“Of course. Although that was a long time ago. Then he moved to Russia. St. Petersburg, Moscow . . . Settled in Central Asia. And now he’s back in Moscow again. I wonder where he’ll end up next?”

“I think at this stage Gesar’s lost interest in shifting about.”

Arina laughed.

“Oh, come on Anton. As long as the work’s still interesting, Gesar stays put. But after that—he leaves.”

“He has no time to get bored in Moscow,” I muttered. The very idea that Gesar could leave Moscow and go to France or China, call himself Antoine Guésare or Ge Sa-ro seemed like total and absolute balderdash.

“Maybe so,” Arina agreed easily. “Maybe so . . .”

Our taxi, driven by a taciturn Taiwanese who kept turning round constantly to give us a friendly smile, went through some kind of tunnel and turned right. We drove up to the museum or, rather, a parking lot, beyond which a park began, and further off, against a background of hills, we could see buildings—modern buildings, but in the traditional Chinese style, yellow and turquoise, with pagoda roofs.

Arina settled up with the driver and spoke to him briefly, provoking approving laughter. We bought two tickets and set off along the broad avenue through the park. There were plenty of visitors: European and Asian tourists, Taiwanese as well—represented primarily by school excursions.

“I hope Mr. Fan is working today,” I said. “And that we won’t have to walk round the whole museum looking for him . . . although I really wouldn’t mind taking a look at the precious exhibits. Do you know if there are many magical artifacts among them?”

“Not many,” said Arina, shaking her head. “The Chinese have traditionally kept the applied arts and magic separate. Their most interesting magical artifacts look entirely banal: a pair of chopsticks, for example, a plain-looking fan or a scroll made of strips of bamboo . . .”

I suddenly noticed a young Chinese moving purposefully towards us. The main stream of people was flowing into the museum, but there were some people coming out, and this guy was definitely heading towards us.

“Is that Fan?” I asked.

Arina didn’t get a chance to reply. The young guy stopped in front of us and bowed his head slightly.

“Mr. Anton, Miss Arina. Mr. Fan Wen-yan asks you to wait for him in the Zhishan Garden, in the Orchid Pavilion. Mr. Fan Wen-yan believes that the beauty of that spot is salutary and inspiring for a meeting that flatters him so greatly. Mr. Fan Wen-yan asks you to follow me.”

The young man was speaking Chinese, and he was not an Other. Bowing once again, he set off along the avenue, without even looking to see if we were following him.

Arina and I exchanged glances.