The marriage solution had not prompted her telephone call to Andrew, desperation alone had been responsible, but as the tram trundled past the university and sped more smoothly along the tracks beside the cemetery, the possibility surfaced. He would be an easy catch, the sort of man who would love more than he was loved in return. The thought flickered and just as quickly died. Andrew was not a man to use. And besides, he was an artist, and she respected artists.

‘I would like to come to your studio.’ The words were uttered without forethought. Quickly she added, ‘I would like to see your work.’

They had disembarked and were standing in the street at the northern end of the cemetery. Andrew was still in a quandary as to how he might escape, but at the same time he was desperate to see her again. A visit to his studio was not what he would have chosen, but under the circumstances it would have to do. He managed to nod his agreement, said he would call to arrange a time, and then, pretending he had forgotten about their plan to eat together, extended his hand to say goodbye in the European fashion. She leaned towards him and kissed him in the Russian one.

He sorted through their purchases, handed one of the bags to her, and stepped into the street. He wasn’t looking, he wasn’t seeing, and she grabbed his arm and pulled him back, just as he had done with her earlier. Although she had better cause. There was a stream of traffic, a huge cortège travelling alongside the cemetery in the slow rhythm of mourning. The cars turned from the main thoroughfare into the side street where he and Galina were standing, heading towards the northern entrance of the cemetery.

The two of them watched the procession. Eight, nine, ten — Galina was counting silently as the cars passed — seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and still the cars kept coming, their headlights flatly yellow in the bright Australian light. The funeral was clearly for a very important person, she was thinking, an official of some sort, perhaps a government leader. It was almost Russian in size, although not in style. For a large state funeral at home, the procession would be on foot, with musicians tolling out a plangent patriotic refrain, and there would be a huge crowd of onlookers. Ordinary Russians like a good state funeral, not simply for the time off work and an excuse to drink, but as an excellent opportunity to mourn their own squeezed lives. As for the dead official, there was usually little grief felt for him.

Here in Melbourne, the trail of cars with their black-clad mourners was still crawling along the broad thoroughfare and turning at the corner. There was something mesmerising about the scene, like a moving frieze.

‘Russians,’ she said, keeping her gaze on the cortège, ‘are experts at big funerals.’