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Traditions are returning. People’s idea of tradition.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Now we have some independence, people want Kazakh identity. We have Russia above, China next to us. Both big powers.’

‘And how do you feel about this?’

‘I don’t know. You have a lot of questions, but you are the one who has seen the whole world. What do I know?’

‘I’ve seen very little of the world.’

‘I don’t mean to be angry. It has been a stressful week. Do you know where the bathroom is?’

‘Downstairs, I believe.’

‘Excuse me.’

She went, taking her bag. I searched her coat pockets: headphones, receipts for lunch, blister pack of Pipofezine, an antidepressant. The life report placed Aliya’s home twenty minutes’ drive away, but I’d checked the bus routes and they were slow. And, in this weather, unpredictable. I thought I could find a way to accompany her.

Aliya returned, appearing more composed. I needed to get her out of here.

‘You are interested in my politics?’ she said.

‘I’m curious.’