‘I know him,’ she was on her feet and prodding the TV screen. ‘That one there,’ she said more loudly, pointing to one of the medal-bearers. The camera shifted to the crowds lining the street, but still Lidiya stood, her finger on the screen. ‘I know him. I’d know him anywhere.’

The procession continued, the voices of the commentators tolled on, the music played. Her mother stood motionless by the TV; it was hard to know whether she was distressed, or confused, or just plain surprised.

Lidiya turned around slowly. She looked as if exiting a dream. ‘That was my brother,’ she said, marking each word with care. ‘That was Mikhail. There, on the TV, one of Brezhnev’s medal-bearers. My brother, Misha.’

She returned to the screen. Galina could see her willing the camera to return to the medal-bearers.

‘Misha must be,’ Lidiya was frowning, ‘he must be sixty. That would make him twenty years older than my father was when he was taken away. Twenty years older and a good deal fatter, yet such a strong resemblance.’

Galina had met this uncle only once, a dozen years earlier when he’d turned up at their old home at the kommunalka. He’d arrived without warning, he’d taken what he wanted, and he’d left never to return.

‘He’s done well for himself,’ Lidiya said softly.

Now Galina watched, too. She had always wanted a brother or a sister, so to have a brother from whom you were estranged made no sense to her. But when Mikhail had appeared all those years ago, her mother had just wanted him gone.

‘Trust me,’ she had said at the time. ‘Trust me to know what’s best for you.’

Now Lidiya poured herself some of their special Armenian brandy; she tossed it down like vodka, and immediately poured another. Galina remained silent. The funeral plodded on. The brother appeared several more times. To her, he looked like any other high Soviet official: fat, neckless, bovine, old. That he resembled dedushka Yuri, the grandfather she had never known, the father to whom Lidiya remained devoted, was hard to comprehend. What had happened all those years ago? What had happened to make her mother hate her own brother?

When the funeral was over, Lidiya stood up and crossed to the window. She stared down into the street. It was dark outside, and her figure was reflected in the glass: one hand shaded her eyes, and her mouth was tight. Galina wondered if she was crying and wanted to go to her, comfort her, but why would her mother be standing over there unless she needed to be alone? At last Lidiya turned and came to the couch. She reached for Galina’s hands.