‘Your church has been saved now,’ the Australian says, seemingly unaware of her blunder. ‘Soon it’ll be restored to its former splendour.’

She looks around, there’s no one in hearing distance; she’s been lucky this time, but unlikely to get a second chance. She has to be more careful. The man is prattling on about the Church on the Spilled Blood; he thinks it will be one of the most beautiful churches in the world when it is finished. And perhaps he’s right, but she and her mother, like so many Petersburgers, have watched the church being brought back to life while their own miserable apartment blocks have been left to crumble. Millions of roubles have been spent on the restoration; it’s been hard to admire without envy. The cupolas are now complete, six or eight of them all clad in brilliant blue and sun-coloured ceramics, and real gold, too, so it is said. More recently — she knew this even before the Australian told her — work has shifted to the mosaics that originally covered the entire interior of the church.

‘I love Russian mosaics.’ The sentence catapults from him. ‘Such variety in the materials — glass, porcelain, even jewels — and the detail, and the size of the projects.’ She hears a jerky riff of laughter. ‘Russians seem to be drawn to bigness.’ There’s a pause so long she is framing another question when he starts up again, in short bursts, like machine-gun fire. ‘Your Boris Anrep’ — the name is vaguely familiar to her — ‘Boris Anrep, born here, Leningrad, St Petersburg, in the 1880s, became one of Britain’s most celebrated mosaicists. His work’s in the National Gallery, it’s in Westminster Cathedral. He and your Anna Akhmatova were,’ there’s a pause, ‘they were close.’

And now she remembers why she’s heard of Boris Anrep, although this foreigner, either due to his own modesty or in deference to hers, cannot bring himself to say that Anrep and Akhmatova were lovers.

He is walking more slowly, and his speech, too, has slowed. ‘I’d stay here longer if I could, there’s so much to learn, and my fellowship money would stretch for a couple more months. But I have to be home after our summer break, when the new term begins.’

‘Most foreign students come here in our summer. In fact,’ she adds, ‘most visitors of any sort come in summer.’

‘I’ve come when I was free to come. And actually, I’m not a student. I teach at an adult-education institution.’ Then more softly, ‘I love the idea of winter here.’

‘I guarantee you won’t love it in a few weeks’ time.’

‘Perhaps you’ll see for yourself.’