And that was it. Sweet. She longed for an inch of sweet Russia. She longed for snow and ice and the first spring buds. She longed for the weak wintry light and summer’s white nights. It was only now, after a separation of two years, that she realised the degree of comfort derived from familiar surroundings, and the stresses that accrue when you are perpetually confronted with strange and new customs. It was only when you find yourself limping along that you learn, perhaps too late, what constitute the absolutely crucial elements of your existence. She longed for familiar streets and buildings, she longed for the crush of the Metro and the smell of the waterways, she longed for her friends and colleagues, and she particularly longed for her Russian language.

And she longed not to feel any of these longings.

Here in the West, people referred to the in-built obsolescence of household appliances. Might there be an in-built obsolescence to homesickness? And an in-built obsolescence to grief, too? Might there come a time of a kinder memory that exacted neither longing nor loss?

Whenever she was in company, she strove to maintain the outward appearance of a textbook émigré. This involved an acrobatic combination of grateful new Australian with critically informed ex–Soviet citizen. But now it felt as if two entirely different species had set up home in the single environment of her body, and both were competing for memory, habit, allegiance, and the thrum of her rudderless heart.

She couldn’t continue this way. She needed to make some changes.

She had thought she would assimilate more quickly if she kept herself separate from other Russian émigrés; now she wondered if she would ever fully assimilate, and, more especially, whether she could tolerate all the losses if she did. What seemed distressingly clear was that her choices — a type of self-annihilation, it now occurred to her — had made her exile total and absolute. She needed other émigrés to connect her with home. And it would help to see Zara and Arnold more regularly; they were, after all, the closest she had to family in this country.

It was no mystery to her why the Morrow evening had been the tipping point. Andrew and his parents existed in the fullness of their lives: past and present. They drank from crystal that had come from Sylvie’s grandmother; they ate with cutlery that had belonged to Leonard’s parents; there were photos on display of Andrew from infancy to the present day, and pictures of the more than three decades of the Morrow marriage; there were anniversary and birthday presents on show, and an array of souvenirs from their travels. And if they so desired, the Morrows could point out biographical landmarks: shops, schools, hospitals, houses, beaches, bridges, countless places that said, This is how I came to be me.