There was a moment’s awkward silence, with just some dialogue in squeaky cartoon voices from the TV in the sitting room: “I want to know what the meaning of life is!”—“Then you need Cuisinart, which gives meaning!”

“We need a food processor for the kitchen,” said Svetlana, laughing at something. “But you don’t have to drag it all the way from Great Britain. Bring what the English do best of all.”

“A global language or an empire?”

“Good whisky.”

“In the first place, whisky is either Scotch or Irish, and not English. And in the second place, when did you start drinking?”

“I’ll try it,” said Svetlana, smiling again. “And you’ll have a drink with your friends. And your conscience will be clear, because you’ve brought me a present.”

Gesar was feeling so benevolent that I didn’t even have to book a taxi—Semyon called round for me at seven.

“There’s your present for Erasmus,” he said, waving one hand towards a tightly packed plastic bag, crudely sealed with sticky tape, that was lying on the boot of the car.

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. What kind of presents do people take from Russia? Vodka, caviar . . .”

“A matryoshka doll and a balalaika,” I said in the same tone. I opened the suitcase and stuffed the plastic bag into it. In defiance of all common sense it fitted easily into the tightly packed case.

“Did Sveta put a ‘nosebag’ on it?” Semyon asked.

“Uh-huh. She has the strange idea my trip’s going to last a whole week.”

“I’d trust what Svetlana says,” Semyon said seriously.

“I do.”

Along the way, after we’d made the turn onto Leningrad Chaussee, Semyon unexpectedly asked: “Anton, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Go ahead.”

“How are things with you and Svetlana?”

“In what sense?”

“The most direct sense possible. How’s the relationship?”

“Just fine,” I said. “Best friends and comrades. Complete mutual understanding.”

“That’s not exactly what’s required in family relationships,” Semyon said didactically. “You and I are the ones who should be best friends and comrades—we fight together. But in bed and at the family table comradeship is inappropriate.”

I said nothing for a moment, then lowered the window on my side of the car, took out a cigarette and lit up. Leningrad Chaussee was already packed with cars, but Semyon was driving easily and quickly.

“What made you suddenly bring this up?” I asked. “You lousy psychotherapist . . .”