The group is looking to him for an answer. His heartbeat ramps up, his throat has constricted, but before he can collect his words, Ravenna woman is answering. Thank you, Ravenna woman. She refers to changes under Gorbachev; she says that despite religion being outlawed, there are plenty of Russians who remain loyal to the Orthodox Church. And these restored sites, she continues, are important to the nascent tourism industry — she, herself, visited just two years ago — with its influx of foreign currency and other benefits. What other benefits? someone asks. Jeans, cosmetics, books, music, practically any material goods are wanted, she says. Andrew nods and smiles. Encouraged, she keeps talking, while he follows the conversation, rehearsing some sentences just in case he’s called upon, and monitoring his demeanour — mustn’t appear aloof or disengaged or, god forbid, arrogant, and to dispel any possibility of this he broadens his smile, only to feel his mouth quivering, as if the muscles have gone into spasm.

O for a more muscular sensibility, he is thinking, but at what cost? Rilke, when considering psychoanalysis, famously wrote to his lover, Lou Andreas-Salome, that while psychoanalysis may well drive out his devils, he was afraid that his angels, so essential to his art, would be driven away too. Andrew knows he is far from being mosaic’s counterpart to Rilke, but still, he wonders if his social squeamishness in some way feeds his art, that a more muscular sensibility would have seen him as the engineer his parents wanted him to be. The fact is, this sensibility of his, this crippling millstone in public, is ideal for the solitary work of the artist.

A man is offering to refill his glass. Now is his opportunity. He’d love to stay, he says, but he has another engagement and, he adds, after consulting his watch, he’s already late. He says goodbye to the people around him, he finds the organisers and thanks them, he strides to the door, springs down the stairs, sprints to the entrance, and finally he is outside in the warm steamy dusk. Blessedly alone.

Twenty minutes later, Andrew Morrow arrived home. Godrevy greeted him with much leaping and licking. It was worthwhile going out in order to receive such exuberant love on your return, although, given Godrevy quietened down immediately his dinner appeared, Andrew was in no doubt which commanded the greater canine devotion: love of food or love of human companion. He tossed his satchel on his desk, took a beer from the fridge, would have smoked a joint if he’d had any dope, kicked off his shoes and flopped into his armchair. Goddy, his dinner finished, flopped on the floor next to him, his head resting on Andrew’s feet.