‘Surrender to this miraculous place, don’t analyse it, don’t try to understand it, immerse yourself in this colour and light, saunter among these glittering figures, marvel at the gold, the jewels, the semi-precious stones. You are actually inside a work of art.’

The screen goes dark. The hall is silent. The knitter is poised between stitches. Andrew gazes out at the audience; he thinks the lecture has been a success. And when the applause begins, loud and prolonged, he knows it has been. If only he could leave now with a job well done, and avoid the agony ahead of him.

Andrew accepts another top-up, his third or maybe his fourth, he’s lost count; it’s still too early to leave and the alcohol helps. He tries to concentrate on what the woman is saying. She’s one of several people gathered about him, and while most of them have stories to tell, she’s not inclined to relinquish the floor. She’s describing a trip she made to Ravenna — ‘a mosaic wonderland,’ she calls it — and with an admirable memory for detail she’s unlikely to finish any time soon. Not that he’s concerned: people like to talk about themselves and their experiences, and his preference always is to listen.

Another fifteen minutes and he should be able to leave.

The alcohol has softened his nerves, but with his face still burning he expects he looks like a ripe tomato. And why his body should turn traitor in this way has always confounded him. The blushing, the revved-up heart, the sweating, the wayward eye contact, the trembling hands, the stammering, a swag of betrayals that never run out of steam. Even in a situation like this — he’s the guest of honour, his lecture was a success — his body doesn’t let up. He likes praise as much as anyone, but unless it comes in the mail, he’s never free to enjoy it.

Lecturing and teaching are different. Far from the anarchy of these social occasions, they’re performances, he’s in control, there are no surprises. He expects he might have succeeded as an actor if he hadn’t chanced on mosaic first. He’s good at following scripts.

The woman is winding down. She reconfigures her facial expression and leans in towards him. ‘So,’ she says, ‘do you have any plans to return to Leningrad?’ She’s so close he can see shreds of food lodged between her teeth.

He shakes his head and steps back. Then, drawing on his customary lifesaver, answers her question with one of his own: ‘Have you been to Leningrad?’