In high summer in Leningrad during the white nights, a sheer ethereal blue floats over the streets and squares, the gardens and waterways. It creates a sense of enchantment, as if you are moving through a dreamscape. As unlikely as it was, Andrew’s pool reminded her of Leningrad’s white nights. She felt an almost irresistible urge to lie down on the mosaic and rest in its exquisite blueness.

Andrew returned to the couch, and Galina pulled herself away from the pool to join him. They sat in silence drinking their coffee. Andrew was waiting for her to say something about his mosaic. Hadn’t she liked it? Or did they have nothing to say to each other? Or perhaps this silence might be described as companionable. And in the end he decided, uncharacteristically for him, to opt for the more favourable alternative. And why not? The evening was progressing well, better than he could have hoped for.

Then it all blew up.

‘We are so lucky to have art,’ she said, breaking the silence and nodding in the direction of his mosaic pool. ‘I thank the gods for such a gift.’

His reply came without pause. ‘Art never saved anyone.’

Perhaps he intended to be modest, or perhaps he was trying to be cool by promoting a view currently fashionable in some quarters. Whatever the reason, he found himself defending a position he did not believe.

‘You cannot think this about art,’ she said.

And again without pause. ‘Bombs kill. Starvation kills. Torture kills. Natural disasters kill. Art never stopped any of this.’

‘But you said, “Art never saved anyone.” Do you really believe this?’

The silence that now descended was definitely not companionable. When he failed to answer, she spoke again. ‘Have you never in despair looked at a painting or listened to a piece of music or read a poem, and been returned to life?’

Of course he had, he wanted to shout. All the time. But his throat had seized up.