“We’re witches,” Arina replied, as if that was an explanation. She paused for a moment and then added anyway: “The way we absorb our Power is a bit different. We draw it from the earth, the wind, the rivers . . . nature doesn’t know how to be eternally young, Anton. Nature was ancient when people were still no different from animals. Mountains grow old and crumble, rivers change their courses, earth is carried away by the wind . . . We’re the same. Theoretically probably immortal—like all Others. But we grow old, although slowly. It’s very hard to take, charm-weaver . . . I can recall drinking sweet plum wine and kissing my lover—one of the thousands I’ve had—in this city. But I was still young then. And the city was different. And life seemed brighter.”

“But has the city really got worse?”

“Not even Moscow has got worse, although it’s been trying hard enough in recent years,” Arina snorted. “No, it’s not worse, just unfamiliar. And that’s what makes my old heart ache.”

I felt awkward, as if I’d glanced through a keyhole and seen something that wasn’t intended for my eyes at all.

“Come on, let’s go and try those Chinese delicacies,” Arina said, rousing herself and turning away from the window. “After that I intend to visit the spa, but I don’t suppose you’ll be keeping me company?”

“I think not,” I agreed.

“Quite sure? They offer a discount for a party of two,” Arina laughed. “A jacuzzi with a view of the city at night, a massage, aromatic oils . . .”

“ ‘Be gone, you libertine, your caress is repugnant,’ ” I declaimed, modifying Kozma Prutkov’s verse slightly. And immediately I realized just how inappropriate it was in this case.

“That’s not it, Anton:

“Be gone, you toothless hag! Your caress is repugnant!

From out your countless wrinkles artificial pigment

Crumbles like plaster, dropping on your breast.

Be mindful of the Styx and bid these passions rest!’ ”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered.

“It’s all right,” Arina laughed. “I’m not some old Greek woman, I’m a genuine Russian. An old woman, yes, but with my own teeth—note that for the record! And I won’t argue with the conclusion either:

“You should be lying now—long overdue the day!—

Calcined to crumbling dust, within an urn of clay’ ”

“Arina, please accept my apologies.”

Arina chuckled again.

“Forget it. And thanks for reminding me of Volodya . . .”

“What Volodya?”

“Well, not Putin, obviously. Volodya Zhemchuzhnikov, the poet . . .”

“One of the four authors who were ‘Kozma Prutkov’?” I asked, gazing at Arina’s dreamy smile. “Did you have an affair with him, then?”