Darya’s father was an affable, donnish type. In a button-down shirt and cardigan at lunch the next day, he held forth on the oil industry in Russia. With a degree from the city’s Mining Institute, he oversaw natural resources in the Northwestern Federal District. He lectured Nikolai on the perils of offshore drilling, which he called ‘a cat in a bag’. For Paul’s benefit, he explained, ‘You never know what you are going to get.’

No kidding, Paul thought darkly. They were at Darya’s parents’ flat for an informal celebration. He took a slug of vodka. Darya was eating determinedly and refusing to meet his gaze. Her mother, in Art Nouveau pinks and greens, had gone into the kitchen where she was making a curd cake.

Talk to me, he wished to say, but Darya wouldn’t meet his eyes. She stared at the TV with its low-volume news of skirmishes in Ukraine. Since he couldn’t break through to her, he drank to pass the time. Before lunch, there had been a lot of tedious baby talk, and a discussion about Miami, which was where Darya wanted to have the baby. Nikolai agreed: American hospitals were superior, no question about it. She was dealing with an agency that could organise it all; it was their mailout that Nikolai had discovered. There was further discussion about Anton, who at some point would be sent to stay with his grandparents, and it jolted Paul to realise that he wouldn’t be needed for much longer.

Later, escaping, he slept awhile in his hotel room. He woke feeling groggy. After splashing his face with water, he went down to the lobby and sat in a tall-backed chair, tipping his head forward and fiddling with his phone. He waited until he saw Nikolai go out, then took the lift for the new wing and his employers’ suite. When Darya opened the door, she told him to leave.

‘I have to talk to you.’

‘Shhh.’ She tilted her head at the doors behind her, closed on the alcove where Anton was sleeping. She reluctantly let him in, asking, ‘What is it?’

Speaking in a low urgent tone, he tried to tell her what he’d realised the day before at the river, about the strength of the current and his own powerful feelings. Yet instead of listening, really listening, she moved to the window and looked down at the river. Outside, the sky had turned a deep Byzantine purple. On the street below, people were gathering by a church, waiting for the priest to come out and speak.

It was true, Darya said slowly – and here he knew she had missed the point – the river flowed strongly out towards the gulf. ‘You know, one night last year a man drove off the bridge when it was raised. His car washed so far down that it was days before the divers found it on the bottom.’