“And you’ve gone into them.”

“Yes. It’s important.”

“All right, prophecies are important,” I said, nodding. “No one’s arguing with that. But does a Prophet really create the future? Does whether he is heard or not really determine the way the world will be? I’ve heard various different theories.”

“To be honest, I don’t know,” Arina admitted reluctantly. “Maybe the prophecy shouted into the hollow of an old elm tree was fulfilled anyway. And maybe not.”

“Oak,” I said. “Erasmus entrusted his prophecy to an oak tree. He doesn’t really like elms.”

“Ah, what a finicky druid . . .” Arina laughed. “So oak trees are dearer to his heart, are they? I don’t know if a prophecy works without listeners or not, Anton. That’s like the question about whether a tree falling in a remote forest makes any sound or not. Probably not—that’s what most researchers agree. But one thing that’s quite definite is that a prophecy can be changed.”

“Well now, that’s a real turn-up,” I said wryly. “Everyone’s convinced that prophecies are the ultimate instance of truth, that they’re unchangeable, unlike mere predictions. And only you know the truth.”

“Yes, only I know it,” Arina replied perfectly calmly. “Because I have already changed prophecies.”

“Right, from this point on, let me have more detail,” I told her. I thought for a second and got up. “And, you know what . . . let’s go somewhere else.”

“Are you going to invite me to a hotel?” Arina laughed.

“I don’t think I ought to do that. Let’s sit in the park.”

“They’re just about to close it for the night,” replied Arina. “But then, what difference does that make to us?”

Drinking beer in a children’s playground is an old Soviet tradition. Where else could young people go when they wanted to drink . . . let’s say beer? They had no money for restaurants in the USSR, there weren’t any pubs and bars, the tiny apartments were all packed with mum, dad, granny, brothers, sisters, and relatives from the country who had come to town to buy salami . . . no way you could get it on there. So the overaged children, who not so long ago were scrabbling about in the sandpits, sat on the children’s benches and swings in their own courtyards to drink their beer . . .