He clearly meant to impress and he did. Stanley felt himself diminish, until Ibrahim looked over Stanley’s shoulder and, with a mischievous gleam in his eye, added, ‘I don’t have to invite you. You never stop hanging on to my coat-tails.’

‘I am merely carrying out research, Grandad, as well you know.’

‘So you keep telling me, Alexander, for the novel you began in 1827, The Negro of Peter the Great. It would have been a masterpiece, had you the wherewithal to complete it and guarantee my posthumous glory alongside yours. One cannot turn a corner in the whole of Russia without seeing another statue of you in some sort of glamorous pose. Let us recall what was said of you: “Pushkin has a duel almost every day.” And, as you yourself wrote after yet another bawdy evening of champagne and actresses: “The former gets drunk and the latter get fucked.”’

Smiling to himself, Stanley was aware that this is what he had wished for in a father: a gentle chiding soaked in affection.

‘Do you see what I have to put up with, Stanley? I worked damned hard and outgrew the dandyism of my youth, almost. At twenty-one I was already a household name, but Grandad does not understand that my literary ambitions did not die when my body expired at thirty-seven. Oh, though I suspect he is secretly pleased that his great-grandson Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin is not only considered the father of Russian literature but that he is proud of his Ethiopian roots.’

Pushkin offered Stanley a playful high five, to which Stanley responded with a loud slap that left his palm smarting. He shook it and they both giggled.

‘Ah was searchin’ for ma roots, Daddy-O!’ Pushkin exclaimed in cod American, as he launched into a clumsy attempt to do the Funky Chicken, flapping his arms and trying out some super-slippery footwork. He proceeded to belt out the James Brown hit ‘Say it loud! I’m black and I’m proud! Say it loud, I’m black and I’m proud! Yeeeoooowwww!’

‘I love James Brown too,’ Stanley managed to say in between bursts of laughter, tempted to join in with this ridiculous impromptu performance.

‘Oh woodee-doodee, ain’t that coolee. Jimmy’s such a crazy cat. Ah go to all his concerts and ah don’t pay no dollar, Brother-Stan.’

Ibrahim tutted and raised his eyes with amused tolerance at his great-grandson. ‘He has been hanging around those Negro Americans too much, or whatever they call themselves these days. It is, quite frankly, absurd to hear you trying to “get with it” when you are dead.’

Pushkin turned his back on Ibrahim like a spoiled child ostracizing another.