Mike opened the door wearing a tattered woollen jumper. He was a big man; big-headed, big-boned, big-eared like all old men, with close-cropped grey hair, and hands that might once have been powerful but were now more or less crippled by arthritis. He nodded and said something I didn’t hear properly, the road to Azbazan, was what I thought he said, although he probably didn’t say that, and there was a moment of awkwardness while he waited for me to respond. A white cat circled his leg and disappeared into the darkness behind him. Finally, he turned, and I followed him down the hallway into a small kitchen that smelt strongly of cigarette smoke and soup, but which wasn’t particularly warm. A dim bulb on the rangehood illuminated a spattered stovetop and a sink where a pile of dishes sat half-immersed in brown liquid.