When traveling the way he did you forget the names of time; they are crowded out by those of places. In the morning, when Nikolay went out intending to go to the police station, the gratings were down on all the shop fronts. It was a damned Sunday. So much for the address office and the newspaper. It was also late autumn: windy weather, asters in the public gardens, a sky of solid white, yellow trees, yellow trams, the nasal honking of rheumy taxis. A chill of excitement came over him at the idea that he was in the same town as she. A fifty-pfennig coin bought him a glass of port in a cab drivers’ bar, and the wine on an empty stomach had a pleasant effect. Here and there in the streets there came a sprinkling of Russian speech: ‘… Skol’ko raz ya tebe govorila’ (‘… How many times have I told you’). And again, after the passage of several natives: ‘… He’s willing to sell them to me, but frankly, I …’ The excitement made him chuckle and finish each pipeful much more quickly than usual. ‘… Seemed to be gone, but now Grisha’s down with it too …’ He considered going up to the next pair of Russians and asking, very politely: ‘Do you know by any chance Olga Kind, born Countess Karski?’ They must all know each other in this bit of provincial Russia gone astray.

It was already evening, and, in the twilight, a beautiful tangerine light had filled the glassed tiers of a huge department store when Nikolay noticed, on one of the sides of a front door, a small white sign that said: ‘I. S. WEINER, DENTIST, FROM PETROGRAD.’ An unexpected recollection virtually scalded him. This fine friend of ours is pretty well decayed and must go. In the window, right in front of the torture seat, inset glass photographs displayed Swiss landscapes … The window gave on Moika Street. Rinse, please. And Dr Weiner, a fat, placid, white-gowned old man in perspicacious glasses, sorted his tinkling instruments. She used to go to him for treatment, and so did his cousins, and they even used to say to each other, when they quarreled for some reason or other, ‘How would you like a Weiner?’ (i.e., a punch in the mouth). Nikolay dallied in front of the door, on the point of ringing the bell, remembering it was Sunday; he thought some more and rang anyway. There was a buzzing in the lock and the door gave. He went up one flight. A maid opened the door. ‘No, the doctor is not receiving today.’ ‘My teeth are fine,’ objected Nikolay in very poor German. ‘Dr Weiner is an old friend of mine. My name is Galatov – I’m sure he remembers me …’ ‘I’ll tell him,’ said the maid.